by Kylie Scott
It is, however, interesting noting how much more time Leif and I spend together as opposed to the life I had with Ryan. He was always off to the gym or working late. Something I’d grown accustomed to at the time. Though it kind of makes me wonder about how healthy our relationship was really. Guess the rose-colored glasses are well and truly off. But I’m not dwelling on Ryan either. I’m doing my exercises and rebuilding my life, which now includes working at the tattoo parlor. I’m getting my shit together. Romance and menfolk are nice and all; however, they’re by no means a necessity.
Which goes nowhere toward explaining why I’m sitting at the table with my dinner waiting for Leif to make an appearance. Because we’re not hanging out together tonight. Not even a little.
When he finally walks out of his bedroom, it’s in a black pair of jeans, a black button-down shirt, and black boots. His hair is tied back and his gaze is not exactly happy. Honestly, I can’t read him. There’s a line between his brows, but none on his forehead, so his anxiety levels are probably slightly above normal maybe.
“You look good,” I say, holding a rib in my sticky fingers. Barbeque was given to us by God. It’s a fact. Add collard greens and cornbread and you’ve basically got nirvana. Living in the middle of town and having access to all of the delivery in all the land is working out well for me, if not my bank account.
He smiles. “You’re a mess.”
“There’s only one way to eat ribs, and that is with your whole mouth and soul.”
“I see.” He crosses to the kitchen, pulls out a clean towel, and wets it beneath the sink before returning to the table. “Look here.”
Ever so carefully, he cleans off my face.
I laugh. “I feel like a child.”
“Yeah. Well. You don’t look like one if that helps.” And there’s a warmth in his eyes that kills me.
“Thank you.” I look away for a moment. “So you’re all ready for your hot date?”
He shrugs.
“What’s wrong?”
“I hate getting set up. It’s so fucking awkward.” He leaves the damp towel at my elbow on the table for later use.
“I hear you. Happily, I’m not at that stage yet,” I say. “Tell me about her.”
“Ah, friend of Clem’s. Works at a place opposite the bookstore. That’s about all I know.”
“Is it a double date or . . .”
“Yeah. Which is just more pressure to connect, you know? Under normal circumstances you can meet, have a drink, figure you have nothing in common or there’s nil attraction and go your separate ways all in under thirty minutes,” he says. “But getting dragged along on a double date means you’re stuck there for the whole night whether you’re interested or not.”
I nod.
“Ed gave me the ‘you hardly ever go out and socialize anymore’ lecture followed by the ‘it won’t kill you so stop being a little bitch about it’ speech.”
“Oh. Sounds involved. Still, it must be nice having siblings that care about you.”
“It is. And I know I’m being negative as all hell.”
“You’re allowed to feel how you feel. This is our safe space, after all.”
“But there’s no point to feeling how I feel, because short of faking my own death I’ve got to go.” He sighs. “So I might as well pull my head out of my ass and get on with it. Who knows, it might be fun.”
“Well said and bravely done.”
“Thank you. I’m going to think of it as quality time with Ed and Clem with the possibility of something more.”
There is no twinge of jealousy messing with my insides. It’s just gas or something.
He rolls up the sleeves on his shirt, revealing his strong forearms. “What are you up to tonight, you little carnivore?”
“I haven’t decided yet. Maybe call Mom and Briar and catch up with them. Put on a moisturizing mask and have a glass of wine. Just going to chill.”
“Sounds nice. Don’t watch any more Twilight until I’m back.”
“I wouldn’t dare.”
One side of his mouth quirks up. “Who will Bella choose, the vampire or the werewolf?”
“I’ll never tell.”
“I’ll just have to wait and see. Still, it’s a good thing we reconnected. We only got halfway through the third book when I was reading to you in the hospital. If you’d never tracked me down, I would have just lived the rest of my life with this faint cloud of unresolved drama hanging over me. On my deathbed my final words would have been ‘But was it Edward or Jacob?’” He winks. “Later.”
And he’s gone. On a date. Okay. Great. This is all completely normal and I’m fine with it. I am.
FIVE HOURS LATER . . .
“Anna? Baby? What are you doing?”
His big black boots appear at my side. “Cleaning.”
“And that requires your upper body to be wedged underneath the kitchen sink?” His voice echoes around the confines of the otherwise silent main room. The music stopped a while back and I hadn’t bothered to put on another playlist. I had better things to do.
“Yes,” I say.
Nothing from him.
Like it’s weird to spray and wipe down pipes or something. “I’m not sure anyone’s ever cleaned back here. It’s really dusty.”
“You’re probably right.”
“How did the double date go?” I ask, trying to turn to look back at him, only it doesn’t really work with my upper body inside the cupboard. Maneuvering is also difficult with a spray bottle of cleaning stuff and rag taking up my hands. Sometimes my coordination is off when I get tired. Such is life.
“Will you—can you come out here, please? It’s hard to take you seriously when I’m talking to your buttocks.”
“Um . . .”
“Let me help.”
“Okay.”
He grips me around the waist and pulls me out nice and slow. And I’m kneeling at his feet with my cleaning implements, which is never a good look. Dust-stained old tee and yoga pants only enhance my image.
