When the Doldrums Monster attacks this hard, there’s only one course of action to take. I text Carrie, insist on taking her shoe shopping in approximately seventy minutes—sooner if the traffic on the 101 South isn’t ghastly—and head for the Audi A5 I hardly drive anymore.
Because some places are too far to reach by bike, and right now I need to be far, far away from the house on the hill and the beautiful man sleeping inside it.
Chapter 18
Emma
I head to Berkeley, and a Sunday afternoon of sisterly bonding ensues. But not even shopping with Carrie at our favorite shoe store—the one that sells the sky-high heels that make me nearly as tall as a normal person and badass boots that compliment Carrie’s uniform of pleather pants and ripped up sweatshirts—can take my mind off my worries.
“Guy trouble?” she asks as I sigh for the fifth time since we sat down to order cupcakes and afternoon coffee. “Sexy Farmer turn out to be an asshole like I thought?”
I shake my head. “No.”
I frown. Sigh. Purse my lips.
“It’s just…” More sighing. So much sighing. “Complicated.”
“Sounds like you’ve been holding out on me,” Carrie says. “Not to say I told you so, but this is what happens when you date a douchebag who acts like he’s doing your pussy a favor with his dick. You should have kicked him to the curb before he could get his pants off.”
“Stop,” I whisper, glancing around the café, grateful to find no one seems to be eavesdropping on our conversation. “I don’t talk about sex stuff in public. You know that.”
She lifts an unsympathetic brow. “Then you should have called me and confessed instead of showing up for shopping and cupcakes all constipated with secrets.”
I huff. “I am not constipated with secrets.”
“Talk, woman.” Carrie crosses her arms, pinning me with a hard look that makes her heavily made-up blue eyes look even more dangerous. “Spill, before I cut the truth out of you with this butter knife.”
“Stop, you’re scaring me,” I lie. But I know I’m only putting off the inevitable. I always break with Carrie. I’m literally incapable of keeping secrets from my sister.
She shakes her head, sending her bleached white hair with the purple streaks flopping into her eyes. “Seriously, sweet pea, why do you insist on finding the biggest asshole in your immediate vicinity and then jumping onto his cock?”
“That’s not what happened,” I say, nose wrinkling at the reminder of how many jerks’ names I’ve managed to collect on my dance card. But Dylan isn’t a jerk, he truly isn’t. And I don’t like Carrie having such a low opinion of him, even if they will probably never meet again.
So I tell her the truth, the entire sordid, crazy tale, while she makes a wide variety of snorts, clucks, grunts, and tsks that most people would have trouble deciphering. But I’ve had twenty-nine years to learn my sister’s language, and by the time I’m done, I already know exactly what she’s thinking.
“See?” I point a finger at her chest. “I wasn’t doing my usual asshole thing. I was being smart and logical before I screwed it up by getting attached.”
Carrie presses her knuckles to her lips as she thinks. “Okay,” she says. “So, this is what I’m hearing…”
I lean in, cupping my steaming coffee mug with both hands, waiting with bated breath because Carrie’s insights are almost always excellent.
“I’m hearing that this douchebag is actually…not a douchebag.”
I nod impatiently. “Yeah, that’s what I said. He’s nice. Really nice.”
“Oh, I didn’t say he sounded nice,” she corrects as she peels the wrapper from her red velvet cupcake. “Any guy who stays over at your place that many nights in a row isn’t being nice, he’s clearly got an ugly hard-on for you in the worst way.”
“There’s nothing ugly about it,” I mumble, but only shake my head when Carrie asks me to repeat myself.
She harrumphs, eyes narrowing as she surveys me over the mountain of icing she’s poised to bite into. “So to me that means one of two things. One, he’s actually really into you and probably not just in a physical way because even sex addicts need a break to get some sleep now and then.”
My heart lifts, only to tumble down the hope hill as she adds, “Or, two—and more likely, sadly, because people are the worst—he’s got intimacy issues. And he’s getting codependent with you way too fast because his parents didn’t make him feel special and he’s got a gaping hole in his heart where the unconditional love was supposed to go.”
