Chapter 7
CHAPTER
SEVEN
Carter
I can’t help smiling as I read Jo’s text. I can’t help the way my body reacts to those three little words.
How about tonight?
Suddenly, those scenes I always want to laugh at in movies—the ones where the lovers burst into song, or break into a run as they rush across town, or across the globe, to get to one another—don’t seem quite as laughable. I may not be singing—not here at work, not in the middle of the day, thank you—but I absolutely want to rush across town to wherever Jo is.
I want to type back, “How about now?” But I know that’s not realistic. So, I rein in my impatience and say…
Sounds good. You know where I keep the spare key. Let yourself in and make yourself at home. I’ll fix something special for dinner.
Dots appear as she types out a response then…
‘Something special’ huh? You mean like this?
I’m laughing as I write back…
I love that that that’s where your mind goes when you hear the word ’special’. But I was thinking we’d save *that* for dessert.
A moment later she responds with…
Well, in that case, I guess I’ll have to “save room” for dessert!
I’m typing out my response when she texts again:
Oops. Phone call. Vi’s Dr. Gotta take this.
So I backspace, erasing the joke I was going to make, sending her a thumb’s up and a CYL instead. Then I return my phone to my pocket and head for the kitchen to start brainstorming dinner ideas.
All through the rest of the (very long) afternoon my brain keeps offering up memories from the night before, reminding me how good it feels to have Jo in my bed, in my life.
I’d forgotten how much I always loved even the little things. How just hearing her breathe beside me, as I drifted off to sleep, could somehow soften the dark. How the scent of her could linger in my sheets, or on my pillows—sometimes for days. I even loved being startled half-awake whenever one of her limbs brushed mine.
Obviously, she’s not the only woman I’ve ever spent the night with, but it has been awhile. And she’s definitely the only one I’ve ever craved. The only one I’ve ever wanted to build a life with. The only one who mattered.
Which is why I’m screwed. Because I remember how close I came to having it all, to making all my dreams a reality. And the saying ‘lightning never strikes twice’ has never seemed more true.
Sometimes things don’t work out the way you want them to—that’s a plain, hard fact of life. It’s very likely that Jo and I already had our chance at happy ever after and bungled it.
I need to stop grasping at a future that I’m not going to get and make the best of these next few weeks. I should just enjoy whatever I can have of her, for as long as I can have it, and leave the problem of how I’m going to live without her for later—for after she’s gone and I’m alone once again.
The day drags on. I’m mildly disappointed when Jo doesn’t get back to me with more teasing texts, or to let me know what Vi’s doctor had to say, but I guess she got too busy, as did I.
There are all the usual issues to deal with—late deliveries, staffers not showing up, a sudden glitch in the reservation system that leaves us with two parties booked for the same table, at the same time. Not to mention the additional task I’ve set for myself—cooking us a special meal. One that’s tasty and portable and won’t suffer too much if we get distracted and don’t eat it right away.
After considering and rejecting several dishes, I finally settle on Beef Barbacoa Bowls made with black beans and rice, sliced avocado, chipotle-dusted sweet potatoes, roasted corn, and a cilantro-lime dressing, served with puffy, blue-corn Sopapillas.
My kitchen staff notices, of course, and asks what I’m making. I tell them I’m just experimenting,;that I’m demoing something that I might add to the menu at a later date. I don’t know if they believe me. And I’m starting not to care.
Over the course of the evening, I catch myself listening for the sound of footsteps on the stairs, or overhead. But the building is sturdy and old and if Jo is up there now, I can’t tell. I don’t hear anything. Which, if she is there, is good to know in terms of privacy issues, and useful for any future rendezvous.
But what if she isn’t? And sure enough…
Right after work, I head upstairs. My anticipatory mood is dashed when I find my apartment empty. I have to still the inevitable panic that grips me. Maybe she’s not coming? Maybe she’s already gone?
I focus on the bright side—this gives me the opportunity to straighten up a little, even to try and create a bit of a romantic atmosphere. I light some candles, dim the lights, pile pillows and an old duvet on the couch.
As I work, my thoughts turn naturally to a host of what-ifs. What if I could convince Jo to stay in Heartwood? What if she were willing, or cared enough, to move in here with me? What if we were really in love, and not just playing make believe? What if we could have it all?
When an hour has passed and she’s still not here, I begin to get worried. I shoot her a quick text asking if she’s on her way and then watch as dots dance across my screen, letting me know that she’s writing back. The dots start and stop several times, and then…nothing.
I wait a couple of minutes and then I call her. But my call goes immediately to voicemail. Alarmed, I try again. Same results.
What in the hell is going on ?
The parallels between now and the last time my world slid off the rails—back when Jo had been the one calling and texting, and I’d been the one who’d failed to answer—are too clear to ignore.