He crouches down at my side. “So. Anna. What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
“It looks like you scrubbed and bleached every inch of the condo.”
“Sort of. Yeah. Well, no. Mostly just the main room and kitchen. I don’t think I’ll get to the bathroom tonight. I’m starting to run out of steam.”
“What happened to chilling with a face mask and a drink?”
“I did that too. Then I got bored and figured, why not?”
“Okay.” His tongue plays behind his cheek, but his eyes are serious. “Do you find cleaning relaxes you?”
I think it over. “No. Not really.”
“Right.” His gaze runs over my yellow rubber gloves before he too sits on the floor. “Talk me through this.”
“It’s nothing. Everyone has their quirks,” I say, starting to feel distinctly judged. As if rage and/or anxiety cleaning wasn’t a thing. “You haven’t told me how your date went.”
“It was fine. She was nice. The food was good.”
“Nice? That’s all you’ve got?”
He tugs the hair tie out, letting it all hang loose. “We went dancing and . . . I didn’t hate it.”
“Whoa. Gush about the girl, why don’t you?”
A grunt. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m just going through an extended no-interest-in-dating period. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“There is nothing wrong with that.”
“You know, I don’t even miss sex that much, now that I come to think about it. Maybe the accident damaged by libido. And I’m fine with my own company. Or I have the guys from work, my family, and you to hang out with,” he says. “It’s not like I’ve become a hermit or something.”
“Fair enough.”
“I’m more worried by your cleaning rampage.”
I set down the cleaning implements and wriggle around on my butt until I can lean back against a kitchen cupboard door. Assorted muscles in me ache from
all of the hard work and I do not blame them one bit. “Don’t be. My brain was busy, so I figured my hands may as well be too. Get rid of all the excess energy, you know?”
“What was your brain busy with, or is that private?”
Good question. Not one I particularly wish to answer, however. “Mom does this sometimes. It’s part of why I’ve been known to call her house the museum. Everything is immaculate and cleaned to the nth degree. Guess I inherited it from her.”
A nod. “You’re deflecting. But I’m going to let that go because it’s obviously none of my business and you’ll talk about it or not when you’re ready.”
“Thank you.”
“No problem.” He smiles. “The place is so clean. Want to mess it up by baking something?”
I grin. “Sure.”
“Let me get this right, you want to express yourself by getting a large swastika tattooed on your head? That’s what you want?”
The big bald white man smiles down at me in a creepy manner.
Out of nowhere, Ed appears at my side. He doesn’t say anything, he just stands there. And while I don’t need it, I appreciate the support just the same. If I can survive a collision with another car and being cut out of my vehicle and playing Sleeping Beauty for seven months while my life goes to hell, I can handle this repugnant asshole.
“No,” I say.
“I’m not talking to you anymore,” says the man. “I’m dealing with him.”
Ed crosses his arms. “What she said.”
“Are you fucking with me?” The guy sneers.
“No,” says Ed. “We are not fucking with you. Fucking with you would be agreeing to your request and then tattooing a pony onto your head the moment you’re in the chair.”
“I’m afraid Larsen and Sons Tattoo Parlor is unable to meet your needs. And that’s because your needs are gross and wrong and you should be ashamed of them.” I tap a pen against the counter. “Leave now, please.”
His expression morphs into fury and he slams his hand down on the reception desk, making the glass case rattle before about-facing and striding out. What a bully. Honestly.
“Get the hell out of here!” Ed shuts and locks the door after the man. Just to be careful, I guess. “Anna, are you okay?”
“Yeah.” I’m shaking, but fine. Random violence happening in my face has a habit of freaking me out. Or maybe it’s just confrontations in general. They kind of make me want to hurl. But I didn’t and that’s a win. I told the asshole off. Go, me.
Tessa just keeps on working at her station. But Leif’s tattoo gun turns off and I give him a wave to let him know I’m fine. No one needs to rush to my rescue, for heaven’s sake. This is the problem with men like Ed and Leif, a protective streak a mile wide. Sometimes I love it, that he cares so much, but sometimes it gets in the way.
“I’m real sorry. Every now and then we get some dumbass asking for something offensive or just morally messed up and have to tell them no,” he says. “Sorry you had to deal with that.”
“It’s okay. I’m okay. Really.”
Which is about when there’s a rapping on the tattoo parlor door. Because today isn’t promising to be interesting enough, apparently. A familiar, neatly presented blond woman stands on the other side. Celine. Talk about morally messed up. She looks paler than normal, with dark circles beneath her eyes. Definitely not glowing.
Apparently this bright, sunny morning is peak time for confrontations.
“You have got to be kidding me.” I stride across the entry floor, flick back the lock, and jerk the heavy old wooden and glass door open. I don’t stand back and let her in. Forget niceties. “What do you want?”
“We need to talk.”
“About?”
She takes a deep breath, her hands balled into fists. “I heard you were working here and the thing is, you haven’t officially resigned from your position at the inn. Legally, you’re still employed by us.”
I blink.
