Chapter 14 #2
“It’s worse,” she said, pulling me out of my sex toy–induced distraction.
“Well, that just makes me want to see it even more.”
Sighing, she released me.
I opened the sliding pocket door and immediately jumped back. “Ahhh!”
“I warned you.”
I shot her an incredulous look. “No. No, you did not. If you had said, ‘Ian, there are a thousand weird-ass, scary baby dolls in that closet,’ I wouldn’t have just felt my soul leave my body.”
There weren’t a thousand, but there were at least a hundred.
The closet shelving was absolutely filled with dolls, some layered two or three deep.
They were all around a foot tall, and most looked antique, like they were beloved by a Victorian child before the doll came to life and murdered the entire household.
Synthetic hair, mostly shiny and coiled, in all colors adorned their heads. Some wore bonnets, and most donned frilly dresses. Their terrifying glass eyes stared back at me as I slowly slid the door closed.
“Why do you have all these?” I asked.
Another sigh left her. “I don’t really remember how it started.
I think I got one as a present when I was a kid.
I probably carried it around or braided its hair or something, so my family assumed I liked it.
They kept getting them for me. Mom and I were at an estate sale, probably fifteen years ago, and she saw this vintage doll dressed as a farmer, in overalls with an apple basket.
She showed it to me, said it reminded her of all the dolls I had growing up.
I must have said something encouraging, like, ‘Oh, that’s cute.
’ Well, she went back and bought the doll and gave it to me for Christmas that year. ”
“Oh, no,” I breathed, knowing where this was going.
Joan nodded. “I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, so I thanked her and told her how much I liked it.
From then on, everyone in the family started buying them for me.
Birthdays, Christmases, and randomly whenever they’d find one at an antique store or a flea market.
My dad pulled the ones from when I was a girl out of storage in the attic and gave them to me for my collection. ”
“Joan.”
“It makes them happy to give them to me,” she explained. “I can just hide them back here—”
“Where they can’t get you in your sleep.”
Her lips twitched. “And no one has to ever know that I don’t actually like or collect dolls.”
“Yeah, but what about my emotional damage as a result? I’m going to have nightmares.”
She laughed, and the sound loosened something inside my chest that had been strung tight since the night of the wedding. Deep down, I’d been worried I’d never hear it again. That I might have scared her off, out of my life—and Georgie’s—for good.
Three months ago, I couldn’t have known how essential she’d be.
How I’d wake up thinking of her and rearrange my schedule so I could run with her or have lunch together.
My life was prioritized around my nephew, but I worked pretty damn hard to fit Joan and her family in where I could. Because that was what I wanted.
I’d missed her this week. Missed talking to her. Missed hearing about her day.
This woman who collected dolls against her will because she didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. Joan was kind in quiet ways, thoughtful when it mattered. She had a good heart—a fierce heart—for the people she loved.
And I wanted to count myself among them.
“Let’s go eat,” I said. “You can tell me about your week and judge my cooking skills.”
Her blue eyes sparkled. “Can’t wait.”
But before I could walk past her, she clutched my hand and squeezed. “Please don’t say anything about the dolls to my family. I don’t want to—”
“I won’t tell a soul,” I promised.
She nodded her thanks and released me.
Then, I added, “Because those dolls will find and destroy me.”
I followed the sound of Joan’s laughter down the stairs.
We ate at her kitchen table. Joan set out cloth napkins and passed me a local IPA she knew I liked. The chili turned out to be pretty tasty, and I didn’t bother hiding how pleased I was when Joan requested seconds.
Our conversation stayed light during the meal. I didn’t bring up the kiss or anything feelings adjacent. I wanted to catch up with her first without seeming like I was chasing her down.
Afterward, I insisted on loading the dishwasher. Joan watched me with an amused expression as she finished the rest of my beer.
I wandered into the living room once more, and Joan followed, a few steps behind.
“Did you do any of these?” I asked, indicating the gallery wall.
Joan shook her head. “No. Some of them are Mercer’s photographs. The rest I picked up from local artists during festivals and events downtown.”
I opened my mouth to ask to see her movie collection, but I didn’t get the chance.
“What are you doing here, Ian?” she asked, not unkindly.
I had a moment of déjà vu, back to our very first encounter. How I’d been laid out on the ground, struggling to breathe after a failed attempt at exercise, while Joan leaned over me, wondering if I was dying.
