8. ~ Char ~
CHAPTER 8
~ Char ~
W e pulled up to Peter’s and parked, walking up to a window to order our shakes. Being a true drive-in, and this being the original location, there was no indoor seating, which I loved. We took our milkshakes and sat at a picnic table despite the evening’s chill, the ice cream drink making me shiver.
“Sorry your date didn’t work out,” I said again, the guilt gnawing at me over my ill-thought-out wish. Because even though that had merely been a timely coincidence, I still felt as if I’d made it happen, just like I had when my dad was fired all those years ago.
I wasn’t yet sure where I stood on the fairy godmother thing, but I did believe in manifestation, karma, kismet, and that our thoughts were powerful things. Despite that, I still couldn’t wrap my head around how Estelle had formed such an intensely private list. The more I thought about it, the more it felt like fairy godmothers had to be real—simply because of the knowledge she had of my innermost thoughts, wishes and dreams. Unless she was a psychic tuning into my personal frequency and pulling out wishes and their dates. Somehow, that didn’t quite sit right, either. Maybe it was the glitter that had rained down around us in the office just before I’d run out of there.
Because I was pretty sure a psychic couldn’t do that.
The same with the sudden chill that had entered the office. It had been freaky and out of this world. Literally out of this world.
I mean, I wanted a fairy godmother to be real. But the problem was money. Wishes were supposed to be free.
“First dates are awkward,” James said, pulling my mind back to the here and now. He’d taken the spot across from me at the picnic table, his large, tall frame not quite the right fit for the attached bench and table.
“First dates are so bad I haven’t been on one in a year.” I gave him a playfully serious look over my straw.
“You lie.”
“You’re right. Eight months.”
“You lie.”
“Your tone suggests I’m a hottie who should be getting more dating action than I am, James.” I lifted a brow in his direction. Well, I tried. My brow muscles were hopelessly attached like Siamese twins, so when I tried to lift one as though I was mysterious, I probably just looked surprised or overly interested as both brows moved in unison.
He nodded thoughtfully, his kissable lips puckering in faux displeasure. “We both should be.”
I sat up taller. This was where we made a marriage pact, like in the movies or romance novels. Something along the lines where if we weren’t married by thirty-five, we’d marry each other.
I’d hold out for a chance at that.
Even though I was certain he wanted the warm and cozy homebody type. I mean, his parents had beaten the odds and were still together—happily, by the sounds of it—and he was putting out the marriage vibes. He wanted stability and loveable perfection. Everything I wasn’t.
“I don’t go out with someone I know I don’t want,” I explained. “Why lead them on with an awkward first date and get caught up in the hope? I have friends, and I can have fun on my own.” I cast my eyes downward again, as though my milkshake needed my full concentration.
James remained silent, and I peeked up to find him looking amused, his eyebrows waggling.
“James!” I gasped. “Get your mind out of the gutter!”
“ Char .” He placed a hand against his chest as if he was deeply wounded by my insinuation.
“But James? Answer me this: how are we going to get you married off and build your cozy little love nest if you don’t go out on more dates?”
“Sorry, my what? And it sounds like I put myself out there more than you do.”
“Yeah, but you’re a nester. You’re looking for a woman who’s calm and steady and loves holding down the fort. Someone hoping to get married and start a family and settle into a routine.”
“Um…” He winced as though I was severely off track. But I’d heard the wistful, confident tone when he talked about his own family growing up. I could tell he expected it for himself. Domestic harmony. Homemade cookies. Meals shared around the family table. Spouses who adored each other every single day. True love. The works. Barf. Hello, reality check? That stuff wasn’t real. There was no evidence other than maybe his parents. And their relationship, by the sounds of it, was a ticking bomb. Men had midlife crises. Women ran off with other men. It was probably just a matter of time.
“No?” I asked. “Where did I assume wrong?”
“I want love and a…nest. Eventually.” He looked so uncomfortable. It was cute.
“A love nest, right.” I wanted to giggle, but held my face neutral.
“But I also want fun and surprises with someone special, travel and adventures,” he said, his tone grumpy. “You make it sound like I want to go back to the 1950s and hunker down there.”
“Fun and adventure?” I couldn’t keep the skepticism from my voice. Probably because my heart was singing that maybe James and I were more alike than I’d realized.
“You’re mocking me.”
