“Have you tried calling him?”
“You can leave if you’re going to ask stupid questions.”
Ignoring me, Laycee repeated herself. At times she was like a dog with a bone, and the only way to get her to shut up was to just go along.
“No longer in service,” I muttered sourly.
In all my misery I’d never actually told either Laycee or Angela what had happened with Gabriel, at least not in any meaningful detail. All they knew was that Gabriel had taken me to dinner, brought me home, and . . . dumped me for reasons unknown. And it was bad.
I tried telling myself that the reason I had remained so closed-mouthed, especially with Laycee, was because I didn’t want to put a crimp in her happiness by wailing about yet another romantic failure on my part. Yeah right, like she was going to believe that.
Nevertheless, she was right about me wanting to spill my guts. I was halfway through my last glass of wine before I began to pour out my sad, sorry tale. Spilling everything, down to the last detail. I think she was more disappointed than I was, though for completely different reasons, about my not getting Gabriel horizontal between my sheets.
“D’you think he was gay?” she asked with a sympathetic twinge.
“Absolutely not!” I exclaimed, tilting my wine glass in her direction. “Trust me, I can tell when a guy is interested, and he was plenty interested.” I recalled with perfect clarity just how interested he’d been with my hand pressed against his fly. “There are some things the human body, excuse me the male human body, can’t fake.”
“Then do you think he was married?”
I opened my mouth, ready to issue another denial, but snapped it shut. It was a legitimate question, and I was glad Laycee had been the one to raise it. The possibility had crossed my mind more than once when I’d been crying into my pillow, but other than looking for a wedding ring, I had no way of knowing. The only cheating married man I knew was Jake, and he wasn’t much of an example. In hindsight I should have hit Laycee up for tips, but that’s the thing about hindsight. It’s always twenty-twenty.
“Bastard,” Laycee muttered.
“Bastard,” I agreed with a shrug, staring at the glass I didn’t remember emptying. I went in search of something else to drink. If all else failed, I had some cooking sherry in the pantry. Thankfully, lurking in the back of the fridge were the beers Jake had brought. Two cans later and I was well and truly in the “poor me” groove. I told Laycee about Francesca.
“I thought you said his car was called Francine?”
I told her about the Ferrari.
“What a fucking whore!” Waving her arms, Laycee decorated the floor with a generous splash of beer.
“I thought only women were whores,” I said, thinking she had overtaken me on the inebriation highway.
“Not in this day and age!” Five minutes later my knowledge of whores was greatly expanded. “Hey, let’s see if we can Google the bastard.”
I shook my head morosely. “Already tried.”
“Oh . . . and?”
“Don’t have a last name,” I said with a sigh. “You have any idea how many results you get just with Gabriel?”
“Fuck it!” She was genuinely put out by my admission because now she couldn’t ask Jake to utilize the resources of the Sheriff ’s Department on my behalf.
“Good idea, though,” I said in an effort to cheer her up.
I don’t remember very much about the rest of the day, except when the beers were gone I found a bottle of Jack Daniels I’d forgotten about in the back of a cupboard. It was at least three-quarters full when we started, and between us we emptied it. At some point I can remember being undecided whether I should bawl my eyes out or smash every piece of crockery I owned. As if destroying all my dinner plates and cereal bowls would punish Gabriel for leaving me. Laycee persuaded me crying would be more cathartic. She didn’t want to have to sweep up broken dishes.
I can safely say that crying while drunk as a skunk is even more exhausting than crying while sober. When my eyelids became unnaturally heavy, I knew I had to lie down before I fell down, but managing the stairs wasn’t going to happen. I’d have an easier time climbing Mount Everest in high heels. Laycee helped me to stumble into the living room, where I fell, face first, on the couch. She left me muttering drunkenly about what pigs men were and making snorty, grunting sounds. Or so she told me later.
I vaguely recollect Jake coming to get his girlfriend and saying something pithy about the dangers of women drinking without proper supervision. He was, however, thoughtful enough to bring me a bucket from the utility room and set it next to the couch in case I needed to upchuck. The last good guy on the planet, even if he was already taken. I managed a sloppy “thank you” before passing out completely.