I almost laughed, thinking I’d gotten a lot further this time before she’d finally come right out and asked what she’d really wanted to know.
Nervously, my hand went to the pocket of my jeans. I touched the black elastic band I kept there as a reminder and swallowed. “I wanted to talk about the other night. At the wedding.”
She didn’t say anything, and I felt my neck get hot.
“We kissed, Joan. Does that ring any bells?”
And then it was like I hadn’t spoken. Like she was in the middle of a conversation I hadn’t been a part of.
“Men do love a challenge,” she murmured thoughtfully.
“What?”
“You look at me and see someone to win over with your charm. Something to conquer. A tough nut to crack. But here’s the thing, Ian, there’s no prize here.
When you get what you think you want, you don’t win anything.
It’s just more of the same. More of me. And no matter how much it might feel like a game, there is no winning. So you should stop wasting your time.”
I stared at her, my heart beating hard. This didn’t feel like rejection, though. It felt like we were speaking two different languages.
“Is that what you think? That I’m wasting my time? Is that how you really see yourself?”
I took a step toward her, and she retreated.
Frowning, I said, “I thought we were past this. I’m not messing with the locals.
I’m not bored or amusing myself. Do you think I’m pretending to be attracted to you?
That I’m what? Teasing you for the fun of it.
Trying to get under your skin so I can embarrass you.
That when you finally give in, I can laugh in your face and say, ‘Oh, I’m sorry.
Did you actually think I was into you?’ I mean, I knew your opinion of me was low, but wow, Joan.
This isn’t a coming-of-age rom-com. It’s not a movie. It’s . . . my life.”
She had the decency to look shamefaced, but then she blew out an exasperated breath. “It just doesn’t make any sense.”
“What doesn’t?”
“I’m old.”
“You’re not old,” I replied calmly.
“I’m just a farmer.”
“And the most competent person I’ve ever met.”
“I’m not sexy,” she added, almost belligerently.
“Have you seen yourself in those little running shorts? Agree to disagree.”
“You’re a fucking movie star,” she practically exploded. “And I’m—I’m—I’m average. Ordinary. Foul-tempered, grouchy, judgmental—” Joan cut herself off, but I knew, in her head, the list went on. “I’m just me,” she finished quietly.
I took another step toward her, and this time, she let me. Her blue eyes were wary and guarded, but she stood her ground. And I thought to myself, That’s the woman I know.
I reached out and took her hand in mine. “I like that you don’t smile much,” I admitted. “Because when you do, it feels like I earned it.”
Truthfully, I hadn’t had to earn anything in a long time. I was essentially the spoiled celebrity she’d always assumed I was. I had staff and people to manage my life and career. Auditions weren’t typically required anymore. People jumped through hoops to please me, not the other way around.
Georgie was the first person in quite a while who needed more from me than just the bare minimum that I was used to.
Joan side-eyed me. “Probably a nice change of pace having someone scowl at you. You’re so used to women bending over backwards.”
“Hot.”
She rolled her eyes. “And throwing their panties at you.”
I made a face. “Gross. Why do I want strangers’ panties? Also, can we not call them that? I’m not a rock star on a stage. That doesn’t actually happen.”
“You know what I mean,” Joan insisted. “Women falling at your feet. I’m not like that. I’m never going to be like that.”
I smiled sadly. “I know. You’re not exactly impressed by me.” Initially, that had seemed refreshing, a novelty in a world where all I ever got was attention. Now, though, it made my chest ache.
Joan’s fingers tightened around my own. “I’m not taken in by the fame thing, no.
But that doesn’t mean I’m not impressed.
I admire what you’re doing for George. How you refuse to give up on him.
You’re never discouraged. You work hard, despite what you want people to think.
You’re good to your team. You take care of people.
I like you, Ian. I do. But our worlds feel so far apart.
I’m not ever going to be like the women you’re used to. ”
“I know,” I repeated. “You’re not like anyone I’ve ever met. And I wouldn’t want you to be. I like you the way you are. Grouchy and judgmental. Smart and generous. Hardworking, kind, and dependable.”
“You’re so good at that,” she whispered. “Saying the right thing.”
“You think I’m just playing a role, reciting some lines?”
