Chapter Thirty-Four
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Lincoln/ Five Years Ago
I go to the library with a bouquet of assorted flowers that the florist put together—the white and pink carnations with something called snapdragons and aster fill the scent of my truck as I park in front of the large public building.
Conklin told me I should surprise Georgia with flowers. Apparently, whenever he notices Marissa is upset about his schedule, he tries getting her things she likes. Her favorite coffee. Flowers. Dinner from her favorite restaurant.
On the few days I am home and have time to spend with her, Georgia is quiet. She barely talks when I ask about her day or what’s been going on in her coworker’s lives. She used to share the gossip going around the librarians, which was always far more amusing than I thought it’d be for a group of middle-aged women.
Except when I walk in, the head librarian looks surprised to see me.
“Is Georgia here?” I ask, studying the space.
Mariam exchanges a look with the girl stacking books on the shelves before turning to me. “I’m sorry, dear. Georgia hasn’t worked here in months.”
Months .
“I thought she would have told you,” the older woman says, not realizing how hard that statement actually hits.
Then she glances at the bouquet I’m holding onto tightly with a frown. “Oh, dear,” she says with a tsk, studying the mixed stems in my hand and frowning. “Georgia doesn’t like carnations.”
Georgia doesn’t… “Can you repeat that?”
“The scent. It makes her sad,” she tells me, touching the petals. “You wouldn’t have known it, but these were the flowers at her mother’s funeral way back when. I remember seeing pictures of the service in the paper. It was the most attended service in ages, they said. I thought it was such a pretty choice, very serene for such a sad day. Beautiful, even.”
It’s not the flowers I’m asking about.
Georgia doesn’t work here anymore.
“It’s a lovely thought though,” she goes on, misinterpreting my silence. “Not many men are willing to buy women flowers these days. Chivalry isn’t dead after all.”
“You said Georgia no longer works here?”
She shakes her head, sympathy coating her face as the realization sinks in. “I’m afraid not. We had to let her go a while ago.” Her eyes dart between me and the door before her voice lowers a notch. “She’s a sweet thing, but sometimes it doesn’t work out.”
Those words hit me like a ton of bricks.
I pass her the flowers and excuse myself before she can see my crumpled pride.
What had she meant when she said things don’t always work out? Was it about the job or something deeper?
Climbing into the truck, I slam the door shut and call Georgia, listening to the phone ring until her voicemail picks up.
She’s supposed to be at work.
I hang up before I can say anything.
Rolling the windows down to get rid of the scent lingering in my truck, I drive to the apartment and try to think of where she could be.
When I see her car absent from the driveway, I call her again. It goes straight to voicemail. Where the hell could she be during the days when she was supposed to be at work?
That night, I sit at the end of the couch with a glass of scotch. I call her twice more, and she picks up the last time to tell me she’s on her way home from work.
From work.
When she walks in, she glances at where I sit stiffly and stops with the door half open.
“Where were you?” I ask quietly.
She stands taller. “At work.”
The lie grates on my nerves. “Georgia,” I say slowly, clenching the fabric arms of the cushion until my fingertips hurt. “Where were you really ?”
All she does is stare at me, the color in her face paling when she realizes I know something.
“I went to the library,” I add, before she can lie to me again.
Her shoulders tense as she drops her things onto the table we keep by the door. “It’s not what you think.”
The truth is, I don’t know what to think.
“Then tell me what it is. Because I have no idea why you wouldn’t have told me that they fired you when it happened.”
She shifts on her feet, toying with the buttons of her coat. “I lost my job at the library,” she admits, not looking at me.
I already know that. “When?”
She pauses, settling by the wall as if she’s afraid to come near me. “Four months ago,” she whispers.
My eye twitches.
Four months…
Four. Months.
I take a deep breath. “You’ve been lying for four months?”
“I…” She stops herself, her lips parting and closing twice before she sighs. “You were going through so much at work and coming home stressed all the time. And you kept talking about the future house we were going to buy and the dog we would get, and it made me feel…” Shaking her head, she lets her words fade. “I didn’t want to tell you that I couldn’t contribute to that dream. You would have told me it was fine and then worked three times as hard to make it work on your own.”
I make enough to get us by. She knows that. I’ve told her that before. It was she who wanted to work, and I encouraged that because it was her choice. But it wasn’t detrimental. Not like lying about it is. “Where do you go when you’re supposed to be at work? Who are you with?”
Her lips curl into a frown at the accusation spoken between words. “I do go to work. At the bookstore on Main Street. It doesn’t pay nearly as much as the library did, but it’s something.”
I watch her carefully, wondering if she’s being honest this time. I hate that I can’t tell—hate that she thinks she has to keep secrets from me. When did she start doing that?
“I promise,” she whispers. “I just didn’t want to put pressure on you to figure things out on your own.”
Looking away from her pleading eyes, I collect my thoughts. A nagging feeling in my stomach tells me to question her, but my brain convinces me to let it go. For now.
“I don’t want you to lie to me,” I say after taking a deep breath that eases the tightness that was squeezing my lungs. “I don’t want us to lie to one another.”
Her frown only deepens. “I don’t want you to lie to me either.” She stares at me. “So, is there anything you want to share since we’re being open right now?”
I don’t think about her question. Instead, I pose my own. “Why didn’t you tell me you hated carnations?”
Georgia gapes. “That’s not important right now, Lincoln.”
Maybe she’s right.
She peels her coat off and drapes it over the side of the couch. When she walks over to me, she cups my face and tilts my head to meet her eyes. “You told me you loved me. Did you mean that?”
I let her hold my gaze. “You know I do.”
The pad of her thumb brushes over my bottom lip. “I may not know much, but I know that people don’t lie to those they love.”
My eyes skate over her features as she releases my lip and steps back. “You never told me you loved me, Georgia.”
Her tongue lazily drags across her bottom lip before she dips her head. “That’s because I need to trust you first.”
I watch her walk out of the room, staring at her back as she disappears into the bathroom.
I hear her phone go off in the pocket of her jacket, and I debate on letting it stay there. But fate tests me when I hear another ding come from the fabric, and temptation has me reaching inside the coat to get it.
Unknown: If that’s what you want, I’ll help
Unknown: For a price
She must have deleted the thread leading up to the replies because there’s none above the two new messages.
I memorize the number and tuck her phone away where I found it.
That night when we go to bed, she’s still awake when I crawl into the spot beside her. It’s only then she says, “Carnations were my mother’s funeral flowers. They’re beautiful, but they remind me of death.”
With that, she turns onto her side, turns the light off, and gives me her back.
When I ask someone at work to track the phone number the next day, it comes back to an untraceable burner.