“We put you on leave when the accident happened and that’s the ongoing status of your employment. You can’t just start working somewhere else without giving us notification.” Her hand rests on the small swell of her belly. I should maybe be over it by now. Her and Ryan and the baby and everything. But the truth is, on some level, it still hurts. “That’s not right, Anna. You can’t just do that. And to go work in a tattoo parlor of all places. You can’t be serious.”
“Celine, you fucked my husband.”
She clicks her tongue. “Today of all days, surely you’re ready to move on.”
“I was, you know. Right up until you showed up here.” I cock my head. “Just take a moment and let these words sink in. You fucked my husband. You, my boss and one of my best friends, fucked Ryan, my husband.”
Her gaze rests on the ground.
“Did you really think I’d just come back to the inn and everything would be the same as it was before?” I ask. “What did you possibly hope to achieve coming here?”
“W-what do you mean? I’m just—”
“No, really. Why are you here?” And Leif’s tattoo gun is still silent. I turn and again wave a hand at him to carry on with his business. To trust me to take care of mine. As sick as this sort of thing makes me, I’m a big girl. I can handle it on my own. “Well, Celine?”
“I’m trying to tell you that you still have a job with us. A job that you loved, if you’ll recall?” she asks, voice tense, accusing almost.
“You’re right, I did. I’ll be sure to add that to the list of things you ruined for me. Because there is no possible way I’m coming back to work for you now.”
“It doesn’t have to be like this,” she said through clenched teeth. “I’m trying to help you.”
And while I’m probably being a bit of an asshole, I can’t help but feel that it’s about time I started pushing back. I’m done with being nice. Finished with saying the polite thing or nothing at all. Especially if someone is so keen on bringing the fight to me. “No, you’re not. I’m not sure what you’re up to, exactly. But it has nothing to do with helping me. I’d guess you’re propping up your ego. Doing your best to convince yourself you’re a stand-up person and all that.”
“We used to be friends.”
“As I pointed out literally thirty seconds ago when explaining my grievance about you fucking my husband, yes. We used to be friends. But we sure as hell no longer are.”
“Anna . . .”
“Did I really used to be this much of a doormat that you thought coming here like this would get you somewhere?” I ask, genuinely curious. “What else are you going to take off my hands? You already have Ryan. I’d imagine you’ll be setting up house with him any day now, huh? Moving into my former home. Then you’ll probably start pushing for the engagement ring. It’s like you’ll be living my life. Or my former life.”
At this, she turns away. Guilty as sin.
“And you’re welcome to it. You really are.”
“It’s not like that,” she hisses.
“No?”
“I came here to try and help you.”
“Thing is, I don’t need your help. And it doesn’t matter how many times you tell yourself that you’re trying to help me, it won’t make it the truth,” I say. “I’m sorry if you’re having a hard time with the pregnancy. I really am. But I’m not sorry if you feel like shit about yourself. There are consequences to what you did. I’m never going to open my arms and say that it’s all right and all is forgiven, Celine. That’s never going to happen. I am never going to want anything to do with either of you ever again.”
Her lips are a fine white line. “So you don’t want your job back. That’s what you’re saying.”
“Not even a little. If you really want to do me a favor, don’t come near me again.”
“Fine.” And she too stomps off. Holy hell.
I let the door close and take a deep breath, head back to the reception counter. What a day. What a life.
“You told her,” sa
ys Tessa with a smile that’s all sharp teeth. I really like her.
“Didn’t know you were getting a floor show when they hired me, did you?” I laugh with all of the self-consciousness inside of me. “Anyway.”
Meanwhile, Leif has gotten up from where he’s been tattooing some dude’s shoulder and wanders my way. There’s a strange sort of expression on his face. One I can’t read.
“What?” I ask.
He doesn’t touch me on account of wearing gloves, but he leans in until our faces are close together. Until it’s just me and him and nothing else exists. My foolish heart gives a weird little jolt at the nearness.
“I’m going to hug you later,” he says.
“I’ll look forward to it.”
“That was very fight club of you,” he says in a voice little more than a whisper. Just for the two of us. “You didn’t back down or run away. And you didn’t let her get away with anything or put her shit on you.”
I shrug. It’s hard to think with him so close.
“I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks, I think,” I say, keeping my voice equally low. My eyes get suspiciously wet at his praise. Though it has been an emotional day. Which just goes to show that I can explain away anything given half a chance. What a superpower.
“No problem.”
“No problem,” I agree, only I’m about as wrong as you can get. Because there is a problem. A huge one. And it’s getting bigger and messier by the day.
“You’re dressed up,” is the first thing Leif says, his eyes wide. He sets his motorbike helmet on the side table, and his leather jacket is hung over the back of one of my dining room chairs. “Wow.”
“This is a momentous occasion.”
“It is? I was going to ask if you wanted to come to the bar for the regular Saturday evening giant-Bloody-Mary-with-lobster-roll combo. But I’m sensing you already have plans.” He accepts a glass of champagne, his gaze still roving all over me. There’s a mix of pleasure and surprise on his face and I can’t help but preen just a little.