Trina stiffens in the doorway. “I’ll be right there,” she calls over her shoulder.
“Who’s at the door?”
Trina glances at me, and the short, sharp inhale she takes tells me everything I need to know. Then I catch a glimpse of a tall, familiar man walking across the living room windows, and it feels like a slap in the face.
Her ex-husband is inside with her.
She took her ex-husband home with her tonight. The man who called her a whore just a few weeks ago. The man she was so comfortable cuddling with on the sidelines when she needed comforting.
“I have to go,” she tells me, and I notice that she never told Shitstain Kevin it was me at the door.
“Trina, wait.”
“Thanks for the flowers. I… I can’t talk right now. Goodbye.”
Then the door closes.
I stand there, stunned, listening to the lock flick shut as Trina goes back to her ex-husband and her kids, and I’m left outside in the cold. I stare at my hands, which had just been holding a bunch of flowers that I wasn’t even sure she’d accept. They’re trembling.
I don’t even realize I get in my truck and drive to the Grove until I’m pushing open the heavy timber doors and stumbling inside. My brother looks up from the bar and frowns as I slide onto the closest stool.
“Drink,” I gasp. “I need a drink.”
Lee doesn’t get me a drink. He leans his broad palms against the worn wood of the bar and stares at me. “What the hell happened to you?”
“Get me a fucking drink, Lee,” I bite off.
“No. Not when you’re like this. You’ve never used alcohol to cope. Tell me what the fuck’s the matter.”
“She’s with him,” I hiss. “She went back to him. I pushed her away, and she’s back with her ex.” I tug at my hair, trying to make sense of it. “And I fucking love her. I’m in love with her. I can’t stop thinking of her and dreaming of her and remembering what it felt like to bury my face in her hair and she’s with him. That’s what the fuck’s the matter.”
Lee pushes off the bar and, without another word, gets me that drink. He makes it a double.
29
Trina
I lied to Kevin. I told him it was the school who brought the flowers over on a welfare check to make sure I was okay after the incident at the soccer game.
Well, I guess it’s not exactly a lie—except I’m pretty sure Mac wasn’t there on behalf of the school.
I let out a long sigh and glance across the room at the vase full of flowers. Blushing pink roses, a few white lilies, frilly carnations, and enough greenery to make the bouquet look full and bursting with life.
When Kevin saw the bouquet, his lips did that pinching, downturning thing he used to do when he was upset with me. It made a sour taste coat my tongue as I busied myself putting the flowers in water. Then Kevin told me—didn’t ask, mind you—that he would be showing a few pieces at the pop-up gallery opening in Heart’s Cove in January. He said his agent recommended it, since there are so many artists who live here, and the town has a reputation for fantastic art. But isn’t it great, he said, that he’d be able to spend an extra weekend with the kids?
And when he said it, I wondered—is this healthy co-parenting, or is he stomping on my boundaries? Is he inserting himself in my life where he shouldn’t, or is he just trying to be a more present father than he was before? Should I refuse to give him more than the court-ordered time? Is that spiteful and vindictive on my part? What’s best for the kids?
I don’t know the answer to any of those questions.
Now, after he’s taken the kids to his rental for the night and I slump down on the sofa with Mr. Fuzzles curled next to me, I can’t stop thinking about the look on Mac’s face when he heard Kevin’s voice. I wanted to explain that Kevin just came over to make sure I was okay and get the kids’ stuff for the night, but I also didn’t want to be standing there so long Kevin would come investigate and see Mac on my doorstep.
I still don’t think Kevin’s put two and two together. He still doesn’t know Mac is the motorcycle man from the coffee shop, and that’s how I want to keep it. Especially since Mac made it abundantly clear that he never wants to be with me.
Except, tonight, there was a moment…some look in his eyes when I first opened the door that made me think he wasn’t just here to apologize.
Then there was the other look. The one he gave me when he heard Kevin’s voice, and when I started closing the door to keep him out. A look of pure, intense hurt. Anger. Shock.