I returned to the land of the living around noon the next day, convinced any sudden movement would make my head explode. I promised myself I was never going to drink like that again. However, I’m not sure making such a pledge while kneeling in front of the toilet holds much weight. Nevertheless, the binge had the desired effect. Having to deal with my hangover made me realize what an unbearable misery I had been to everyone around me. It wasn’t their fault that my latest foray into the world of romance had ended in disaster—again. I think the screw-up fairy must have heard the only way to make me truly happy was to totally fuck up my life. Not wanting to disappoint, she determined this to be the pattern of my days.
But the reality of my situation was very simple. No matter what I felt, no matter what had been said, Gabriel was history. It was time to move on. I owed it to my friends. I owed it to myself. And despite Laycee’s protests to the contrary, I was glad I hadn’t had sex with Gabriel.
Even though my feverish imagination assured me it would have been the most mind-blowing experience possible between two consenting adults, I would be feeling worse than I already was. I told myself I was grateful Gabriel had left me when he did. If I kept repeating it enough times, I might actually come to believe it.
If I had slept with him, would he still have dumped me? Probably. Maybe. Who knows? But I grudgingly gave him a brownie point for doing it before jumping my bones. Still, I had to agree with Laycee about one thing. It would have been worth it just to see him naked.
It took time, but eventually I resumed my life as a normal functioning member of the human race. Even my internal flamethrower got with the program and stopped roaring into life every time I thought about long blond hair, great biceps, or Vikings. It was hard, but what’s that old saying? Time heals all wounds? Well, maybe not heal, not completely, but at least it let me cover the hole with a big enough Spongebob Band-Aid so it didn’t leak as much. I would be okay as long as I didn’t try to take it off.
And so . . . life went on.
CHAPTER 17
I envy people who live up north, and not just because winter is my favorite time of year. I’m especially envious of the folks who live in Vermont and get to experience a true fall. Having your senses dazzled by nature’s spectacular kaleidoscope of changing leaves must really be something. One day I’m going to experience firsthand those weeks that mark the end of summer.
Where I live, the trees are mostly pines, but you can always find a handful of deciduous ones growing among them, like gate-crashers at a party. I’ve always felt they don’t truly belong. And they know it. In their greenery they can blend in, pretending to be some sort of evergreen hybrid, but the minute the season changes, the game’s up. It seems to me the swiftness with which they shed their leaves is almost indecent. On the drive to work Monday, they’re still mostly green but curling slightly at the edges. Come Tuesday and Wednesday they’ve turned an all-over sickly yellowish-brown. On Thursday they start to shed, really getting into the swing of it by Friday, so when the weekend arrives, all you’re left with is a naked tree trying not to be noticed. Not exactly what I would consider a positive herald for the onset of cooler temperatures.
Halloween fell on a Saturday, and
I optimistically prepared for some trick-or-treaters to call. I live too far off the beaten track for little kids to come to my house, but I can usually count on at least one group of teenagers to hit me up. So I get the good candy. No suckers or bubblegum and not a single gummy anything. Strictly chocolate at my house because whatever is left, I’m going to eat.
What none of us had counted on was the rain. It began late in the morning and continued on through the afternoon and evening, showing no sign of letting up. It was the wettest Halloween since, well, I couldn’t remember, but at least since I was old enough to get dressed up and go trick-or-treating.
Those parents who prefer that their kids not go door-to-door have the option of attending the Fall Festival, an annual event put together by local churches of all denominations and held in the volunteer fire hall. The kids still get to dress up and are encouraged to indulge in a free-for-all sugar high. There are the usual games, raffles, and bake sales, as well as contests for most original, most frightening, and funniest costume. Anyone under ten gets a prize, no matter how they’re dressed. Personally, I think they should just give each kid a handful of sugar cubes and a big glass of Kool-Aid as they come through the door.