My lips part in protest, but close before any words come out.
Intimacy issues… I don’t think that’s the case, but it’s weird that Carrie guessed part of Dylan’s backstory without me saying a word.
She takes an enormous bite of her cupcake, but I’m still chewing on my thoughts by the time she’s finished the bite then taken a sip of her coffee. “He’s got issues, right?” she prods.
I shake my head, nibbling at my bottom lip. “I don’t think so. He’s not needy or anything like that. Most of the time, he’s generous in every sense of the word. The kind of person who takes care of the people around him, not vice versa.” I hesitate a moment before adding in a halting voice, “But his mom did kind of drop him off at his dad’s place when he was five years old and never come back, so…”
Carrie winces in a rare moment of empathy. Not to say my sister doesn’t have a heart—she does—she just believes people are made of tougher stuff than the self-help gurus give us credit for. “Yikes. That sucks. Poor kid.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “But he seems to have come out of it okay. He runs his family’s farm, takes care of his big brother’s kids while he’s deployed, manages all the finances, even some of the stuff for his other brother’s motorcycle repair shop if I understand it correctly, and he—”
“Got it, got it.” She nods quickly, licking icing off her thumb. “So he’s the guy who deals with abandonment by taking care of everyone’s shit, being the perfect son-brother-uncle-farmer, and making sure he’s so busy being the man in charge that he never has to deal with being out of control.”
I hum, lips puckering as things start to sound familiar.
Carrie isn’t a therapist—she studies psychological profiles to add depth to the characters in her books—but in the past few years, she’s gotten eerily good at predicting real life people’s issues. I’m sure the time we both spent in therapy growing up, dealing with the fallout from our parents’ miserable breakup, didn’t hurt when it came to honing her skills.
“He goes to great lengths to avoid being vulnerable and exposed,” Carrie continues, warming to her topic. “Because that would let someone into his feelings cave, and he’s shut down the feelings cave because the first woman who ever visited was an asshole who told him his cave was ugly and left without waving goodbye.”
“Ugh.” My shoulders curl as my stomach starts to hurt, which is a shame because I haven’t had a single bite of my Mocha Dust cupcake. “I think that might be it.”
“Any serious ex-girlfriends hanging around?” Carrie asks.
I shake my head. “No serious exes since high school. Not that I’ve heard about, anyway, and people talk in that town.”
Carrie shudders. “Small towns. So awful. I don’t know why you’re subjecting yourself to that of your own free will.”
I roll my eyes, refusing to get distracted defending Mercyville. It wouldn’t make a difference to a die-hard city lover like my sister, anyway. “It sounds like he’s dated casually,” I continue, “but ends relationships amicably before things get too intense.”
Carrie nods. “Yep. I would bet my right hand that bucko’s got abandonment issues. And probably the only reason he let you get as close as he did is because you two agreed up front that feelings weren’t going to be part of your arrangement.” She wiggles her fingers. “You snuck in there under his radar, all sneaky like.”
“But now feelings are involved,” I s
ay softly. “At least for me. I really like him. Like…a lot.”
Carrie sighs, popping the last bite of her cupcake into her mouth and chewing before she asks, “How much a lot?”
I thread my fingers tight together, squeezing them into a fist in my lap as I confess, “So much that I’m going to give up on trying to get pregnant because I think another month or two of having sex with him would get me so hooked that my heart would be sad, pulpy pain-mush when it was over. And you know how much I want a baby.”
She frowns, holding up a hand in the universal sign for “hold up a second.” “Why? Why are you doing that to yourself? If you’re going to have a broken heart, at least get what you wanted from the arrangement first.”
I shake my head. “You don’t understand. I can’t. It’s not going to work anymore.”
“Because you’re getting out now, before you get hurt?” Carrie arches an eloquent brow that communicates exactly what she thinks of that MO. “Now who’s letting her abandonment issues take the wheel?”