Mr. Fuzzles’s fur is silky-soft as I run my hand along his body in smooth, even strokes. I lean back on the sofa, trying to dispel the image of Mac on my doorstep.
How did I get here? How did I end up caught between these two men when I’m supposed to be divorced and living my best life?
In an interview, goddess and legendary singer Cher once said that men are like dessert. “I adore dessert; I love men,” she said. “But you don’t really need them to live.”
Why am I ping-ponging between these two men like it’s my job? Why am I worried about the look on Kevin’s face when I brought flowers into my house? Why do I feel guilty about the look on Mac’s face when he realized the father of my children was inside my house?
I don’t need these men to live. I’ve been fine without Kevin. Even though he’s recently reminded me of all the reasons I first fell in love with him, I still viscerally remember how it felt to have to carry our family on my shoulders when we were married.
And I don’t need Mac. As wonderful as he makes me feel, I don’t need him to push me away, then steal lingering glances at me whenever I’m close. I don’t need some weird, awkward flirtation with my daughter’s second grade teacher.
What I need is to stand on my own two feet. I need to be a mother to my children and a woman they’ll be proud of when they grow up.
Pushing myself up from the couch, I give those flowers one last glance and march to the door. I stuff my feet in the first shoes I see—a pair of sneakers that are usually reserved for yardwork—and grab the keys from the bowl by the door. Then I’m in my car (a hunk of junk, sure, but a car I bought on my own, without a man, and negotiated it down from the dealer’s first offer by fifteen percent, by the way!) and I’m driving toward the center of Heart’s Cove.
The lights are on in the library above Four Cups. I park the car and jump out, kick the door closed, lock it, then take the steps two at a time. When I burst through the door, my sister and her three friends are lounging on the sofas around the room, drinking tea and laughing. As usual.
They all stare at me in the doorway.
“I don’t need men in my life,” I announce. “Not Mac, and definitely not Kevin. I can do this on my own.”
“Hear, hear!” Jen lifts her mug. “They’re more trouble than they’re worth.”
Candice sits up, studying my face. “Although I admire your strength, I’m wondering where it’s coming from. And—is that a black eye forming on your face?”
Everyone stiffens.
I wave a hand. “Mac kicked a soccer ball in my face. My nose isn’t broken. It’s fine.”
“He did what?” Simone screeches.
“When? How?” Fiona frowns as she stares at me.
“Forget about that! I just had an epiphany. I’ve been running around after men for years and I don’t need them. They’re just dessert!”
Simone grins. “Cher. Classic.”
I take a deep breath, open my mouth, and start talking without even knowing what I’m going to say. All I know is I need to do something. I need to be someone I’m proud of. I need to push all thoughts of Mac to the deepest, darkest part of my mind and lock him there, or maybe just let them fly free. I need to acknowledge that Kevin has some good qualities, but he’s not the man for me.
I need to focus on the main course. Me.
But what comes out of my mouth startles me. “I’m starting a personal styling business,” I announce, then cla
mp my mouth shut because, well, where the hell did that come from?
Four surprised faces look back at me, but they’re soon jumping up to offer me all kinds of congratulations and encouragements. Simone offers to help me with a website and social media. Fiona volunteers herself as my first customer. They tell me I can put flyers on the café counter if I want to.
I giggle, then clamp my hand over my mouth, then give my sister a big hug.
I said it. I’m going to try it. I’m going to start my own business, and even if I crash and burn, at least I’ll know I had the guts to give it a go.
A mug of tea appears in front of me, along with a plate full of fudgy brownies that Jen tells me are still in development. I sit down at a table and let Simone sketch out website ideas, my mind reeling.
I don’t know what I expected when I ran up here and announced that I was swearing off men. But maybe this idea has been taking root in my mind for weeks, months. And it fills me with a bright, effervescent sort of excitement.
