Chapter 12
On the way out of town, Wesley is weirdly quiet, but that’s fine with me. I wasn’t lying about being exhausted.
Maybe it was the adrenaline rush after finding the mannequin in the shower that sapped the last of my energy. Or maybe it was Wes’s “Darcy thought she was pregnant” speech that stomped my will to live into a soggy puddle on the bathroom floor.
I should be used to conversations like that by now. They happen all the time, especially in my current friend group.
Hanging out with people five to ten years younger than I am is great for keeping me out on the town and up to date on the most recent slang, but not so great when it comes to avoiding mentions of pregnancy. Someone is always getting knocked up. It feels like I’m bombarded by baby bellies on a daily basis. It doesn’t help that my boss is pregnant, and we cater at least four or five baby showers a month.
But I’ve known I can’t have children for a while, since I was thirty-five and saved for months to freeze my eggs, only to learn that wasn’t a viable option for me. I should be used to being on the outside looking in by now.
Usually, I am.
But everything feels so raw.
My body, my brain, my heart…
I can’t have a week of no-strings-attached sexy times with Wesley. I don’t know what I was thinking. The way he ran to my rescue and instantly took charge of ensuring the safety of my home was enough to make me long for more than a brief, friends-with-benefits situation. If I actually shared his bed for a week, if I gave in, let down my walls, and let our natural chemistry take over, I’d be head over heels in no time.
And that’s the last thing I need.
I’ve already wasted too much of my life trying to make things work with the wrong man or pining for the one who got away. If Nate had tried to hump my leg at a wedding last spring, I might have gone running back to him. (I didn’t know about the cheating with his art student part back then.)
Deep down in my lonely core, for the longest time, I would rather have been with a guy who’d ghosted me for months like an emotionally stunted jerk than keep tucking myself into bed alone.
But things are different now. I still don’t love being alone, but I’m getting used to it. With Freya’s help, I’m learning to divert my longing for romantic love into healthier outlets. I love my precious pet, my friends, my friends’ kids, and my Saturday morning hiking group. I love cozy nights on my couch, good books in the sun in my backyard, and the freedom to spend my weekend baking in my hideous green onesie pajamas that make me look like Oscar the Grouch’s little sister.
There’s peace in letting go and freedom in accepting the present moment in all its beautiful imperfection.
“But not this much imperfection,” I mutter with a yawn, rubbing at my itchy eyes as Wesley merges onto the highway headed south.
“What’s that?” he asks, glancing my way.
I shake my head. “Nothing.” I fight another yawn and lose the battle. “Sorry, I can’t stop yawning. I don’t think I’ve ever been this tired.”
“Then go grab a nap in back,” he says. “I don’t mind.”
“No, I’ll help you stay awake until we find a place to park.”
“It’s fine, I’m not sleepy,” he says. “And if I get tired, I can always pull over.”
“Are you absolutely sure?” I press, old trauma raising its head. I’ve been in a situation like this before, with a man who wanted to keep driving when he was tired, and it ended about as horribly as that sort of thing can.
But Wesley isn’t that man, a fact he proves when he says, “Absolutely. If my eyes get the slightest bit heavy, I’ll pull over at a rest stop. I won’t put you or Freya at risk, and I’m not keen on dying myself.” He nods toward the back again. “Go ahead. Get some rest. Might as well take advantage of the fact that we have a rolling apartment on wheels.”
I glance over my shoulder, where Freya is still snoozing away, resting up from our big night. “All right but wake me if you need moral support. I can sing 99 Bottles of Beer until we find somewhere to park.”
He arches a brow. “That sounds horrible.”
“I know. That’s the point. Once you’ve reached a certain level of exhaustion, only horrible things can keep you awake. I could also slap you repeatedly across the face with a rubber chicken, but I forgot to pack mine in all the rush.”
“Noted. I’ll keep an eye out for rubber chickens when we stop for supplies.” His gaze slides my way, making my heart beat faster as he adds in a softer voice, “Enjoy your nap.”
“Thanks, I’ll try.” I unbuckle and make my way to the back of the camper, where a comfy-looking queen-size bed hides behind a privacy curtain.
