Chapter Two #2
“Not just something.” Turner chuckled. “The whole damn thing. He even started taking book club meeting minutes. With notes on the member’s reading efficiency, and involvement in the discussion. Everyone felt insulted, me included. There was an uprising.”
I huffed out a laugh. “Leave it to Ric to bring the most calm and collected community in the world to the brink of rebellion.”
Turner smiled.
It was big and handsome and almost relaxed, and I loved seeing that smile on his face. I loved being the one responsible for it, too.
Turner used to smile like that at me every so often. Just because. Even when I’d always been Ric’s little sister. He’d never cared that I was three years younger, or that he’d already had a best friend.
I know now that it never meant anything more than just the smile you share with someone you have the kind of complicity born from growing up together. But a part of me always remained hopeful. At least until Mia came into my life first, and then I brought her into our circle.
That hope was chopped off real fast when I watched them go on their first date. The roots of my feelings for Turner, however, remained buried deep inside me.
I thought that distance and time would dry them out. Shrink them until I no longer felt them. But now that I was looking at him, all chocolate locks of messy hair, and kind eyes, and bulky shoulders, smiling down at me like he used to, I wasn’t so sure my premise had worked.
The roots seemed to be still there, waiting for that fucking hope I’d thought I’d trimmed down to nothing, to sprout.
It couldn’t be sprouting though. I couldn’t let it. Not this weekend of all weekends.
I already had to pretend I wasn’t on the verge of crumbling. That the shaky foundation I’d brought here with me had not been already quivering. I had to pretend that my career wasn’t on the verge of collapse, and that I wasn’t affected by the ironic fact that I was a flopping author with a stalker.
Now, on top of that, Turner was here. With his heart broken by an engagement that had been called off and looking to …
To what? Catch up? Get his books signed by any of the authors in the line up?
Demand an explanation as to why I stopped picking up the phone when he called?
Get his mind off things? Watch me buckle under the pressure when I had to face the reality that Frankie Rossi was a complete failure?
Well, hell. I didn’t think I was equipped for any of that.
“Frankie?” Turner called. I zeroed back in on him. His smile had vanished. “Me being here. If this is not okay—”
“Of course it is,” I interjected, once again doing what I had so many times.
“You need the distraction, and I’m always happy to see you, no matter what.
So stop worrying about me. You’ll have fun at the convention, I’m sure.
And please let Marcia know that I’m glad she thought of me.
Oh, and that she was incredibly lucky. Those raffle suckers are so hard to win that most people consider them a myth.
” I forced out a laugh, but it came out all wrong and wonky.
“Anyways. I might run to the restroom while you check in and get yourself sorted at reception. It was a long drive and I could use a minute to freshen up. But I will definitely see you around, yeah? Alright, ah, bye.”
It was hard to walk away from Turner when everything about him screamed that he saw what I was doing—running away, again—and that he wanted to stop me.
Still, I snatched the carry-on and rolled myself to the restroom as fast as I possibly could.
The alternative was too risky. The truth might burst out, and I doubted he wanted or needed to hear that no, it wasn’t okay that he’d come here with Marcia’s convention ticket.
Mostly, because if there was one person on Earth I didn’t want to see me failing, it was him.
The boy who had never loved me back the way I wanted him to.
The boy I’d given up on.
The boy a part of me still wanted to impress anyway.
It was there.
The tub.
In all its clawfoot glory.
As beautiful and inviting as I’d imagined, except larger. A lot larger. Enough to accommodate two of me. Or me and all my baggage, which was saying something.
I snorted, turning on the water and making sure it was as boiling hot as it would go.
“You and I are going to get acquainted real fast,” I promised. “But first.”
I padded out of the ensuite and back to my suitcase, using the time it took the tub to fill to unpack and load my arms with the many bath essentials I’d brought with me. This had always been the plan. But after finding Turner downstairs? I’d take any comfort I could get.
There had been no trace of him in the lobby by the time I’d emerged from the restroom.
I wasn’t proud of myself for running away on him like that, or the minutes that had preceded the escape, but I couldn’t trash and rewrite it like I would when I was writing.
This was an unexpected bend in my character arc, and one I’d just have to work with.
That’s why I’d promised myself that it’d be the only time I did this to him.