I mean, yes, I’ve always wanted to do it. But starting my own business? Going out on my own? When I was married to Kevin, it never seemed possible. I was The Mom. I was the person who took care of everything at home, of dentist appointments and doctors’ visits. I bought presents for every family event—Kevin’s and mine—and dealt with schools and daycares and almost everything child-related.
I couldn’t have started a business even if I tried.
So why does this feel like it’s actually possible now? Why does it feel like if I don’t try, I’ll regret it forever?
The memory of Mac’s face looms in my mind, but I just ignore it and think about fashion.
By the time my tea is down to the dregs and the brownies are reduced to a few crumbs and chocolate smears on the plate, Simone has a sketch for the website branding and logo design, and I’ve started talking about intake forms and consultation prices with Fiona.
And, best of all, I’m not thinking about Mac, or Kevin, or the kids, or my mother, or any other of the thousand things that have taken up the top of my to-do list for years.
I’m thinking about me.
It’s only when Jen and Candice are at the kitchenette, and Simone is at her computer to come up with some rough ideas for my branding, that Fiona reaches across the sofa cushion separating us and squeezes my hand. “You okay?”
I force a smile. “Yeah. I’ve always wanted to do this.”
Fiona lets out a snort. “Not the stylist thing, Trina. We all know you could do that in your sleep. I mean are you okay. It kind of seems like you’re throwing yourself into this project right now because you’re trying not to think about something…someone…else. I mean, you did just burst in here and announce that you were done with men after one of them accidentally gave you a black eye.”
I snort out a laugh. “I did, didn’t I?”
“You okay?”
I release a sigh and give her a tentative smile. “I think…yeah. I think I am. I saw both Mac and Kevin today, and you know, when they were both stripping down and giving me their shirts—”
“Wait, what?”
“—I was just sitting there thinking, how did this happen? How are they both trying so hard right now? Where was Kevin for the past nine years of our relationship, ever since Toby was born and he checked out? Where was Mac’s affection when he was telling me that he could never be with me because of some silly rule he has for himself?”
Fiona hums. “You realized you were letting them rock the boat in your life. They were in control of your feelings when they had no right to be.”
“Yes!” I sit up and lean my elbows on my knees. “Why do they get to make me feel out of sorts? They don’t get to just march into my life and make me feel like I’m missing out, when I know for a fact that I’m not.”
“Maybe you just need to be single for a while,” Fiona muses.
I glance sideways and give her a grin. “Are you sure you weren’t a therapist in a past life?”
She snorts. “Simone has been my best friend since college. I’ve seen it all.”
“Rude!” Simone spins around in her office chair to mock-glare at us. “But true.” Then she turns right back around to tap away on her laptop.
“Well, I think it’s great.” Candice drops down in the armchair to my right and gives me a decisive nod. “You deserve to have your own thing, Trina. I can talk to Blake about it too. He might have some Hollywood people who need a stylist.”
My eyes widen, and nerves immediately start twisting in my belly. “Maybe I should start smaller than a literal Hollywood movie star.”
Candice grins. “Why? Why keep making yourself smaller? Rise up, Trina.”
Those words whirl in my mind for many hours after that, when I’ve said goodbye to the girls and gone home, when I’ve had some leftovers for dinner, when I’m lying in bed thinking about what I’ve just committed to tonight.
Rise up.
It’s a challenge. A gauntlet. Why wouldn’t I be able to pursue my passion and be damn good at it?
As I lie in bed and think about the two men in my life—the sour expressions on both their faces when they realized I wasn’t acting how they wanted me to act—I realize that yeah, this is the right decision. No matter how much I might like the company of a man, I can’t keep running after them.
I’m going to take care of me, for once. And it’s going to be awesome.
30
Trina
“I heard you do fashion.” Agnes stands next to my table at the café, arms crossed, eyes hard.
I look up from my laptop, where I’m trying to untangle all the back-end website dashboards that I need to figure out how to use, and give the older woman a nod. “Yeah.”