Luckily for me, Ms. Vi’s house is on the way to the hospital. So I can go there first and then, if no one’s there, I know where my next stop will be.
This is how Jo must have felt, I think to myself as I race around the apartment, turning off the toaster oven that’s been keeping the Sopapillas warm, blowing out the candles, grabbing a jacket and my keys. But then I realize that, no, she probably hadn’t felt this way. Because she hadn’t cared enough to look for me. She hadn’t cared enough to stay . She hadn’t cared enough. Period.
She probably doesn’t now, either.
It’s a sobering thought. And, for just an instant, I think about doing the same. About not seeking her out, about staying home, instead. I think about what that would look like. Me, sitting on my couch, cracking open a beer, eating my dinner, watching TV. I try really hard not to think about how sucky that will be.
Maybe she’ll show. Maybe she won’t. Maybe she’s just running late. Or maybe today’s the day I have to start learning to live without her once again. Maybe I shouldn’t care so much.
But what if she’s hurt? What if she needs me ?
And that’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? Because, no matter how this story ends, if she needs me, then I need to be there for her. So, I pull on my jacket and head for the door.
Jocelyn
Hey. Where are you? Are you on your way?
I stare at Carter’s text for several moments, trying to marshal my thoughts, trying to rein in my emotions, trying to figure out what I should say in response. But every iteration I attempt still starts with, “ Hell no, I’m not on my way, you sonofabitch. How dare you even ask? ” and ends (several very long paragraphs later) with me in tears, demanding to know why— Why would you do this? Why do you hate me? Why didn’t I see what was happening before now? And, most of all, Why didn’t you tell me?
I’m so lost in my thoughts that I nearly drop the phone when it starts to ring. I press ‘decline call’. He calls again. I decline that too. Then I turn off my phone and put it away. I’ll figure out what to tell him tomorrow. Right now, I just can’t deal.
The house is quiet, as it would be with only two of us here. Although probably not quite as quiet as it must have been for all the years that I was gone, leaving Vi on her own, slowly descending into madness.
My aunt’s asleep now. I sent the night nurse home when I realized that I couldn’t stand to have anyone else around—watching me as I tried to process everything I’ve learned, soaking up all the details so that she could pass it on to the rest of town as soon as humanly possible. Ugh.
And people wonder why I left home at twenty-two, why I couldn’t wait to get away.
I wander from room to room, too tired to think, too worked up to sleep, unable to settle anywhere for very long. I think I’m hungry. I can’t remember if I ate anything at all today, other than cookies. But I don’t feel like cooking. And, even if I did, I don’t know what we have. And, even if I knew that , if I had any idea what my options are, I still probably couldn’t decide which of them I wanted to eat anyway.
For that matter, I don’t want to think about food or eating at all, since that just starts me wondering about the dinner Carter was going to cook for us, which leads to thoughts of Carter, which leads to—no, I don’t want to start down that path either.
It's hard to believe that, less than twelve hours ago, my day was going fine. Then Vi’s doctor called to reschedule her regularly scheduled six-month appointment which she’d apparently missed. That confused the hell out of me, since Carter and I had just taken Vi to her appointment earlier in the week.
Turns out she has another doctor—one that Carter clearly knew about but never thought to mention. A doctor who turned out to be just as confused as I was when I explained that I was Vi’s next of kin—not my so-called husband, the man who Vi had identified as her grand-nephew, the man she’s apparently given her power of attorney to. The man whose loan she’d co-signed and who now owns this house. The man who—gah! Is there any end to the ways in which he’s betrayed me and manipulated her and straight-out lied to everyone else?
I’d thought I knew all about hurt and betrayal when my parents left. I’d felt devastated, vulnerable, alone. And then I’d felt all those same things again ten years ago, when I thought Carter had ghosted me, when I ended up leaving for the coast on my own, starting life over at twenty-two. But this? With all the added loads of guilt and grief and loss and fury? Yeah, this is a whole new level of what-the-fuckery.
I jump, and momentarily lose my breath, when the pounding begins at the front door, shattering the quiet. Somewhere in the neighborhood a dog starts to bark—and then another joins in, and another, and they’re all obviously as incensed as I am. Because this has to be Carter, doesn’t it?
My first instinct is to ignore the intrusion. Maybe he’ll assume we’re asleep and stop bothering us. Maybe he’ll just give up and go away.
Ha. In my dreams.
Or maybe (here’s another thought) he’ll continue knocking, like a freaking maniac, until he’s woken Vi up—which is the last thing any of us need. I head for the front door, scowling furiously. The knocking stops before I get there, however. Instead, I hear the scratch of a key in the lock and then the door opens, and there we both are, the two of us staring at each other, face to startled face. Then we both begin to talk at once.
“Jo? What’s going on?”
“What are you doing here, Carter?”
