by C. C. Wood
"You might as well stay and eat your lunch," I said before he could speak. "Unless your ego is too bruised from my cruel rejection to handle my company any longer."
He grinned at my teasing, that beautiful smile spreading across his face.
"Cruel rejection?" he joked. "That was nothing. You should have heard how often I got shot down in college."
I wanted to ask him more about it, but he said something else that left me speechless.
"Besides, you never said I couldn't try to change your mind."
4
I was right about how life would be with J.J. McClane back in town.
I swear, I saw him everywhere. The cafe, the grocery store, at Crave.
I know that sounds like stalking, but it was truly small-town reality. You couldn't go anywhere without seeing someone you knew and that included men that you'd lost your virginity to. I guess I'd never given it much thought because it hadn't been an issue before now. One bad thing about waiting until my mid-twenties to have sex. I was too old to act ridiculous around a guy I'd slept with, even though I wanted to.
He texted me occasionally and even called, but darn it, the man was intelligent and crafty. He quickly figured out that I could cut our conversations short over the phone, but if he saw me in person, I couldn't do it.
I know, I know. I'd love to be able to blame my mother's constant drilling about manners when I was growing up, but I knew it was because of his smile. And the way he smelled.
The man was a menace to my resolve.
He had said he would try to change my mind about dating and he did a darn good job of it.
He called me one evening while I was studying to ask me if I'd had dinner and, if not, if I wanted to grab some with him.
I'd replied with the excuse that I had a quiz the next day and I had to study.
Instead of showing up with his distracting self, J.J. ordered my favorite food from a Chinese restaurant the next town over, left it on my porch, and texted me that I had a special delivery at my front door.
That was definitely a big blow to my conviction that I didn't need to date someone right now.
Then, there were the little presents that showed up at my house from random websites. An adorable coffee mug from Etsy, a notebook that said "The notebook where I keep a list of where the bodies are buried" on the front, even snacks with a note that he didn't want me to get hungry while I was studying.
In all my years of watching my brothers chase women, I'd never seen them act like this. I'd known J.J. since he was in high school and I'd never seen him this way either, though I hadn't seen much of him since he left for college and then stayed in Dallas for work.
I had no resistance to this...this...courting. Because that's what he was doing. I'd read enough romance novels to understand the concept of courting, but I'd never, ever seen a man do it in real life.
And I was beginning to comprehend why it worked so well.
Every time I made a cup of coffee in the morning with my new mug, I thought of J.J. Every time I opened that notebook to make a to-do list, I thought of him.
Every time I was feeling peckish during a late-night study session, you guessed it, J.J. popped into my head when I dipped into the box of snacks he'd sent me.
The man barely spent any time around me, but he was constantly on my mind!
I probably would have caved to his machinations a lot sooner if it hadn't happened.
Three weeks after he moved back to town, I woke up one morning incredibly dizzy. When I tried to sit up on the bed, I groaned and covered my eyes with one hand.
Oh, no, I must have picked up a bug at work or at one of my in-person classes at school. I tried to do most of my work online since Texas A&M - Commerce was nearly an hour away, but I still had to go for one evening class every week.
Last week, one of the guys in the class had been hacking and sneezing into his elbow all night. He'd claimed it was allergies, but now I wasn't so sure because I felt horrible.
I couldn't lie in bed all day though. I had a house to clean this morning and a shift at the shop later. If I was going to get my housecleaning gig done, I had to get up now and get to it.
Moving gingerly, I turned on my side and used one arm to push myself up into a sitting position with my legs hanging over the edge of the bed.
I sat very still for a few moments, hoping the swimming sensation in my head would disappear.
No such luck. In fact, it worsened so much that my stomach joined in the wild twisting sensation.
Oh, crap. I was definitely going to puke.
I clapped a hand over my mouth, jumped to my feet, and dashed to the bathroom. I made it to the toilet just in time to lean over and vomit. My stomach was empty, so it was basically dry heaving, but, God, it was miserable.
Finally, the spasm wracking my body passed and I knelt on the cool tile floor next to the porcelain tub and rested my overheated forehead against the side.
It felt like heaven against my face.
When the world stopped swaying, I staggered to my feet and took two steps to the sink. Leaning my hips against it, I turned on the cold water and splashed it on my face before I rinsed my mouth. The taste lingering on my tongue was horrible, but I didn't think I could handle a toothbrush at the moment.
I also knew I couldn't handle coffee, but I was pretty sure I had some tea bags in my pantry from last winter. Weak tea and dry toast might help settle my stomach enough that I could go to work.
My body was hunched as I trudged down the hall toward the kitchen and opened the pantry door. Yes, the tea was exactly where I'd left it the last time I'd used it.
I took the box to the counter and filled up my electric kettle. I used to microwave my water for tea until a British student in my dorm saw me one night and insisted on giving me her old electric kettle.
After using it a few times, I had to admit I could see her point. It still worked even now, four years later, so I used it whenever I had a yen for tea or the homemade hot chocolate mix my mother made up for me every fall.
While my tea steeped, I stuck two pieces of wheat bread in the toaster and left them inside just long enough to give them a light crust. The idea of the crunchy toast I usually made left a sour feeling in my already tender belly.