The Sheriff’s Department has always been heavily involved with the festival, and for the past couple of years it was Suellen DuPree’s task to organize the event. This year she declined, which was no huge surprise to anyone, but even Laycee agreed that asking her had been the right thing to do. After all, it wasn’t as if she and Jake were actually divorced yet.
However, with Suellen’s refusal, everyone looked to Laycee to step up and take charge. The fact that she was the sheriff ’s girlfriend was conveniently overlooked, as long as she was willing to pitch in. Surprisingly, everything went off very smoothly. Everyone else involved—deputies’ spouses, significant others, and various church members—appreciated Laycee not trying to take over and run things single-handed. She was more than willing to accept help wherever she could find it, and I don’t think Suellen was missed at all. Except maybe by Bobby Wilkins’s mother.
Of course I attended the Fall Festival in order to show moral support for my best friend. Despite popular opinion, the witch costume I wore had not come from the Frederick’s of Hollywood catalog. Laycee helped me pick it out at a store in the mall after deciding it was time for me to live up to the expectations of those folk who, despite the fact that Jake and Laycee were now living together, still believed Jake had slept with me at least once. Fishnet stockings, high heels, and a push-up bra certainly helped reinforce such beliefs. Still, my outfit was greatly appreciated by most of the men in attendance. Their wives and/or girlfriends, not so much. Go figure.
It was past eleven and still raining hard when I got back home. I made a mad dash from the POS to the front door, grateful not to twist an ankle. If witches wore stilettos like the ones I had on, then it wasn’t surprising they also rode brooms. Leaning against the kitchen counter, I eased off one of the torturous shoes so I could rub some life back into my foot. I didn’t think anyone, even teenagers, would be dumb enough to be out in this weather, but the loud knock at the door proved me wrong.
“Just a minute!” I yelled, stuffing my aching foot back into the high heel and grabbing the dish of candy off the counter. Anyone braving this downpour deserved the full effect of my saucy witch outfit. And that included stiletto heels.
I swung the door open wide, and felt my smile turn into an O of complete blow-me-away surprise. I stared, transfixed, waiting for the figure before me to vaporize into thin air or something. But it didn’t, and I was stuck with my deer-in-the-headlights imitation.
He was soaked through. The denim of his jeans was rain-black, and his T-shirt clung like a second skin, emphasizing the build of his chest and shoulders.
Had he been working out or was he always that big?
Although wet, his hair was still a glorious waterfall of white, and as I gazed at him in total shock, I realized he was still the most gorgeous man on the planet.
This was the moment I should have shut the door on him. A gentle push would suffice, something with enough force to secure the latch, keeping him on one side and me on the other. Except I didn’t do that. My hand and arm were inexplicably paralyzed.
“G-Gabriel?” Unfortunately, his name wasn’t the only thing I stumbled over.
As I took a step back, the narrow heel of my shoe got caught in the fringe of the rug, throwing me off balance. As though it was a cinematic dream-sequence shot in slow motion, I saw the dish of candy fall from my hands and roll between Gabriel’s legs, disgorging more of its contents with each revolution. It struck me, as I fell backward with my hands clutching at thin air, that soggy Snickers were the least of my troubles.
At least that’s what I thought happened.
In reality, the dish never made it to the ground. Seeing the bowl slip from my grasp, Gabriel caught it with one hand. His outstretched palm balanced my trick-or-treat dish with barely a jostle, while his other arm snaked around my waist, saving me from an undignified sprawl on the floor.
I couldn’t take my eyes off of him.
Leaning forward, he buried his face in my neck, inhaling deeply as if reminding himself what my skin smelled like. The warm exhalation of his breath raised gooseflesh on my skin and triggered an explosion in my solar plexus—an emotional storm that couldn’t decide if its course should be a deluge of joy at finding myself in his arms once more or a torrent of fury at his desertion. Apparently, I hadn’t let go of him as completely as I’d thought.
“Gabriel.”