“No. Not really. And, to be honest, if I were a dude, I’d want the 1950s. Someone to cook and do my laundry sounds heavenly.”
He sighed heavily. “Not what I said.”
“But admit it. Men had it made for a while. And it would be nice to have someone take care of all that life stuff. You just work and come home and chill.” I put on a deep voice and held out a hand as though cupping an invisible glass. “Honey, beer me!”
James laughed, the skin around his eyes crinkling. He was going to be such a silver fox when he got older. But, even through his mirth, his shoulders were stiff, his gaze not quite meeting mine for very long. It was like he had a secret. Like he was holding something back.
I gasped, slapping the picnic table with the palms of my hands. “You secretly want that!”
“No, I don’t.”
“Then what?”
“I just want a partner who’s happy, self-fulfilled and content,” he said with obvious discomfort. “Someone who surprises me.”
“Nice list. Get it off the internet?”
“You think I can’t want that?”
“I think you can, but if you truly do, it means you’re perfect.”
He slurped his shake and rolled his eyes at me, clearly exasperated. And something else I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
“And,” I continued, “it begs the vital and most important question.”
“Which is,” he asked dryly, undoubtedly going along with the conversation for my amusement. Did I mention he was the best?
I leaned forward, layering drama into my voice. “What is wrong with James Backstrohm?”
“Excuse me?” He actually looked a bit insulted. “I like to think I’m pretty great.”
“Yeah, yeah, you present well. But it still all begs the question.”
“Why I’m not married?”
“Yes. And why is that? What is your fatal flaw? Webbed feet? You secretly gaslight your girlfriends behind closed doors? Hmm?”
He choked on his shake, his brows pitched together in clear mental pain. “Do I look like the kind of man who’d do that?”
“Maybe.”
He glowered at me, but there was no real heat.
“For all I know, you’re insecure about your webbed feet, and afraid your girlfriend’ll tell the world and then you’ll never work in this town again because everyone’s too freaked out to hire you.”
He snorted, his lips curving upward.
But, again, the shifty eyes. I pressed against the picnic table, reaching for his hand. His was warm, unlike mine, which was freezing—even though I’d stopped holding my shake a long time ago and had been keeping my hands tucked in the cuffs of my jacket. “Tell me.”
“My feet aren’t webbed.”
“You turn into a werewolf at every full moon? You secretly believe in fairy godmothers?”
I held my breath in case he said yes to the last one and had vital, useful information for me.
“Have you ever been engaged?”
Wait. What?
I scoffed, confused by his question.
Me? Engaged? Not even close. My hand slackened its grip on his. “Wait. Have you?” I gasped and gripped his fingers so tight he winced. He had! “When? What happened? Tell me everything.”
He slipped his hand out from under mine, leaned back, the tips of his fingers hooked between the table’s slats. He let out a slow breath.
“What was she like? Why did you break up? Come on, tell me. We’re friends, right? I mean, you already told me you don’t have webbed feet and you’re not a werewolf. This is a cakewalk.”
His eyes flicked up to meet my own, then flashed back to his milkshake, which he snatched up and took a long pull from. His was chocolate. Not strawberry, like mine.
So, not quite the perfect guy. But not worth tossing back into the sea of eligible men. Especially if we were both still single at age thirty-five.
He set down his milkshake. “I’m sorry about the necklace.”
“The necklace?”
“Yeah. I knew it was expensive. I just thought you’d really like it.”
Oh. The one from the museum. “I do! I love it. I…” I shrugged, feeling that annoying pinch of not having as much cash as I wanted. “And hey buster! I see you trying to change the subject!”
He gave me a cute grin that was half mischievous and half apologetic.
I lowered my voice, leaning forward in hopes he’d dish about his breakup. “Did you get the ring back?” How big was it? Did he plan to give it to someone else? What did men do with returned engagement rings, anyway? “Are you still on the rebound? Was tonight’s date to break your rebound cherry?” How did I not know this about him?
He sighed and rolled his eyes, but I could see he didn’t mind me asking. Not truly. “It’s been a few years, Char.”
“Oh.” I nodded. “Okay.”
“And we broke up because…” He let out a long slow breath, scanning the parking lot over my shoulder as though searching for an appropriate answer.
“Because why?” He was driving me crazy. Yeah, yeah, he didn’t want to talk about it, obviously, but I had to know absolutely everything. Now.