He'd gotten his heart broken, for crying out loud. Calling off the engagement might have been a joint decision, but it didn’t mean it hadn’t hurt him, or Mia.
My chest constricted at the thought of them going through that kind of pain and me not even knowing.
I’d always carried a sense of guilt for the way I left, and now it seemed to double.
It was weird how I couldn’t even feel any relief at the whole thing.
I had wondered at the time: how would I feel if Turner never got married?
How would I feel if he realized he couldn’t go through with the wedding?
How would I feel if Mia did and left him?
The answer was: the exact same. It wouldn’t change anything.
Because I’d always, always, been there, and he’d never seen me as anything more than a friend.
And I couldn’t be that for him any longer.
It still bothered me that I hadn’t known about the break-up, though.
Why had no one told me? Granted, the last three months I’d been busy between gearing up for my last release and final installment in Wolves At Night, the series that had made me.
Then wallowing in how poorly it was doing.
I’d isolated myself a little, I could admit to that.
But it wasn’t like I hadn’t picked up the phone when someone called.
I’d replied to all incoming texts congratulating me or sending me publication day thoughts.
I’d sent a voice note to Leo when the flowers he had delivered to me on release day showed up.
I’d also answered to the selfie Ric had sent me with one of my books after finding it at the airport.
I’d even talked to Ric today for close to an hour.
Yet no one had thought to tell me Turner and Mia had broken up.
Was it because of the way I had left? Or because they suspected the reason why I had left in the first place?
Heat climbed to my face, making me realize I’d been standing in front of my suitcase, lost in thought. I snatched my big vanity case and shook my head.
It didn’t matter. It changed nothing if I did or did not know. Turner and Mia weren’t together. Marcia had sent her son to a book convention as a post heartbreak activity or something, to see me, for some reason. But why? Why—
“Stop it,” I bit back with a groan.
I really needed to stop thinking.
Larger case tucked safely against my chest, I snatched my second and smaller toiletry bag containing all my essential oils and piled it up. I veered for the ensuite, but came to a soft halt remembering the mindfulness app I’d downloaded for this exact purpose.
Mindfulness. Meditation. Slow the heck down with all the racing thoughts.
Juggling the toiletries in one arm, I retrieved the device, then walked to the dresser that stood at the corner of the room, where I’d placed the bag containing my headphones.
The decor in the room was as nice as it was downstairs, and I might have been thoroughly distracted by the idea of filling that tub because I’d missed a few things upon my arrival.
One, a stunning framed antique map of Manchester, Vermont that Dad would love to get his hands on.
The other, a small box laid next to a note on top of the dresser.
My eyes fastened to the piece of paper that seemed ripped off a pad. It read:
To all the time we lost.
It was handwritten. And unsigned. The box was small, brand-less, and when I removed the lid, it revealed four chocolate truffles laid perfectly in four square-shaped beds.
There was something about the little imperfections of the chocolates, the way they all had similarities but were not cookie cutter, something that screamed… homemade.
“Turner?” I heard myself murmur.
He’d never called himself a pastry maker, or well-versed in the art of chocolate, but my mind shifted to an image of him in his kitchen pouring chocolate over a mold regardless.
Turner was a baker, after all. Bakers often make pastries.
And while he runs a business that specialized in fancy—and incredible— sourdough bread and catered to fine-dining restaurants in the Maine area, it hadn’t been rare for him to branch out in his spare time.
Was that the case?
Had he asked the Inn’s staff to leave this in my room while he checked in and I hid in the restroom?
“To all the time we lost,” I read, out loud this time.
More of the earlier regret rolled in, making me place the note down on the dresser.
There was a familiar emotion clogging my throat when I whirled around with the toiletries, phone and headphones, and made my way back to the ensuite.
I poured my favorite mix of essential oils, placed the foam on the wider side of the tub’s rim, and discarded my clothes on the tiled floor.
Only when my body was fully immersed in the scorching hot water did I allow myself to recognize what was responsible for the lump I was breathing around.
Hope.
Stupid, foolish hope.
Sprouting from those stupid, foolish roots.
To all the time we lost.
Something fluttered at the mouth of my stomach.
“Oh no,” I muttered.
And then, I let my head slide under the scented water.