For a moment, I consider crawling into the single lofted bunk bed above it so that Wesley can have the larger mattress, but being lower to the ground is probably safer if he has to slam on the brakes for some reason.
And the thought of climbing even the small ladder up to the bunk is suddenly too much. I haven’t just been awake for twenty-four hours; I’ve been going hard almost that entire time. I spent the first half of yesterday running myself ragged helping Melissa get everything prepped for the wedding. I probably made ten-thousand, three hundred, and seventy-six trips from the catering van down to the barn and I’m feeling every one of them as I collapse onto the memory foam mattress, cover myself with a sinfully soft fleece blanket, and sink into something deeper than sleep.
* * *
I’m literally out the second my cheek hits the pillow and wake who-knows-how-many hours later feeling disoriented and confused. It takes me a long beat to remember how I came to be asleep in a camper bed and another beat to realize the camper has stopped moving.
The familiar hum of the wheels on pavement and the soothing rocking from side to side is gone, leaving nothing but faint bird song and the fainter sound of…scratching.
Poking my head out from behind the privacy curtain, I look up to see one of Wesley’s socked feet sticking out of the top bunk, but the scratching isn’t coming from there. It’s Freya, awake and making her typical mess in the litter box I set up by the door. She’ll use the litter box when it’s cold or I’m away at work, but she prefers to be set loose in the backyard to do her business, and makes her dissatisfaction with the litter situation known by flinging it absolutely everywhere.
From what I’ve learned on online forums, that isn’t typical ferret behavior, but there’s nothing typical about my fierce, but dainty little lady. She’s equally offended by male humans and litter stink in the house, which feels meaningful.
“Okay, just a second,” I whisper as she sends litter spraying across the floor with a paddle of her back feet. “I’ll take you, just let me find your leash.”
Tiptoeing across the camper to keep from waking Wesley, I locate her leash near my purse and hook it onto her harness. Stepping over the litter mess—I can sweep up later, after Wes is awake—I head outside, shocked to find the sun tracking toward the horizon.
Glancing around, I see that we’re in a tidy parking lot with what looks like a trail marker on one side. After Freya does her business in the grass and gives a few nearby trees a thorough sniffing, I head toward the sign. Halfway to the marker, I hear rushing water, but I’m still bowled over by the view from the trailhead.
A wide waterfall spills over stones that glow a soft pink in the fading light, the lovely scene framed by the skyline of an unfamiliar city. A woman on a bike hops off as she nears the end of the paved trail. I flash her a smile and ask, “Excuse me, can you tell me what city this is? I’m on a road trip and was asleep when my friend pulled up.”
“Sioux Falls,” the woman says, returning my grin as she undoes the strap on her helmet. “Falls Park, specifically. It’s a great place to pull over and stretch your legs.” She glances down at Freya, her smile widening. “Even tiny legs. What’s her name?”
I tell her and we exchange a few pleasantries before she rolls her bike away. On her way to the parking lot, she calls over her shoulder, “And if you’re hungry, the café is still open for another hour, I think. It’s in the old brick building closer to the water. They serve coffee, sandwiches, ice cream, that sort of thing.”
I lift a hand, thank her, and start down the trail. A coffee probably isn’t the best idea at nearly six o’clock, but it sounds amazing. And if I’m caffeinated, I’ll be able to take over the driving while Wes rests. As nice as this place is, we can’t stay here overnight. It’s a day-use parking lot, not a place where campers would be welcome.
Over the next rise, Freya and I are treated to another gorgeous view of the falls and tempting smells from the café. At the door to the small structure, I gather Freya into my arms before pushing through the door, the better to keep her safe from customers not used to watching out for tiny pets.
But there aren’t many customers lingering in the café at this hour. It’s just me, Freya, and a sleepy-looking teenager with red cheeks scrolling through his phone.
To his credit, he looks up as soon we walk in, tucking his cell into his back pocket with a friendly smile. “Hey. The chef left for the day and we’re closing in half an hour, but we still have to-go sandwiches, a few baked goods, and coffee.”