“I am not,” I protest, swiping a finger through my frosting and popping it into my mouth. “Don’t analyze me.”
Carrie taps her chin. “There’s a song about Jesus taking the wheel, right? But I don’t seem to remember a song about abandonment issues taking over. Probably because that would be a shitty idea, even for a country song, and they love to sing about sad, shitty things that make people feel awful.”
“I’m starting to like country music, actually. The country station in town is really good. Nice mix of classics and new stuff, not too many drinking songs. I’m not big on drinking songs. Is that weird? Considering how much I enjoy a glass of wine?”
Carrie’s eyes go wide, and her lips peel slowly away from her teeth in a horrified grimace, making me laugh.
“Stop it.” I kick her boot beneath the table. “You look like you’re about to throw up.”
“It could happen.” She shudders again. “Who are you? And what have you done with my classic rock and Celtic folk song loving sister?”
I shrug. “I’m keeping an open mind. Making room for new experiences, new likes and dislikes, new sides of myself.”
Carrie nods, a smile creeping across her face that makes me positive I’ve stepped into a trap, even before she says, “So that means you don’t walk away from this thing with Sexy Farmer. That’s what old, stuck-in-her-ways Emma would have done. New Emma is going to be brave and see this through until she’s knocked up with a beautiful bouncy baby boy.”
“Or a girl.” My heart beats faster at the thought of a little girl playing in the dirt beside me while I garden, a bundle of energy with Dylan’s hazel eyes and dimpled smile.
Though of course, that’s part of what makes this so hard…
“Even if I can convince him to pick up where we left off,” I begin slowly, only for Carrie to snort and roll her eyes.
“He’s hot after your sweet ass. He’ll pick up where you left off. Trust me.”
“Even if I can convince him,” I continue, “and I manage to get pregnant, no matter how far away I move, I’m going to be taking Dylan with me. My son or daughter will be a walking, talking reminder of the man I let myself fall so hard for and all the mistakes I made.”
Carrie’s expression softens. “Baby girl, every good thing has a poop sandwich.”
I wrinkle my nose. “A poop sandwich?”
“Yes, the shitty part of the thing you love. I was listening to Big Magic by Elizabeth Gilbert the other day, and it reminded me about the unavoidable shit sandwich. Think about it—your job, your relationships, even your hobbies—there’s a down side to everything. I love writing, playing pretend with my characters in my office all day, but I hate marketing like fire ants in my panties. That’s my shit sandwich.”
I nod, catching her drift. “So my shit sandwich would be waiting for my wine to age so I can see how it’s turned out. Growing, tending, harvest, crush—all of that is the fun stuff. But the waiting is a bitch.”
“Exactly. But you’re willing to wait. You’ll eat that shit sandwich and keep on making wine because it’s your passion.” She pauses, pinning me with a loaded look. “And if I’m not mistaken, becoming a mother—something I know you’ve dreamt about forever—is going to be worth chomping an even bigger poo biscuit.”
I stick out my tongue. “Stop. I get it. No more potty talk.”
Carrie leans in, elbows braced on the table, “Okay, but think about it, Em. You’ll have a baby to shower with love. Your heart is going to be so full that it will make things like an infant keeping you up all night, or feeling sad that her father isn’t in your life, seem small in comparison.”
I press my lips together, torn.
“Trust me. It will be worth it,” Carrie urges.
I hum thoughtfully as I bite into my cupcake, relishing the bittersweet dark chocolate icing mixing with the coffee flavored cake. Even in this bite, there’s bitter mixed in with the sweet, but it highlights the softer flavors, making them shine.
So maybe Carrie’s right…
Maybe I can make this work. “Thanks for listening,” I say, smiling as my eyes fill with hopeful tears. “You’re the best sister ever.”
“Any time, sis. But don’t cry.” Carrie laughs as she squeezes my hand. “Geez. Are you sure you’re not already pregnant?”
“Nope.” I motion dryly to my cupcake. “There’s a reason I was craving chocolate. Though, it has been super light so far.”
