Hottie Lumberjack

by Tawna Fenske

  “Hardest thing I’ve ever done,” I agree, overwhelmed by the urge to spill my guts to this woman I don’t know at all.

  But I do know her, in a way. We’re both part of the struggling single moms club, even though we’re at different stages of our membership. We know what it’s like to question every choice we make, to wonder constantly if we’re enough.

  “It’s rewarding, though,” I add so she doesn’t think I’m ungrateful. “Gratifying to know you can raise a child on your own without any help from anyone.”

  She nods thoughtfully. “I admire you,” she says. “I’m not sure I could have done it without support from Cort and—well, from my other friends over the years.”

  I know from the way she says friends she means boyfriends. There, that’s a tidbit Mark’s shared with me, something I’ve squirreled away in my file of personal information. I touch Betty’s hand, aware of the self-conscious note in her voice.

  “I think maybe it’s harder with boys,” I say. “A friend of mine has two—nine and thirteen—and she’s constantly worried about whether they’ve got enough male role models.”

  Betty’s smile warms with appreciation. “That’s true,” she says. “You always worry you’re not enough for them.”

  “I feel that way, too,” I admit. “All the time. But at least with a daughter, I can relate. I remember how hard the social stuff is, and we can talk about being a girl and what kind of changes she’ll go through as she gets older. If there’s anything I don’t know, I’ve got a whole tribe of girlfriends to be surrogate moms.”

  “It is different with boys.” There’s an unmistakable wistfulness in her voice. “I did my best with Mark, tried to give him role models where I could.”

  “You did an amazing job.” I reach over and squeeze her hand. “He’s a great guy, and he really admires you.”

  Tears glitter in the corners of her eyes. “Thank you, dear.”

  I let my gaze drift out over the ball pit, and I watch my daughter, my happy, well-adjusted, sweet daughter. How would she be different with a father figure in the picture?

  My imagination floods with images of Mark and Libby together, discussing the merits of donuts or singing silly songs in the car. Longing, sharp and intense, pinches the center of my chest. I want that. I shouldn’t, but I do, and I’m not sure how much longer I can fight it.

  Betty’s gone quiet beside me, and I try to think of something else I can share. Something to let her know I’m right there with her in questioning my choices as a single mom.

  “I do sometimes worry how the whole paternity issue complicates things.” I hesitate there, not sure how much Bree has shared about my situation, but positive Betty can relate on some level. “A kid deserves privacy, obviously, but there’s a point where it’s important to talk openly about the biological father and how—”

  “Oh my God.” Betty grips my arm, eyes wide as nickels, and she stares at me in amazement. “He told you.” Her eyes fill with tears. “He loves you.”

  I watch her lip quiver as I try to make sense of what’s happening. “What?”

  The slow smile spreading over her face tells me these are happy tears, but I don’t understand what I’m missing. “I’m almost positive you’re the first person he’s ever told,” she says. “To be honest, I wasn’t sure how much he knew. I always hoped Cort finally talked to him about it, but he never wanted to talk to me, so I just let him be.”

  There’s a buzzing in the back of my brain, a nervous hum of uncertainty. I’m not even sure we’re having the same conversation. “I don’t—”

  “Oh, sweetheart—I didn’t mean to scare you.” Her smile is so kind that I’m tempted to clam up. To just stand here basking in this motherly affection. “It’s clear you feel the same way, or I wouldn’t have said anything. I’m just so tickled you’ve cracked his armor.”

  She turns away and swipes at a tear that leaks from one eye. She’s watching Libby now, trying to regain her composure while I try to figure out what the hell I’ve missed.

  “Betty, I don’t—” I stall out there, but she must hear something in my voice because she turns back to face me.

  And then her smile falters. “Oh.” She lifts a hand to her mouth. “Oh, dear.”

  “There’s been a misunderstanding,” I offer feebly, the understatement of the year.

  “I thought—when you said—” Her brow furrows as she retraces her steps through our conversation. “You mentioned paternity questions. I just assumed Mark told you about Cort.”