“Coffee, please,” I say as I move to check out the offerings in the cold case. “Actually, make that two. Two coffees to go with room for cream and sugar.” I’m not sure how Wesley takes his coffee, but I figure it’s always better to err on the side of leaving room.
I collect two mozzarella, tomato, and basil sandwiches from the case that look fairly fresh, as well as a container of cheese, nuts, and a boiled egg for Freya. She prefers raw eggs, but she’ll nibble on pieces of egg yolk or white as a treat between meals, and I don’t know when I’ll be lucky enough to find ferret-friendly food again on the road.
“She’s so cute,” the teen says, his pink cheeks plumping as he smiles. “Can I pet her?”
“We can try,” I say, tapping my phone to pay as he bags up the sandwiches and gets a cardboard to-go carrier for the coffees. “But she kind of has a thing about men. She’s not super fond of them for some reason.”
“Maybe a man was mean to her when she was a baby,” he says, sobering. “Animals are like people that way. If someone hurts them when they’re little, the memories can stick around and mess them up later.”
My heart aching for this earnest kid, who sounds like he knows too much about trauma, I nod. “You’re right. I’m not sure what her babyhood was like. My cousin adopted her from a shelter when she was already grown.” I glance down at Freya, who doesn’t seem bothered by the boy, so far. “But you have friendly energy. Try extending your hand, palm up, fingers loose, and let’s see how she does. Her name is Freya, and I’m Tessa.”
“Hey. I’m Zack.” He reaches out, slowly, carefully, a look of awe blooming on his face as Freya sniffs his hand for only a moment before licking the tips of his fingers. “Wow.” He laughs. “That tickles.”
“It means she likes you,” I say, grinning. “Or that you have food on your hand. Maybe both.”
Zack laughs again, relaxing as Freya lets him stroke her head. “She’s amazing. I’m going to get a pet when I graduate and move into my own place. Pets are always happy to see you when you get home.”
I wince in sympathy. Clearly, whatever parental situation he has at the moment is less than fulfilling. Poor guy. “Yeah, you’re almost there. What are you…sixteen?”
“Seventeen,” he says, still focused on petting Freya. “I have a baby face. It’s the chubby cheeks.”
“Wow, yeah. Seventeen. You’ll be a pet-owning adult before you know it. It was nice meeting you, Zack.”
He grins. “Nice meeting you guys, too. Have a great night and enjoy the sandwiches.”
“Will do.” I set Freya on the floor and grab the takeout, knowing I won’t be able to juggle holding her as well as the food.
Back outside, the early evening sun is showing off, making the pink rocks beneath the water gleam like something from another realm, one better than this one, where no kid ever feels unwelcome in their own home.
Situations like Zack’s confirm my belief that we’re alone here on this spinning orb. If there were a higher power looking out for us, it wouldn’t let assholes like Zack’s parents have a child, while so many people who would make lovely parents—or at least not shitty ones—remain infertile.
I’m so busy thinking about Zack and juggling the food and carrier of hot coffee, that I’m not holding Freya’s leash as tightly as I should be. When a man in jogging shorts charges around the corner, yelling something about profit margins into his ear piece, Freya easily tugs out of my grasp.
“Freya no, come back here right now!” I call out, crouching to set the food and drinks on the ground so I can chase after her.
Before I can stand back up—or Freya can reach the shouting guy’s crotch—Wesley sprints up the trail behind the man. His hair is sticking up in all directions and he’s sporting a five o’clock shadow that makes him look a little dangerous in the best way. As he cuts across the grass and leaps into the air, diving in front of the man to grab Freya before my fearless protector can reach her target, a zing rushes through my blood.
“What the fuck?” the man shouts as Wesley rolls across the grass on the other side of the trail, Freya cradled against his chest. “No, not you,” the man barks into the phone before pressing his cell to his stomach and demanding in a none-too-friendly tone, “What the hell do you think you’re doing? You almost knocked me down.”
“I’m so sorry, he was just trying to grab our ferret before she jumped on you,” I say, hurrying over, food and coffee in hand. “She’s afraid of loud noises, and—”
“I don’t give a shit,” the man says. “If your animal doesn’t know how to behave in a public space, it shouldn’t be in one. Same goes for the two of you.”