A frown creases his face. “What? No. What are you doing here ? I thought you were coming over for dinner. I’ve been waiting for you.”
“I know, Carter. I know everything .”
“You…what?”
“I spoke to Vi’s doctor today.”
“Right, the phone call. You mentioned that earlier. But?—”
“Her neurologist ,” I explain, stretching the word out slowly for maximum emphasis.
“Oh. That doctor.” His expression alters, alarm giving way to chagrin. His lips twist into a rueful grimace.
Tears spring to my eyes at his unspoken admission. At the way guilt floods his face. At the sudden dashing of my unacknowledged, unrealistic, absolutely futile hope that somehow, in some way, I’d gotten everything wrong.
I didn’t get anything wrong. Vi has dementia. Her mental health has been declining for years. The confusion that I’ve noticed, that I assumed was due to concussion— Well. Some of it might be due to concussion, but definitely not all of it. Which Carter also knew.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I demand, as my grief grows fangs and morphs back into fury. “Two years, Carter. Isn’t that right? Isn’t that how long you’ve known? You’ve been taking her for tests and appointments, and who knows what else?”
Carter nods. “Yeah. About two years, give or take. Maybe a little longer.”
“What were you thinking? All that time; how could you keep that from me?”
Carter rakes a hand through his hair. “It’s not like that.”
“Isn’t it?”
“You and I… It’s not like we were talking on a regular basis, you know. I can’t even remember the last time I heard from you.”
I can’t either, but that isn’t the point. “What if she’d died—would you have called me then ?”
“Of course, I would’ve. But that’s different.”
I wrap my arms around myself. “Is it? Really? How?”
“It’s different because…” Carter breaks off and heaves a sigh before continuing, reluctantly, “Look, it was Vi’s decision, okay? If it had been up to me, I… Actually, I’m not sure what I would have done. But, she didn’t want you to know. So, what could I do?”
This is not exactly a surprise. In fact, it’s pretty much what Bev said, too, when I called to confront her this afternoon; that Vi had sworn her to silence. It still hurts, however.
“What does that even mean—Vi’s decision? She was mentally incapacitated! Why would you listen to her?”
“Just stop right there,” he says firmly. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. This was two years ago, closer to three. She was lucid enough back then to know her own mind. She still is a lot of the time—as you’ve noticed. She said she didn’t want to be a burden to you and… And we agreed that it would be better for you not to know.”
“Better for who?” I snarl at him. My throat is tense with the effort to keep from shouting.
“Better for you, obviously,” he says, anger sparking in his eyes as he adds, “Or at least that’s what I assumed she meant. Right now, I’m wondering if she didn’t mean better for all of us. I can’t believe you think I should have gone against her expressed wishes. What the hell, Jo?”
“If she wasn’t competent to make those decisions? Then yes. Absolutely!”
Carter glares at me. “You talk like she was making plans to play in traffic. When really all we’re talking about is who she thought should have access to her medical records. You want to try and argue that she wasn’t competent enough for something like that? Good luck.”
“Oh, no. You’re not getting off that easily. What about the loan she co-signed when you opened your restaurant? What about the house? That sounds pretty sketchy, if you ask me.”
We’re toe to toe now, both of us glowering at the other. My arms are uncrossed, but my hands are fisted by my sides. And it’s all I can do to keep from slapping his face—especially when he says, “I see you’ve been talking to people. You’ve done your homework, haven’t you?”
“Very funny.”
“It’s really not,” Carter says. Then he drops his head back and stares at the ceiling for a moment before saying, “Okay, so the loan’s its own issue. That all happened years ago, before any of this. It was Vi’s idea—and she was pretty damn insistent about it. She kept saying that a dream deferred was a dream denied; and that she didn’t want to die without seeing me achieve at least one of mine. But, I swear, all she did was co-sign the loan. I wouldn’t let her do anything else. She didn’t lay out any money, and I never took any from her. And as soon as I was able to, I re-financed. I took out a new loan—all on my own. She’s not on the hook for anything anymore. Hasn’t been for awhile.”
“And the house? What’s the deal with that.”
He shakes his head. “I really don’t know who you’ve been talking to, or what in the hell you’re thinking, but the house is yours, Jo.”
“The house is mine? Bullshit, Carter. I’ve seen the records—that’s your name on the deed, not mine!”
“Okay, yes. That’s true. Technically. But that was just a temporary measure. It was always meant to go to you. Vi was afraid that, if she got sick, the medical bills would wipe her out and you’d be left with nothing. Which is what nearly happened to my family when my father passed. But I never planned on keeping it; and I’ll sign it over to you whenever you want. There’s one condition, though.”
“Oh, I see. The house is mine, but you’re the one setting conditions? That’s hilarious.”
“Just the one. That you don’t sell it until after she’s gone. She wants to stay here. She doesn’t want to be forced into a nursing home.”
