Chapter 15
I ’ve been on edge since I woke up this morning, and it has nothing to do with what Landon and I did last night.
Or the way he fled the scene as quickly as he could, like a thief in the night, leaving me standing there naked with my light still on and my window still open.
Squashing all that bold, empowered bravery I had been rocking by seizing my sexuality and getting myself off with him watching.
No. I’m telling myself I’m on edge because today is my first cooking lesson with Stella, and I’ll eventually have to see the heartless bastard otherwise known as her father after. Though he can officially keep the scarf.
I was lonely last night.
A bit sad and a little lost. When I walked in, I could have sworn I heard a noise outside my window. Then his light was on, and he was there, staring at me like I was his reason. Only I’m not, and it was foolish of me to think otherwise.
The girl sitting in the seat behind me already holds that title.
But I didn’t realize that until after.
In the moment, I had this heady excitement sizzling in my veins.
I wanted to bring him to his knees. Rock his world.
Stupid. So. Fucking. Stupid. I’ve tried to convince myself that I’m proud of what I did.
Screw him. I got off, and it was hot. And the majority of me knows this. Owns this. Revels in it.
But there’s that other part…
“Thank you for giving us a ride,” I say again to Bridget.
She waves me away as we turn left, leaving the grounds of the school. “It’s my pleasure. I can’t have you two walking home in the rain. But I will just gently mention again that you need—”
“To buy a car,” I finish for her. “Yes. I know. I’m working on it.
” Sorta. Not really. I haven’t decided what I’m going to do about my parents.
I texted David about it, and he said my family deserves what they get and that he had allowed them to bully him longer than he should have with how things turned out. Whatever that means. I didn’t press it.
But my mother does. I got another phone call this morning from her that I ignored.
Thankfully, she didn’t leave a voice message.
Oh, and to add to things, my sister randomly texted me.
Four years since my wedding—the last time I saw or spoke to her—and now she texts?
She asked where I was living because she wanted to come visit me.
That can’t be good. Last I heard, she was running with a motorcycle gang and got herself arrested for breaking and entering, and larceny. Needless to say, I did not reply. I’m ignoring the world outside of this small Boston suburb, and that’s all there is to it.
“Stella, hon, what are you and Miss Wilde making tonight?”
“She calls me Elle after work hours,” I correct, and Bridget flashes me a Cheshire grin I can’t quite read.
“Chicken pot pie,” Stella replies. “It’s my dad’s favorite, and I looked up some recipes. I also have carrots, onions, and peas that I’ve grown in my garden and greenhouse we’re going to use in it.”
“I was thinking we could make a biscuit topper for it instead of using pie crust.” I spin around in my seat to find Stella. “Maybe it’s the Southern girl in me, but I miss real biscuits and haven’t had an excuse to make them since I moved up here.”
She nods like that’s the best idea ever, and I turn back around, some of my uneasiness ebbing.
Today will be fun. I love cooking, and I can’t wait to use fresh veggies and now make biscuits.
I don’t have to see Landon. The girl lives next door.
I can just send her home with a dish all ready for him.
He had my scarf in his bedroom. Was he—
I mentally shake myself. Nope, not going there.
“You’ll have to let me know how it turns out,” Bridget says, stopping at a traffic light in town.
The leaves are already falling. All that beautiful gold, orange, red, and yellow lining the streets and sidewalks.
I haven’t had this… well… ever. It’s beautiful.
The air has a crispness to it you feel in your bones.
It makes me want to snuggle up under a blanket and read a book by the fire, which I plan to do one night soon.
With a glass of wine in my hand, naturally.
“Oh, hey,” Bridget goes on, pulling me away from the window. “I’m having a dinner party at my house on Saturday. Mostly faculty and a few friends. Will you come?”
I throw her a side-eye, my expression sour, already knowing where this is going. Her tone isn’t hiding anything. “I don’t want to be fixed up.”
Bridget’s head whips in my direction, her eyes wide as she feigns incredulousness. “Elle…”
Yeah. She doesn’t even follow my name up with anything else. I cock an eyebrow at her, and she groans, slouching her rigid posture until she’s practically falling into me only to straighten just as quickly so she can move us through the light.
“I mean it.”
“Fine. But there might be a few single men at my dinner.” She rushes on with a pleading tone when she catches my murderous glare.