She groans. “Lucky you. Mine is a fucking nightmare. I’m so over it. I can’t believe I have twenty more years of this to look forward to. Next life I’m coming back as a dude or a tree or some sort of creature that doesn’t menstruate.”
From there, our talk turns to the usual sisterly topics of the evils of the red tsunami, the reasons Carrie should move out of her studio above the toy store she still manages, despite the growing success of her books, why Dad is trying to raise goats when he knows nothing about goats and is bad at keeping things alive, when Mom is coming back from her latest singles cruise to Alaska, and whether Dancing with the Stars will ever consider writers “stars” so Carrie can audition.
“Maybe if I can sell half a million copies of the next book?” she asks, stopping to pet a bulldog wearing a pink studded collar as we make our way through downtown Berkeley.
“At least have your publicist try,” I say, the pup reminding me of Cupcake.
Dylan took such sweet care of that dog. Just like he took care of me.
Feeding me, helping me with lab work, planning adventures, and comforting me on the toilet weren’t part of our bargain. Those were things he chose to do, and why would he do those things unless he cared? At least a little?
Maybe Carrie and I went racing off into the forest after the wrong fox. We spent all of two seconds discussing option one, the possibility that Dylan has more-than-friends feelings, too. He could. It’s not beyond the realm of possibility. And don’t I owe it to both of us to find out?
I mean, hell, we all have issues.
That doesn’t mean we’re lost causes or incapable of love.
I don’t want to give up on Dylan so easily, not even if it means ruining any chance of returning to our friends-with-baby-making-benefits arrangement.
I stay up late Sunday night, tucked into Carrie’s guest room, writing draft after draft of one of the scariest things I’ve ever put on paper. Early Monday morning on my way back into Mercyville, I slip the letter into the Hunter family mailbox, cross my fingers, and hope I haven’t thrown the baby away with the bathwater.
Chapter 19
Dylan
It’s been four days since we spoke. Four days since I’ve touched her, smelled her, tasted her. Four days of torture, spent watching her working in her garden and walking her property with her vineyard manager and riding her bike to town looking cute as fuck in a fuzzy orange hat and a matching scarf that trails behind her in the breeze as she rides.
Four days of radio silence during which my
phone has not received a single call or text. And yeah, I haven’t reached out, either, but I’m the one who apologized and begged her to stay at the harvest parade. I’m the one who rolled over and showed his underbelly and was told “see you around, I need space and time.”
The ball is in her court. If she decides she’s done playing, then that’s it.
It’s over. Done. Finished.
I let out a string of obscenities, barely resisting the urge to hurl the hoe I’m trying to reattach to its handle out the barn window and then kick the fuck out of the broken lawn mower for good measure.
“Easy there, son.” My dad’s voice comes from the hayloft, making me flinch.
“Shit, you scared me.” I turn, glancing up toward the roof of the barn, where my old man is sitting in a makeshift throne of hay bales, whittling. “How long have you been lurking up there?”
“I’m not lurking. I’m enjoying some peace and quiet.” Dad casts a glance down his nose. “Or I was until you had your temper tantrum.”
“I’m not having a temper tantrum. I’m just fucking sick of broken things.” I toss the hoe onto the dirt floor by the shovel the boys ran over with my truck on their way to school because they refuse to put things back where they found them.
“Aren’t we all? But broken things are a part of life, and bitching doesn’t help them get fixed any faster.”
“Someone’s philosophical all of a sudden,” I mutter, digging through a box of old engine parts, looking for something I can use to patch up the lawnmower for a few more runs. It’s almost time for the grass to go dormant. If it can limp along another few weeks, I’ll have three months without pasture mowing to save for a replacement.
“Yeah, well, I’ve been doing some thinking lately.” The sound of Dad’s knife softly snicking at the wood fills the silence as he pauses for a long moment. Long enough that I’ve almost forgotten what we were talking about when he adds, “And I’ve been seeing that lady my doctor said I should talk to. The one with the office in Sebastopol.”
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