  “No.” I shake my head, wishing more than anything he had. That I didn’t have to stand here facing his mother, acknowledging that I’m not as close to her son as she thought I was. As I thought I was.

  A flicker of understanding sparks to a flame in the back of my brain. So there’s a question about Mark’s paternity? Okay, so…it happens. I mean, I guess I knew he had secrets, though this is a bigger one than a fear of spiders or an embarrassing childhood nickname.

  Betty’s still looking confused, so I hurry to explain. “Libby,” I finally manage. “I was talking about Libby. I—we—we’re dealing with some complicated paternity stuff with her right now, and I thought maybe you’d heard something from Bree or Mark or—”

  “No.” Betty shakes her head. “He hasn’t said a word.”

  To either of us, sister.

  I don’t say that, of course, but it’s dawning on me how much Mark’s shut me out. How many chances he’s had to open up to me, and how he’s passed them up at every turn.

  Betty’s gaze shifts just over my shoulder and her face goes two shades paler. “Oh, no.”

  I pivot slowly, already knowing what I’m going to see. Who I’m going to see. How long has he been there, and what did he hear?

  “Mark,” Betty says, reaching for his arm as she looks up at his stony features. “Sweetheart, I think I may have just stepped in it.”

  “What?” He looks from her to me and back again, the crease deepening between his brows. “What are you talking about?”

  “Paternity,” I say softly, still not sure what’s happening here. “Yours, apparently.”

  Slowly, one icy inch at a time, his expression turns to granite.

  “I’m sorry,” Betty says. “I thought you’d told her. Before he died, I thought your father would have—”

  “No.” Mark bites out that lone syllable less like the answer to a question and more like he’s twisting the top onto a soda bottle threatening to fizz over. His jaw is clenched so tightly I see muscles twitching at his hairline.

  Betty glances at me, then touches his arm again. “Do you want me to—”

  “No,” he says again, backing away as he rakes a hand through his hair. “I need to—I have to—dammit.”

  He turns and lumbers away, hands clenched at his sides. I’ve never seen his shoulders bunched so tight.

  “Go,” Betty says, though she doesn’t have to say it. I’m already moving after him. “He needs one of us, and I don’t think it’s me.”

  I’m not sure Mark needs anyone, or wants anyone at the moment, but when he looks over his shoulder and sees me, he slows his pace.

  There’s a moment of hesitation, and I swear I’ve seen it before. Not with Mark, but with deer on the side of the highway. That moment of choice, to turn and run back into the woods, or to leap out in front of an oncoming car.

  He nods once. “Come on.” He trudges away like a man headed to execution, expecting me to follow.

  And of course, I do.

  Chapter 18

  MARK

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  The words pulse through my brain like a fight song as I thunder out of the arcade with the soft lilt of my mom and Chelsea’s voices behind me.

  My mom says something about watching Libby so we can talk, which is one more shred of evidence I’m an asshole. I didn’t even think of that when I stomped off expecting Chelsea to follow.

  I’m not thinking straight, what with all the clutter in my
head. In an hour’s time, I’ve gone from feeling like the luckiest son of a bitch in the world with a warm cluster of siblings and friends and community, to feeling pretty sure it’s getting yanked out from under me like a shabby rug.

  I reach the door of the supply closet and grab the handle with a shaky hand. “In here,” I say as I wave my key card in front of it and push the door open.

  If I were in my right mind, I’d head for a conference room or something. There are a zillion in the next building, but Chelsea doesn’t complain as I hold the door open and usher her into a room filled with toilet paper rolls and cleaning supplies.

  Further proof I’m the world’s shittiest communicator. I can’t even get the venue right.

  “This is—um—nice.” She fingers the sleeve of a cowgirl costume, one of dozens we bought for the cowpoke cookouts we do here as part of the kids’ programs.

  Libby would love it.

  The thought flits through my brain before I stomp it under my boot. I can’t afford to think that way. Not with Chelsea looking at me like she doesn’t know who the fuck I am.

  That makes two of us.