“She said she was sorry,” Wesley says, rising to his feet, a chittering Freya squirming in his hands, begging to be set free to handle this red-faced jerk on her own. “And we truly didn’t mean any harm. It’s a beautiful night, so why don’t we just go our—”
“Shut the fuck up,” the man says, his face flushing a deeper crimson. “Don’t use that fucking ‘calm down’ town with me, asshole. I have every right to be pissed.”
“But she didn’t hurt you,” I say, inserting myself in between Wes and Mr. Roid Rage. “And neither did Wesley. Please, let’s just go our separate ways and be done with it. We don’t even live here, so you’ll never see us again. I promise.”
He grunts and his jaw clenches, but after a beat, he mutters, “Fine, whatever. I’m in the middle of a call anyway.” He starts down the trail, but then turns, shouting back at us, “But keep your animal on a fucking leash. Or next time it attacks someone, it might end up with its head crushed under a boot.”
I suck in a scandalized breath, while Freya lets forth a stream of ferret chatter so intense, there’s no doubt in my mind that she’s telling him just where he can stick his threat, his cell phone, and his bad attitude.
“Here, let me take the coffee and the bag,” Wes says, gathering the supplies with one hand as he guides Freya into my arms with the other. “She needs her mom.”
“Of course, she does,” I say, cuddling Freya close and stroking her sweet little head, the one that I never want to imagine being smashed under a boot ever again. “I’m so sorry, baby. I should have held tighter to your leash. I know, I know,” I add, lowering my voice to an even softer, more soothing murmur as I turn back toward the parking lot. “He was a dick. You’re right.” She clucks and whips her tail back and forth. “Yes. And probably on steroids. That’s what I thought, too.”
Wes snorts in soft laughter. “Me, too. I think his bicep was bigger than my head.”
I shudder and stick out my tongue. “I know. So gross.”
He arches a brow. “Not a fan of big, bulging muscles?”
“No, I like normal muscles. The kind that only strain a t-shirt a little bit.” I fight the urge to glance down at his arms and lose. When he catches me, and his grin widens, I add, “Yes, like yours. They’re nice. I can admit that your muscles are my favorite kind of muscles.”
“Your favorite kind of muscles,” he echoes thoughtfully. “That’s nice to hear. Now I’m really glad I came running in just my undershirt when I heard you scream.”
“You’ve been doing a lot of that lately,” I say. “Hopefully tomorrow will be a less scream-y day.”
“I’ve been thinking about tomorrow,” he says. “About tomorrow and the next day, the whole week, in fact.”
I frown, continuing to stroke Freya as she recovers from the excitement. “Okay.”
“And I don’t see any reason why we shouldn’t take these lemons and make lemonade.”
I arch a brow. “You mean enjoy the park? Hike and make s’mores, stuff like that?”
“Well, yes, but…more than that.” He runs a hand over his wild hair. “How about we clean up in the camper, and I’ll take you out to eat? We can have a nice dinner and discuss our options.”
I nod, intrigued. “All right. I bought sandwiches at the café, but they’ll keep in the fridge until tomorrow. And Freya should be fine in the crate for a while after her walk. I wouldn’t want to leave her loose in the camper while we eat, not after all the excitement with Mr. Roid Rage. She can get up to destructive mischief when she feels nervous.”
“Me, too, Freya,” Wes says, reaching out to run gentle fingers over her head. To my surprise, she leans into his touch, welcoming the show of affection.
Come to think of it, she didn’t tear him limb from limb when he tackled her, either. After only a day, Wes has won over my savage little beastie.
You’d better watch out or he’ll do the same with you, the inner voice warns. You should probably skip that dinner. If he gets you somewhere with candlelight, you’re done for, woman.
But I don’t tell Wes I’ve changed my mind about dinner. I simply slip into the tiny bathroom, wash up at the sink, and change into my dark brown sundress. I add a black cardigan as a nod to the chilly spring night and sweep on blush, lipstick, and mascara.
I want to look pretty for him.
That probably isn’t a good sign either, but the way his eyes light up when I emerge from the bathroom feels good.
Way too good…