Sure enough, after a piece of dry toast and half a cup of tea, I was already feeling better. By the time I finished my small meal, I was nearly normal so I risked a carton of yogurt.
At least if it came up later, it wouldn't be so bad.
I checked my temperature but it was normal, so I assumed that my blood sugar had gotten too low because dinner last night had consisted of four crackers and a couple of pieces of cheese. I'd been too tired for anything else before I fell into bed and slept ten hours.
As I was eating my yogurt and drinking another cup of tea, I glanced out my kitchen window and saw the little plastic bowl overturned on the back porch. It seemed my friendly neighborhood raccoon had come to eat last night. I walked outside, righted the bowl, dropped a scoop of food in it, and slid it under the short plant stand against the house. I always left a snack out for Rascal the Raccoon since the first time he'd turned up at my house, skinny and not much more than a baby.
Once that little chore was done, I took a quick shower and dressed but the nausea never returned. In fact, I felt great an hour later when I left the house to go to clean Mrs. Phelps' little home. It would only take me a couple of hours and I would make sure to keep my distance from her if she was there.
Sometimes she would hang around, chatting, while I cleaned, and others she would be out with her book club or on a walk with her little Yorkie puppy named Punky.
Mrs. Phelps was in her eighties and I swore her social life was more interesting than mine.
As luck would have it, Mrs. Phelps was there that morning when I pulled up in front of her house. Since I didn't know if she would need to leave before I finished, I parked at the curb and walked across the paving stones to the front porch.
I could hear Punky barking inside and smiled a little to myself.
I gave the door a cursory knock, more to let her know I was there than to get her to open the door, and used the key she'd given me.
I stuck my head inside, keeping the door shut close enough to keep Punky from running out into the yard. I was feeling better, but I didn't think I would be spry enough to catch him if he got away from me.
"Mrs. Phelps, it's Lee!"
"I've told you to use the key and come on in every week, young lady. Why do you insist on knocking and announcing yourself like that?"
I stepped into the house and shut the front door behind me. Her voice had come from the kitchen so that's where I headed first.
When I came around the corner, I found her leaning against the little island in the kitchen, a cup of coffee in her hand. She wore loose exercise pants and a light t-shirt. Her face glowed pink from both exertion and sweat. She must have just come back from her morning walk.
"Well, Mrs. Phelps, I know you've got a boyfriend and I don't want to accidentally walk in on something I shouldn't be seeing," I answered, batting my eyelashes at her.
She scoffed and shook her head at me. "Stop blinking your eyes like some brainless twit. You know darn well I don't have a boyfriend."
"Maybe not today but there's always a chance it'll be different next week."
She rolled her eyes and took a sip of her coffee. Her face was lined and her hair was a soft, snowy white, but her eyes were sharp and shrewd.
Mrs. Natalie Phelps had every one of her faculties about her, but she wasn't above acting like she was forgetful or declining mentally if it helped her get away with something.
I also loved her to pieces.
She reminded me a great deal of my grandmother—pragmatic, nosy, assertive, but, beneath it all, a caring soul. She loved hard, but she often dispensed tough love because she was of the mind that a swift kick in the pants could knock the sense into someone, or the doubt out of them.
Spending time with her was bittersweet as my grandmother had been dead for nearly five years and I missed her like crazy.
"You're looking a little peaked, darlin'," Mrs. Phelps said. "Are you coming down with something?"
I shook my head, cursing the fact that I hadn't put on a light touch of make-up to hide the paleness of my cheeks and the circles beneath my eyes. I rarely did it because I'd rather use that time to sleep or study, but I should have made an exception today.
"I didn't get a good dinner last night and I woke up dizzy and sick to my stomach this morning. I think my blood sugar was too low."
She set her cup to the side and frowned at me. "I've told you time after time that you work too hard for such a young woman. You have plenty of time to get your degree. You shouldn't work yourself into an early grave for it."
I had no idea why, but my eyes welled up at her words. Maybe because they revealed exactly how much she cared about me.
Or maybe it was because I was so stressed out and I knew I would be for at least another twenty-three months.
Either way, I looked down at the floor, blinking rapidly, until the tears faded.
"You have to take care of yourself, Lyria Prescott," Mrs. Phelps admonished. "I am so proud of all you've accomplished in your short time here on this earth, but there's more to life than professional success. You're young. You should enjoy this time as a person and not just as a student. Work a little less, study a little less, and live a little more."
I managed to meet her eyes once mine were dry. "I will, Mrs. Phelps. I promise. I just...well, you know how hard I've worked and for how long. This is so important to me. Men, dating, marriage, children. All those things can wait a couple of years. I know that I will regret it for the rest of my life if I don't do this now."
I could see that Mrs. Phelps wanted to argue with me, but she finally just pressed her lips together and shook her head.
"Anywhere in particular you want me to start on today?" I asked.
She picked up her coffee. "No, dear. Just give it a quick clean, please. The ladies are coming over to crochet later."
I nodded and left the kitchen. Mrs. Phelps kept a basket of cleaning supplies in the hall linen closet, so I grabbed it and headed toward the master bathroom. I preferred to start with the bathrooms and get them out of the way because I hated cleaning them.