“You fixed Fiona’s closet.”
“Well, I don’t know if I’d say ‘fixed,’ but I helped her, yes.”
Agnes studies me for a moment, face unreadable. It’s only been a week since I announced I’d start trying to strike out as my own stylist. I’ve had a logo made, a simple, one-page website built, and I’ve started all-new social media business pages. I had no idea how good Simone was at her job until I started working with her. She’s coached me on all types of social media strategies, and even created a framework of a business plan for me to fill out.
I’ve started doing a series of videos on my social media pages where I break down celebrity street-style outfits that work and don’t work, and my following has already grown to a thousand people on all platforms. It’s crazy.
And…I’m having fun. It’s the first thing I’ve done that’s been entirely for me—well, that’s if you don’t count my short tryst with Mac Blair, of course.
But styling—that’s my thing. It’s not related to mom duties, it has nothing to do with art or my ex-husband, and it’s unashamedly girly. Like me. Plus, I get to use my business brain. I remember when Kevin was starting out and I was helping him with bookkeeping and managerial duties. I loved it. It felt like we were building something together.
And now…I get to build something for me.
So when Agnes tilts her head to the side and tells me she wants to hire me, it comes as a shock and a delight all at once.
“I have short, stumpy legs, and I’m sick of looking frumpy,” she tells me.
“Have a seat.” I smile at her, and even though the grumpy older woman doesn’t smile back, her expression softens.
Clothing has the ability to make people feel powerful, confident, or vulnerable and self-conscious. A woman like Agnes, who’s usually hard as nails on the exterior, is exactly the type of client I’d love to help.
I take her through my new intake questionnaire, ask her questions about budget and style, and plan to meet her to go through her closet in a few days. When she gets up to leave, there’s a buzzing in my blood, an excitement I haven’t felt in a long, long time.
I’m doing it. I’m freaking doing it! I have my second client already!
So when Agnes exits the café, I have a broad
smile on my face, and it doesn’t even completely fade when my phone rings with Kevin’s name on the screen. Taking a deep breath, I swipe to answer. “Yes?”
“I want to come see another one of Toby’s soccer games, and Katie told me she had a piano recital coming up,” my ex-husband says without preamble. “Can you send me their schedules? If I can make it the same weekend as my gallery opening, even better.”
Let me just get right on that, Mr. Demanding. I’m sure my children’s activities will be happy to reschedule around you.
“One sec. I’m on my laptop right now.” With a few clicks, I’ve got the schedule sent. Then I pause, letting my frustration ebb as I try to find the right words. “The kids will appreciate you showing up again, Kevin.”
What I really want to say is, I’m proud of you for trying. But is that really something that needs praise? For a father to have the slightest bit of interest in his kids’ activities?
Not to mention he’s trying to make it coincide with his own event. So is that even really something that needs to be praised?
He lets out a breath. “Yeah. Okay, well, I’ll let you know when I’m in town. We might need to juggle my weekend around.”
Then he hangs up before I can answer, and I send out a silent thank you that I’m not still married to that man. Life is a lot easier when I don’t have to be his assistant, his mother, and his maid.
Sure, he might have some redeeming qualities, but some other woman can appreciate them from now on.
It’s like a switch flicked in my mind that night of the soccer game. I saw these two men who demanded so much from me, and I realized I didn’t want to carry them on my shoulders. Now, I feel lighter than ever.
Fiona walks into the café in one of her new outfits. It’s nearly November now, and there’s a definite chill in the air. She’s wearing a cropped bomber jacket with a silky scarf, jeans, and cute suede booties. She sheds her jacket to reveal a simple, elegant cardigan-cami combo. I grin when I see the way she tucked the cami just like I showed her.
Dirty Little Midlife Disaster: A Motorcycle Hottie Romantic Comedy (Heart’s Cove Hotties Book 4) Page 20