“They’re great guys. Smart. Good-looking.
Well”—she laughs—“some of them are very good-looking. Others”—she shrugs—“not so much. But the one I want you to meet is absolutely gorgeous. And a super nice guy to boot. If I weren’t married, I’d date him. ”
“The ink on my divorce is barely dry.”
She glances in the rearview mirror, then smirks without looking at me. “But it is dry and that hasn’t stopped you so far.”
“Bridget!” My jaw drops.
“I don’t mind you talking about dating. I think you should date.”
I flip around to Stella, pointing at her. “You do?”
She giggles lightly, and I can’t stop my smile. This girl does not give out smiles all that often. Much like her father in that respect.
“Yes. You’re smart, fun, beautiful. Any guy would be lucky to date you.”
“You’re excellent for my ego. I’m going to write that down on a Post-it and keep it by my bed.
” I give her a wink, only to scrunch up my nose.
“But life lesson, Stella. Blind dates are the worst. Trust me on that. When you’re allowed to start dating, avoid them like the plague they are.
And remember the words you just said to me because you could have been talking about yourself. ”
She gives me a look and a shrug that suggests she’s absolutely indifferent to the notion of dating. “My dad says I can’t date until I’m twenty-five.”
“Smart man,” Bridget and I both say together, forcing laughs from all of us.
“Besides… I think I like girls. But that stays between us.”
Well, that’s a bomb I didn’t see coming, and I wonder if her father knows that one.
“Our lips are sealed. But girls can go on blind dates with girls. Doesn’t change a thing, though admittedly, I’m a little jealous of you, Stella. Women are easier than men.”
“Have to agree with that,” Bridget jumps back in.
“So help me push this along, Stella. I don’t want you to see your smart, fun, beautiful teacher get sucked into an anti-men vortex just because she’s newly divorced and wasn’t so happy before that.
Am I right? She deserves to have some fun.
Meet some new men. Good men,” she emphasizes.
“Men who will treat her like the goddess she is.”
I snort out a laugh, leaning over to plant a kiss on my friend’s cheek. “Thank you for that.”
“She’s right,” Stella agrees, and I groan dramatically, sagging down in my chair. “You should go to that dinner party and meet some new people.”
She is right. They both are. But still. I’m just not there yet.
At least with the dating part. I went from living in hell with a man I was constantly on eggshells around to sleeping with a guy who treats me like a rental car—there for his pleasure cruising, only to dispose of me when he’s done with the ride.
Single Elle is just fine. More than fine.
And I have a bad habit of growing attached like a stray cat you feed only once.
It doesn’t take a therapist to figure out it’s because I got very little love or attention at home growing up.
It’s part of what made me such easy pickings when David came along, though I’ll admit, at first, he was nothing short of Prince Charming, and I was his princess.
“Fine. You’ve both convinced me. I’ll go if you promise not to try to set me up. The last thing I want right now is a man. I’m working on me. I don’t have any desire to get involved with anyone.”
“It’s a deal. I won’t actively try to set you up.”
I roll my eyes, knowing just what that means.
* * *
“That’s perfect. Keep slicing the carrots like that.” I watch Stella for a second and nod. “Awesome stuff. I’m going to slice up the chicken because that’s the gross, boring part.” Raw meat—poultry especially—gives me the skeeves. “What made you want to garden and learn how to cook?”
“You’re going to think I’m lame.”
I turn my head over my shoulder and level my gaze at her. “I swear, I absolutely will not. If you tell me, I’ll tell you the truth about why I wanted to be a history professor.”
A barely detectable twitch of her lips builds my intrigue.
“When I was a baby, my parents used to call me the human garbage disposal because I would literally eat anything they gave me. It became a bit of a game with them. Everyone got in on it, even my grandparents’ chef, Sophia.
My mom liked to cook, and the only memory I have of her—well, I’m not even sure it’s a real memory, maybe more something I’ve been told enough times that it feels like a memory, but I swear, I have flashes of it—I was standing on a chair in the kitchen when she was making dinner, and I kept stealing food off the counter and eating it whenever she wasn’t looking.
” Her hands still as she stares down at the chopped vegetables spread out over the cutting board.
“I don’t know. It makes me feel closer to her.
I like growing things. Watching a tiny seed grow into life that can feed people.
It’s fun. All of it is. Being in the greenhouse and growing food and cooking it. ”