  I drag a hand down my beard, trying to get my bearings. Trying to find a way to start this conversation. “What did my mom say?”

  Chelsea doesn’t flinch at the roughness of my words. “We don’t have to do this now, Mark.”

  “Do what?”

  “Talk about—whatever the hell you don’t want to talk about.” She chokes out a sad little laugh. “I don’t even know.”

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” My voice cracks, and I hate myself even more. “Like you’ve never seen me before.”

  She hesitates. “Maybe I haven’t. Not really. Maybe I’ve only seen what I wanted to.”

  Her words aren’t accusing, that’s the hell of it. They’re cushioned with kindness and understanding, which I sure as fuck don’t deserve.

  I have no idea what to say to that. I stand there like an idiot, fists balled at my sides, wondering how the hell I’ve fucked this up so royally. How I can fix it.

  Chelsea’s still waiting, waiting for me to offer something. Anything that shows I can carry on a normal, adult conversation.

  “We don’t have to do this now,” she says softly. “It’s your birthday. A big one, right?”

  I nod. That much I can offer. “Thirty,” I tell her. “Today’s my thirtieth birthday.”

  “Happy birthday,” she says automatically.

  There’s a forced cheer to the words, but also a quiver. Hurt or anger, I’m not sure.

  “It is a little strange, isn’t it?” she continues, leaning back against a rack of paper towels like this is a normal conversation. Like there’s anything about this that’s normal. “We’ve been sleeping together for days—living under the same roof—and you didn’t mention a milestone birthday?”

  “I forgot.” It sounds lame even to me, so I try again. “I don’t like making a big deal.”

  “Okay.” She’s forcing as much brightness as she can into that one syllable. She wants to believe it. That’s the hell of it, she wants to believe in me. “Seriously, Mark, it’s fine. We don’t have to do this now. I want you to have a good birthday.”

  I shake my head, knowing we’re long past that. “What did my mother say?”

  “Okay, we’re doing this.” She bites her lip, weighing her words. “Something about questionable paternity.” She laughs, but it’s a hollow, brittle sound. “I thought at first she was talking about Libby. That you’d told her something or—”

  “I wouldn’t,” I tell her. “I’d never breathe a word to anyone.”

  Tears flood her eyes, and she nods. “I know you wouldn’t,” she says. “That’s exactly it. You’re like a steel door with the hinges welded shut.”

  I don’t think that’s a compliment.

  “Look, Chelsea,” I begin, but then I stop myself. What can I tell her that won’t send her running the other way, convinced I’m a fraud or a failure or a misfit or—

  “Tell me, Mark.” Her eyes are pleading, her voice shaky. “Tell me something, anything real. Let me in.”

  Jesus Christ, that’s the scariest thing I’ve ever heard. I don’t know what to say so I say nothing at all, which isn’t helping. Not a damn bit.

  She waits a long damn time. Longer than I deserve. When she speaks again, her voice is so soft I can hardly hear. “I’ve let you into the most private, guarded rooms of my life,” she says. “Doors I’ve never opened for anyone, ever. But I’m still standing here on your front porch with my breath fogging up the glass, just peering through the window because you won’t let me in at all. Not even a little bit.”

  “I—don’t know where to start.”

  “Start anywhere. Your life, your scars, whatever the story is with your father.”

  I close my eyes, playing it out in my mind. Once I say the words out loud, it’s all over. It becomes real, and my whole world unravels.

  I’m not Cort Bracelyn’s son.

  Which means I’m not Bree’s brother, not Sean’s brother or James’s or Jonathan’s. I’m not anyone at all, not a part of this resort or a part of this family or this life I’ve managed to build for myself.

  I’m no one.

  I open my eyes to find Chelsea watching me.

  The words scrape their way up my throat like barbed hooks. “I can’t.”

  She jerks back like I’ve thrown two bricks at her, one after the other.

  I. Can’t.

  She looks me in the eyes for a long time. “I see.”