“You think I’d do that?” I’m stung by the implication. “After all she’s done for me, you actually think I’d sell Vi’s house out from under her? That I’d just…take the money and run?”
“I don’t know, Jo.” Carter shakes his head tiredly. “I hope you wouldn’t, but… I don’t think I’m in any position to answer that kind of question.”
“Why not?” I ask, curious—and stung, yet again. “I would’ve thought we knew each other well enough for you to at least have an opinion.”
“Maybe that was true, once upon a time,” he says with a shrug. “But on the other hand, look at my track record. If you’d’ve asked me twelve years ago, I’d have said there was no way you’d just walk away from us.”
“I wouldn’t have thought so either,” I say.
Carter nods.“And yet…”
“But—no! Stop. That’s not how it was,” I protest, even though a small voice in my own head is asking, isn’t it, though?
He shrugs again. “Close enough.”
“That’s not how it was,” I repeat insistently. “Do you really think I’d’ve left town that day if I’d known about your dad?”
“Maybe not that day. But, sooner or later, of course you would have. You were always going to leave. We both knew that.”
“Not without you,” I tell him.
He shakes his head. “No. I couldn’t have left after that. There was too much here that needed to be done. My entire family was wrecked. We nearly lost the ranch. And then…then the medical bills started coming in and…” He breaks off and sighs. “I was always going to have to stay here. And you needed to get away. So, does it really matter how, or when, or why it all went down the way it did? It was what it was.”
“I loved you,” I tell him furiously. “And, if you’d’ve explained any of that to me, then of course, I would have stayed!”
His eyes go hard. “Bullshit. I didn’t explain it? When would I have done that? You never gave me a chance to explain! You cut and ran. So, don’t you tell me now how much you loved me, because you never did. I figured that out pretty quickly. And if you still don’t know that by now, then you fucking should.”
I suck in a breath, stunned by the cold anger pouring off him. “That… That isn’t fair. How can you say that? Of course, I loved you. You were everything to me! I just…” My voice trails off.
His hands are shoved deep into the front pockets of his jeans; his shoulders are hunched, his expression bleak. His gaze is…somewhere in the distance. He’s not looking at me. Is he even listening?
After a moment, he shakes his head. “Well, maybe we have different definitions of the word then. Because if you’d loved me the way I loved you, don’t you think you would have stuck around for a day or so; or maybe taken a minute to find out what had happened to me? Don’t you think you’d have been worried—like I was about you tonight—and at least wondered about what might have happened to me?”
“Yes, maybe. But…”
“But you didn’t even think of that, did you? You just… I don’t even fucking know. Jumped to conclusions?”
“Carter…”
“No.” He waves a hand, silencing me. “I don’t want to hear it. The point is, Jo, if you’d’ve loved me you wouldn’t have left like you did—without a single word, without tracking me down and talking to me. Without knowing or caring anything about what might have happened. I mean, for all you knew, I could’ve been the one in the hospital. Dying. Or, already dead. Or, who the fuck knows what.”
His words cut deep. Is that what he’s thought, what he’s believed all this time?
“No,” I tell him, blinking back tears. “No, that’s not…” I break off and try again. “I hear what you’re saying. And I can see how you might think that’s how it was, but you’re still wrong. Maybe, if I’d had your background, if I’d grown up in a family like yours, then I would have reacted that way—like you would have done, or like you think everyone should react. But I’m not like you. I’m used to being abandoned by the people I care most about. So, of course, I was going to assume that that’s what it was, that it was happening again. That you were ghosting me. That you were the one who didn’t care. But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you? You don’t know how that feels, so you just?—”
“I don’t know how what feels?” he asks. His voice is quiet, his eyes are cold, his entire demeanor is…hostile. “What is it you think I don’t know?”
And I should heed that warning. I should read the room. I should know better than to say, “You don’t know what it’s like to be abandoned.”
“Abandoned?” He laughs in response—actually laughs! Although it’s a cold and ugly sound. “Oh, I think I know quite a bit about that actually. Thanks to you.”
Nails, meet coffin.
My heart is beating hard and heavy—like a hammer against the anvil of my chest. Because, holy fucking shit, he’s absolutely right. I’ve become the thing I hate. I’ve become my freaking parents.
But no; it’s even worse than that. I’ve become the fantasy version of my parents. The version in which they woke up one morning and realized what they’d done. The one in which they instantly regretted having lost me. It’s a lie, that version. It’s a fairy tale that exists only in the minds of orphans.
Except, of course, that in my case, it’s real. I do regret my actions. I hate the fact that I abandoned Carter. I hate it so, so much.
But that doesn’t matter, does it? It changes nothing.
And of course he doesn’t believe me when I tell him that I love him. If I were him, I wouldn’t believe me, either.