“No,” she replied quickly before pausing and confessing, “I don’t know what to think.”
It hurt to know she didn’t trust me, but then I reminded myself that we’d only known each other a few months. Joan was the sort of person who didn’t rush into things. Everyone in her life—everyone she cared about—had earned their place, proven their worth.
I tried to think of how to explain it.
“Acting . . . it’s just a job,” I told her. “It’s not the only thing about me. People can be more than what they do.”
“I’m not. I’m a farmer, and I’m a Judd. That’s who I am.”
Oh, Joanie.
With my other hand, I cupped her jaw. “Is that what you really believe?”
“It’s the truth,” she asserted.
“You are so much more than the box you’ve put yourself in.
Even with how dedicated, competent, and passionate you are.
You’re also your own person outside of the farm.
You’re a neighbor, a sister, a daughter, a friend.
You’re reliable. Everyone in Kirby Falls and that unhinged Facebook group knows they can count on you.
You collect dolls because you don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings.
You plan bachelorette parties even though you’d rather die than line dance.
You donate your time, energy, and resources to help people. You’re—”
I had to take a breath and let it out before admitting, “You’re the only person Georgie responds to.
You’re safe and steady. You’re exactly what he needs in a way I could never be.
So, I don’t accept that you’ve simplified yourself down.
You’re more than your job, and so am I. I’m not lying to you or pretending or acting when we’re together.
You can’t explain away my feelings for you by assuming I’m falling into some pattern or habit because of who I am.
I know trust doesn’t come easy for you, but you can trust me. ”
I leaned down and pressed my forehead to hers. “If you want me to leave you alone, I—”
“I don’t want that,” she interrupted, and I was grateful. I hadn’t been exactly sure how I was going to finish that sentence.
“Do you just want to be friends?” I asked softly.
She shook her head slightly, her nose brushing against mine. “I don’t know what I want.”
“I can understand that. But you’ll let me know when you figure it out? And you won’t hide from me in the meantime?”
“I don’t want to hide from you, Ian.”
I felt her lips press against mine, stubborn and resolute, like an oath—a vow she was making to herself—and it gave me hope.
I stroked her cheek with my thumb and kissed her back, just as reverently—an answer to a question she couldn’t bring herself to ask.
Determined to give her space, I pulled back, my hand still cupping her jaw.
There were so many things I needed to say, assurances I wanted to make.
That, yes, our worlds were different, but we could make it work.
That I had no idea what would happen when the film wrapped, but I knew I didn’t want to leave.
That I’d take care of her heart, if she’d give me the chance.
But before I could gather the courage to put all of that into words, we heard someone yelling outside. An engine revved, and glass crunched.
Together, we moved to the window over the kitchen sink and peered out.
“That idiot,” she breathed.
We watched as a big, burly middle-aged man staggered out of his still-running vehicle in the distance.
His headlights illuminated the messy yard as he hurled beer bottles out of the bed of his truck.
The goat that had been huddled beside the tree bolted in fear, but only managed to get to the end of its rope, where it tugged and strained.
“Your neighbor?” I asked, wincing as a bottle shattered against the trunk of the tree.
Joan’s jaw clenched angrily as she nodded. “He’s a pain in the ass. A danger to himself and everyone else. Buck has been to jail, to rehab. Nothing ever sticks.”
“He does this a lot?”
“Often enough,” she sighed.
After a few minutes, the man managed to wear himself out. He stumbled over to turn his truck off and eventually made his way inside the mobile home, the door slamming in his wake.
I took in Joan’s rigid posture, the way she clutched the edge of the sink, her attention on the goat that was picking its way across the yard, nosing at the broken glass.
I could imagine how every bit of her neighbor’s behavior likely wore on her.
I’d be willing to bet she’d tried with him for a long time.
That was just the kind of person she was.
Leaning against the counter, I crossed my arms and said casually, “So when are we rescuing that goat?”
Joan’s head whipped around. “You’re serious?”
“As a felony.”
Her attention strayed toward the window, where it remained for several long beats. Then she looked at me, determination steady in her gaze. “Okay.”
I grinned. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Let’s do it tonight before all my brain cells come back online.”
I lifted my hand for a high five, and she obliged with a huff of strained laughter. “Hell yeah,” I exclaimed. “This is going to be great.”