I'm sure it was because I almost always ended up cleaning the bathrooms at our house growing up and with four brothers, well, even with three bathrooms and a twice-weekly cleaning rotation, they were always gross. So gross.
Reason number twenty-three not to keep a man around. No way was I cleaning up after another one. I'd done enough of that when my brothers lived at home.
Considering my stance on cleaning bathrooms, it was unbelievable that I cleaned houses as one of my jobs, but it paid surprisingly well and I could listen to podcasts or audiobooks while I worked. While my hands were busy, I could learn something.
Speaking of audiobooks, my professor had included a recommended reading list in her syllabus, so I'd purchased a couple of them using my Audible membership.
I took the wireless earbuds my parents had gotten me last Christmas out of my pocket and stuck them in my ears. A few moments later, I was listening to the narrator read the introduction as I set about making the bathroom sparkle.
Two hours after I arrived, I took one last swipe at the kitchen floor with the Swiffer mop and dropped the used cloth in the trashcan. The house smelled like lemons and fresh air. That was one thing I did enjoy about this job. When I finished, there were obvious improvements from when I started. The furniture shone, the carpets were clean and fluffy, and the bathrooms gleamed white and chrome.
I turned off the audiobook, already mentally organizing the notes I would jot down while I ate lunch at home. Then, it would be time to head into Crave and work for seven hours.
After I tucked my earbuds back into my pocket, I found Mrs. Phelps in the living room, reading the newspaper.
"All finished," I announced.
She looked up at me and smiled. "Well, you look much brighter now. I'd say the activity was good for you."
I had to agree. I no longer felt hollow and light-headed. In fact, I was feeling more energized than I had in weeks.
Mrs. Phelps got up and went to the counter between the kitchen and living room to get her purse. When she returned and handed me the money, I saw that she had given me one too many twenties. My usual rate for her smaller home was forty dollars a week and she'd given me sixty.
"Mrs. Phelps, you gave me an extra twenty," I said, holding it out to her.
She patted my hand but didn't take it. "Consider it a tip, dear."
"I can't take a fifty percent tip—" I started to say.
She just shook her head at me. "I'm not taking it back so don't bother arguing."
I knew by the firm set of her jaw that she meant it. This was another aspect of Mrs. Phelps that reminded me of my maternal grandmother. When she dug her heels in, that was it. There was no moving her from her position. Arguing was a waste of breath, not because she would argue back but because she would refuse to engage at all.
That was one thing that infuriated my mother about my grandmother when I was growing up. When she tried to get Grandma to go to the doctor or change her diet, my grandmother would just tell her that she was fine and that was that. If Mom kept arguing, Grandma would just walk away and pretend like she wasn't even speaking.
I'd never had the guts to do it to my mom, but I knew it was her weakness and I was saving it for a special occasion. Or when I developed a death wish.
After making a few incoherent noises, I finally settled on saying, "Thank you."
She smiled at me, bright and cheerful. "No, thank you, Lee. It's such a joy to have you around every week."
A twinge of guilt pierced me. I hated that she felt like she had to pay me to come see her. I'd known her my entire life and she'd recommended me for the job with Cam and Sierra.
&
nbsp; Once again, my eyes turned damp.
Good grief! What was wrong with me today?
"I love coming to see you, too," I managed to say even though my throat suddenly felt too tight. "You know that, right?"
She patted my hand again. "Of course you do, darlin'."
I gripped her fingers lightly and kept her from pulling away. "You've always been here, Mrs. Phelps, and you've always helped me. Don't think for a minute that I don't truly and sincerely appreciate it. You've been like another grandmother to me."
"Oh, dammit, now look what you've done," she said, blinking rapidly as well. "If you make me cry and ruin my make-up before the ladies come over for book club, I will kick your behind."
I laughed and released her hand. "We can't have that, can we?"
I think I surprised both of us when I suddenly leaned forward and hugged her. "See you next week, Gammy Phelps."
She swatted me on the shoulder and squawked. "Impudent child!"
I laughed and hurried out the door before she could swat me again.
As I closed it behind me, I heard her sniffling and griping about ruining her make-up.
My eyes welled up all over again when I got into my car to drive home, but at least I didn't have make-up to worry about.
5
The penny dropped when the morning nausea hit me three days in a row.
As I knelt in front of the toilet, dry heaving, I tried to remember my last period. I usually kept track of my cycle so I wouldn't be caught unawares, but now that I was working two jobs and going to school, I'd let it slide.
Obviously, I shouldn't have.
Once the worst was over, I sat down on the cool tile floor and wiped my forehead with the cold rag I'd wet in the tub. I counted back and realized my last period had been a couple weeks before Cam's wedding. A little over two months ago.
I groaned and let my head fall back against the wall.
How could this have happened?
Yes, stupid question because I know exactly how it happened in a clinical sense, but we'd used protection! I liked to do my research so I knew condoms were nearly one hundred percent effective when used properly. I may not have used one before, but I did look up the do's and don'ts and J.J. and I had checked off every "do" without committing any "don'ts."