  When she drops her gaze, I know that’s a bad sign. “I guess I’m the idiot,” she says, shaking her head. “I’m the one who thought this was different. Who thought you were different because you had so much to offer. Affection. Protection. The kind of strength and selflessness I’ve only dreamed of.”

  “But that’s not enough.”

  Her throat moves as she swallows. “Not if you’re just going through the motions. If I’m offering you my heart and soul and all my darkest secrets, and you’re offering me a shield. It’s wonderful, it’s noble, God knows I appreciate it—but it’s not enough. Not for me.”

  Say it.

  Tell her you love her.

  Tell her what you’re afraid of.

  But my tongue lays frozen in my mouth, unable to form the words. Unable to figure out who the fuck I even am. I’m standing on the edge of a cliff that I’ve known all along was probably there, shrouded in mist and thick nets of moss. I pretended it wasn’t there, but I always knew, and it would be so damn easy to jump right over the edge. To grab Chelsea’s hand and trust love to be our fucking parachute.

  I’m not who you think I am.

  I’m not who anyone thinks I am.

  I’m not a Bracelyn.

  I don’t belong.

  I can’t say it. I can’t let it be real.

  “I’m going to go now.” Her voice is soft, her steps even softer as she moves backward toward the door. “When you decide you’re ready to let someone in, give me a call.”

  My hands ball into fists, and I close my eyes, willing myself to say something, anything.

  But as the door clicks shut behind her, I know I’ve made a choice.

  And she’s made hers.

  Chapter 19

  CHELSEA

  Mark’s mother takes one look at my face when I emerge from the supply closet and presses her lips together. “Go,” she says softly. “I’ve got her.”

  Maybe it’s single mom intuition, but she seems to know I need a moment alone. That I’m seconds away from falling apart, and the last thing I need is for Libby to witness it.

  I glance at the ball pit and see Libby’s playing happily with her new friend, both girls swimming through a sea of red and blue and green plastic bubbles. She’s laughing like the world is a perfect, rainbow-hued utopia, and for her, it is. I want it to stay that way as long as possible.

  So I go, murmuring a promise to be back in an hour. I just nee
d some air, a few moments of quiet to figure out how the hell I’ve managed to do this again. To press myself magnetlike to a man hellbent on pushing me away.

  I burst through the side door and out into the darkness. No one follows, especially not Mark. Cloaked in darkness, I skirt past the ballroom where the party’s still in full swing. There’s Senator Grassnab, deep in conversation with Austin on the far side of the room. Neither looks up to notice me scuttling through the shadows, making my way to the other side of the resort.

  I’m not even sure where I’m going until the glow of the main lodge flickers into view. The dining room is bright as a lantern, with dinner rush in full swing. I jog around to the other side, making a beeline for the pastry kitchen. Thank God Sean told me about it. Maybe he knew I’d need the therapy at some point. For as long as I can recall, baking has been my solace, my comfort, my safe place.

  I’ve never needed it more.

  Pushing through the side door, I move down the hallway by the restrooms and head for the nondescript door at the back. My hands are shaking as I pull my key card out of my pocket and wave it in front of the scanner. It clicks open like a welcome, a wave of cinnamon and vanilla greeting me warmly.

  My sleeve tangles on the door handle, and I waste a few precious minutes struggling to free myself. Tears drip down my face, blurring my vision and making me feel like an even bigger idiot than I already did.

  God. Finally, I’m in, safe in the spice-scented cocoon. Here, I can pretend for just a few minutes that I haven’t screwed up again. That I didn’t fling myself head first into another relationship with a guy unwilling to offer more than a flimsy paper cutout of himself.

  I make my way to the sink in the corner and wash my hands, stopping to splash water on my face. It’ll be okay. Everything will be fine; I can get through this.

  Spotting a row of chef’s aprons on pegs along the wall, I pull one down and cinch it around my waist. Then I get to work.

  Poking my head in the cooler, I locate the tools required to soothe my soul. Butter, eggs, fresh milk from the dairy down the road. I drag them out and pile them on the stainless-steel counter beside tidy canisters of flour and sugar.