Chapter 20
Stewart texts me the next morning when I’m sitting in bed, tracing the path to that kiss. Flat tire, makeover, rosé and rosemary, sunset, and—boom—I’m a goner. Anyone would have seen this coming. Naomi saw this coming.
Stewart: I’m going to New York for meetings for a few days, wanted to let you know
Me: Great
Stewart: Great?
Me: Not great. I meant have a great time
And it’s official, things are going to be weird from here on out.
Stewart: Listen, I’m sorry about last night. Or I am if you are. I just want to know if I’ve upset you or if I got the whole thing wrong. If I did, I’m sorry
I reread that a few times. He is a dangerously good guy and a great communicator. That is a lethal combination, and I was smart to shut this down.
Me: I’m fine, thanks. I think it was good for us to go there for a minute. We’ll wow them at the next thing
We don’t talk or text while he’s in New York.
A few days could mean two or five, and now I wish I’d asked.
The week is chaotic, but not chaotic enough to make the time pass quickly.
On Wednesday night there’s a big thunderstorm and the roof over the kitchen gives up.
I wake to a soaking-wet table and chairs and a persistent, dirty leak.
Izzy and her crew are there in the morning with a wet vac and a giant tarp to get us through the next two weeks.
They’re drilling it into the existing shingles right over my head when Patsy calls.
“Where are you? What’s all that noise?” she asks. I’m at home, at our house, taking care of a problem you don’t even know about.
“It’s the roof. It’s rotten and moldy, and we need a new one.”
“Oh wow. That sounds messy and expensive.”
“Life is messy and expensive,” I say.
“How’s Dad paying for that?”
“We figured it out,” I say.
“Is that why you’re there? The roof?”
“No, I came because of the fire.”
“What fire?” she asks. A familiar ripple of anger is activated by that question.
This particular strain seeps out in the form of sarcasm with a side of passive-aggression.
What fire? The one that almost burned our house to the ground.
Oh wait, did you mean the metaphorical one I’ve been fighting my whole damn life?
I try to banish that tone. “There was a small electrical fire on the sleeping porch, and the firefighters discovered a problem with the roof. I’m here for the summer.”
“You didn’t call me,” she says, because everything’s my job.
“I was kind of busy.”
“I could have come,” she says.
“It’s been really busy, getting Gus adjusted and working at the store. Christopher. Everything.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”
I can tell she feels bad, and I have that sick pressure on my chest that I get every time we talk. “It’s fine. I’ve got it handled.”
“Okay, thank you,” she says. “And I was actually calling because my boss told me she heard you’re dating Stewart Whitfield, and I thought you’d think that was funny.
That’s all, just wanted to tell you.” There’s no humor in her voice.
She called with something funny to say, but I have buried her in guilt.
I love being in Whitfield and I made out with Stewart on his yacht.
I don’t know why I can’t give her these things.
When we’re off the phone, I get myself a beach chair and sit next to Christopher under the maple and watch the men on the roof.
I have things I want to say to Stewart about Izzy and her wild roofing crew, but then again I have things I want to say to Stewart about the sandwich I bought at the deli yesterday.
I want to ask him about the dahlias in his garden and tell him that I made the olive oil cake.
This is how it happens. You give someone an opening, and they infiltrate your thoughts.
Last night I dreamed that he let himself in and climbed into my bed and told me he’d take care of things.
I asked him what things, and he kissed me.
Ridiculous. Honestly, Stewart Whitfield is as real a possibility in my life as Laurence from Netflix.