This time I delivered his name smoothly, although my vocal cords had been convinced they would never utter it again. He pulled his head back and gazed down at me. The same cobalt-blue eyes looked at me, glowing with the promise of something I was too wary to acknowledge.
“Hello, Rowan.”
The deep, rich timbre reverberated inside my head, exactly as I remembered it, although I thought I heard a hint of uncertainty in the tone. It occurred to me that perhaps he was thinking he’d made a mistake—that showing up uninvited wasn’t such a great idea after all. My inner bitch offered her own warped sense of reassurance.
Puh-leeze! This man doesn’t make mistakes. Uncertainty is strictly your domain.
So . . . invite him in or send him away?
My brain was having enough difficulty processing the fact that he was here in the flesh and not a figment of my imagination. My body, however, was having no such problem.
Behind my ribs my heart was pounding like a jackhammer, creating all sorts of complications for my lungs as they tried to inflate. And I could feel my blood, hot and sizzling, racing through my veins. Like Old Faithful, my very own personal blowtorch roared into life, persuading everything south of my navel to wake up and hold a parade.
How could he do this to me?
And the voice I hadn’t heard in quite a while, the one I was certain had taken up residence in someone else’s skull, suddenly came roaring through the barren landscape of my mind.
You know who I am.
My temper flared, making me snap back on the same mental wavelength.
Oh yeah? Keep telling yourself that if it makes you a happy camper, but I don’t think so. Here’s an idea, why don’t you get over yourself, and just tell me who the fuck you are?
Nothing but silence.
Yeah, that’s what I thought.
Acutely aware of Gabriel’s arm around my waist, long fingers splayed against my hip bone, I was even more disturbed by the path my own hands had taken. Flattened against his chest, my palms covered his nipples, feeling them through the wet cloth of his T-shirt. The sensation was very arousing . . . and unsettling.
“You’re wet,” I commented, demonstrating my flawless command of the obvious.
The corners of his mouth twitched and his eyes crinkled with humor. “So it would seem.”
“Let me get you a towel.”
He placed the candy dish on the floor and hel
ped me stand. My heel was still caught in the rug. Dropping to one knee, Gabriel took hold of my calf with one hand and the shoe with the other. Standing on one leg, I automatically put my hand on his wide shoulder, balancing myself as he eased the twisted fringe off the stiletto heel.
“Nice shoes,” he murmured, letting his hand drift toward my ankle.
“Thank you.” My eyes flickered beyond the open door. The POS was the only vehicle in the driveway. “Where’s your car?” I asked.
“I parked farther back,” Gabriel said slowly.
“That so?” The only way he’d be so wet was if farther back was in the next county. I put enough disbelief in my words to make it clear I knew he was lying. I just didn’t know why. A thousand questions were falling over themselves inside my head, but I was determined not to reveal how his presence was affecting me. Taking a firm grip on the roller-coaster ride my emotions were enjoying, I adopted what I hoped was an air of indifference. “Let me get you that towel.”
His eyes followed me as I walked down the hallway and into the kitchen. I would have given anything to be wearing something other than black fishnets and a skirt that barely covered my ass. Shapeless, baggy sweats would be a good choice.
Gabriel had closed the door behind him when I returned, and the candy dish was now sitting on the hall table.
“Aren’t I supposed to invite you in?” My tone was slightly accusatory as I held the towel out to him.
“Only the first time.”
A warning bell clanged loudly inside my head. There was another, hidden meaning in his words. Something I already knew but couldn’t recall at this precise moment. And then I forgot all about warnings as his fingers, reaching for the towel, brushed the back of my hand. A bottle rocket exploded inside my chest. In what alternate reality had I convinced myself I was over him?
As he stood dripping in the hallway I could sense him studying me, trying to assess my reaction to his presence. At least that’s what I assumed his look meant. It’s what I would do. But I don’t think he found me as easy to read as before because he shifted his attention and began to focus deliberately on everything from my neck down. Locking my backbone in place, I did my best to ignore the feel of his eyes sweeping over me, concentrating instead on the puddle of water forming at his feet. Was he going to punish the rug by drowning it?
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