“We weren’t…” He shrugged and shook his head like he couldn’t believe we were having this conversation, and he was afraid of scaring me. “We were good together.”
“That makes no sense, James.”
“Yeah, no. But we weren’t great together. You know?”
It was clear he wasn’t well-versed at explaining his failed romance. Unlike women. By now, we’d have the elevator version which was a super quick life story of the romance that could be shared in less than a minute, and then the hours-long version which dissected every tiny nuance of the relationship, building up to the tear-jerking break-up. That version was best served with lots of wine or ice cream, depending on whether you wanted to nurture a bitter or wallowing mood.
“You broke it off?” I confirmed.
He nodded.
Wow.
He really did want the fairytale. He sure was going to be disappointed when he was eighty and realized he could have settled for ‘good enough’ half a century sooner. And that there’d been no reason for him to spend his life alone in his little love nest, waiting for Miss Perfect because she didn’t exist. Women were a hot mess of inconsistencies. We were perfect only in our ability to keep the world of men on their toes due to our whims of unpredictability.
“Why?” I asked.
“When I made future plans, I didn’t assume she’d be there with me, or that she’d want to be doing what I was. Or that she’d want to try doing different things. There was a plan, and it was fine, but it held no space for other things to flow in or out of our lives.”
I stared at him, fascinated. He really was the full meal deal with a side of fries. No, make that a poutine upgrade. When this guy married, it wouldn’t be due to some stupid, silly pledge between friends. He was holding out for a lightning strike: true love.
Wait. Something he’d said about space tickled a memory. What had Estelle told me earlier? Often, a granted wish creates space.
There was a ringing in my ears as I focused on James, trying to sort out the connection between Estelle, my earlier wish, his breakup, and the eerie sense of déjà vu that was sending shivers up my spine.
“You wanted space?” I asked carefully.
“Not like that,” he said with a testy edge.
“No, I know. I meant, like, for…serendipity?”
He nodded, his eyes lighting up like I’d hit on something he didn’t expect most people to understand.
I reconfigured this new information into my view of James. But I still couldn’t help but wonder if his words were somehow due to my earlier wish and Estelle’s belief in creating space. Or serendipity, as it was. Did James truly believe what he was saying? Were these his words to explain his breakup, or was he under a spell?
I shook off my thoughts. James had broken up with his fiancée years ago. Well before my stupid date-breaking wish. Estelle had really gotten into my head back there.
Assuming what she had done to him was real and not just a timely coincidence. A cosmic joke at my expense.
“You want kids?” I asked James.
“Yeah.”
“And she did, too?”
“Yeah.”
“How long were you together?”
“A while.” He placed his elbows on the table, dropping his arms so they were crossed along the table's edge.
“High school?”
He nodded. “We didn’t get really serious until university, though.”
His romance was kind of like Tamara and Kade’s—started in high school, but again, the real world had proved that their so-called love wasn’t enough. Was it ever?
“How about you?” he asked.
“No. Never engaged.”
“Want kids?”
“Sure. If it happens. But I don’t really see myself getting married.”
James blinked, as if I’d suddenly switched to speaking a foreign language.
“What? I can’t imagine it.” I tucked my hands deeper into my jacket’s sleeves.
“Can’t imagine it or don’t want it?”
“I never said I don’t want it.”
“So you do want it? Kids and a husband?”
I could feel heat tracking its way up to my cheeks, my imagination dishing up delectable images of what it might be like to have a man as steady and sure as James in my life. “Sure. Of course. Assuming I find the right person.” I gave him a sly smile. “And he likes me back. I’m not into brainwashing and kidnapping.”
He let out a guffaw. “Good to know.”
“So what was your ex-fiancée like?”
“Nice.”
“Yeah, but…like, what’s your type?” When he didn’t reply immediately, I suggested, “Skinny, Swedish. Smart. All the things.” He and his type would make beautiful babies. That, I could see. She’d have her life together, but would also book last-minute vacations to exotic locales off the beaten path as well as know how to cook killer meals from any nationality. And maybe speak a few languages to boot.
“Actually, no.”
“Then what’s your type?”
He stared at me long enough my heart thundered in my ears. It felt like he was suggesting I was his type. And we all knew that couldn’t possibly be true.