Chapter 22 #3
True to their word, there was a post detailing my neighbors’ efforts to confuse and disrupt the photographers that had come to town. They had linked to a spreadsheet where folks who looked enough like me could sign up to go running through the community.
Gretchen Rose Tate had offered up an extra blond wig to anyone who needed it since the paparazzi still thought that was my hair color.
She was currently taking the 6:30–7:00 a.m. spot before school every morning, pretending to be fake Joan with a ball cap and sunglasses, waving for the cameras as she ran a four-mile loop through downtown.
Others had reported the paparazzi’s interest in Ian, wondering if he was in town with me and where they might find us.
It made me curious as to whether Ian had been staying at the beach house in LA and avoiding going out in public.
Well, with his upcoming press tour, things were sure to change.
I figured the photographers in Kirby Falls would realize their efforts were wasted and they’d leave town once Ian popped up somewhere else.
Local residents had been doing their best to drive them out sooner, though.
Even Vera Sterling, the owner of the local bed-and-breakfast, had joined in, claiming a plumbing leak in several of the rented rooms that required her photographer guests to immediately vacate the premises.
I scrolled through comment after comment.
People I’d grown up with, gone to church with, folks I’d known my whole life, all angered and frustrated by the way I’d been targeted and disrespected by the media.
My neighbors were trying to protect me—to safeguard my home, my privacy, and my peace from outsiders looking to profit off my humiliation.
Pride and gratitude kept me rooted in place, reading and absorbing all their combined efforts.
And woven through it all was Ian. He’d been replying to comments for the last three days, offering advice on dealing with the paparazzi and providing encouragement to my neighbors.
The wild goose chase had been his idea, and the locals had run with it, literally.
His worry and concern were obvious. I couldn’t get over how present he was, how grateful he seemed to everyone for looking out for me.
This whole thing seemed so wild and unlikely, like the plot of a Scooby-Doo episode or a Sweet Valley High novel. I was starring in my own Hallmark movie as my idyllic small town came together for a common goal. I guess that wasn’t too far off.
Still. I didn’t feel worthy of all that trouble. And I didn’t know how to go about repaying that sort of debt.
Those kinds of thoughts kept me up that night. I tossed and turned, unsure how to deal with my complicated emotions—the gratitude and the discomfort, the overwhelming sense of community and awe. And buried beneath it all, a sense of loss I could no longer ignore.
Three days later, I cautiously made my way to the grocery store for the first time in a week.
I was picking out bell peppers in the produce section when I caught sight of someone familiar disappearing behind an endcap.
I placed the vegetables in my cart and then went to the opposite end of the aisle before emerging dramatically in front of a large, stoic-faced man.
“Darren, what are you doing here?” I asked in exasperation.
The big man sighed. “Ian was worried about the media attention.”
“I don’t need protection,” I argued. “They’re mostly gone now.” And they were. Once Ian had shown up for the London premiere of Inferno Man 3, the world had taken notice, and any interest in Kirby Falls had waned.
“They realized he isn’t here,” I added.
Darren looked very uncomfortable, but he said softly, “He’s giving you space.”
I felt my cheeks heat. “I know.”
“But he was worried about you.”
Swallowing, I admitted, “I know that, too. You should be with him for the press tour.”
“The studio hired security for the cast. I’m supposed to stick to you and Georgie. Keep you both safe.”
Darren and I watched each other silently for a moment.
Then I sighed and nodded. “Then you’ll want to come to the farmhouse for dinner. Sophia is taking the night off, and George is coming with me.”
Ian’s giant bodyguard smiled. “Good. I’ve missed your mama’s cooking.”
Three hours later, George was inside with my parents, while I walked over to the orchard to feed and water the goat.
Jolly Adams had been over to visit earlier.
She came every few days to check on Ralph (originally Emmett), but knowing her vindictive asshole of an ex-husband, she thought it best that the goat stayed where he was for the time being.
She could still claim ignorance if Buck figured out where the goat had ended up.
But hopefully in the future, we could make the transition and take Ralph/Emmett back home to be with Jolly.
When I returned to the farmhouse, I walked in on George video chatting with Ian at the kitchen table. My parents were gathered on either side of the kid while he held up his phone, yapping happily about whatever he and my mother had been baking in my absence.
My heart attempted to beat out of my chest while I washed my hands in the kitchen sink, the sound of Ian’s deep voice through the inadequate phone speaker so damn welcome, I had to lean against the countertop for balance.
“Oh, there’s Joanie!” George called. “Say hi to Joanie, Uncle Ian.”
Then the kid flipped the phone to face me. I froze, holding up a hand in an awkward approximation of a wave. But I barely got to see Ian because George immediately pivoted back and returned the phone to his own face.
The urge was there to hurry across the room and snatch the device out of George’s hand, but that would be extreme and unhinged and might let on how much I was missing Ian.
Was he still in London? Was he at a hotel, or in between events? Had he been sleeping alright? Did he have my hat with him? Had that been stubble on his jaw or just a shadow?
The last time we’d spoken, he’d told me he loved me. He’d thrown it at me like a life preserver, a last-ditch effort to keep me from leaving. And I’d said nothing, too raw and vulnerable at the time to think of anything beyond simple self-preservation.
My hand tightened on the dish towel I was holding.
Then, out of nowhere, George hopped up and said he was going to set the table. He quickly told Ian bye and then thrust the phone in my hand as he ran toward the dining room. I nearly fumbled it as my heart rate spiked once more.
“Hi. Hey. Hello. How are you?” I said, when I finally managed to right the device and bring it up to my face.
I was aware of my parents sharing a look, and knew I must have sounded ridiculous.
So I cleared my throat and brought my attention back to the screen. “Hey,” I tried again.
And there he was, already smiling at me, but it was soft and sweet, only one dimple shadowing his cheek. “Hey,” he replied quietly.
I stared at the screen, taking in every little detail, anxious for all I’d missed in the two weeks since I’d last laid eyes on him.
He wasn’t in a tux or camera-ready. Ian appeared relaxed and comfortable.
He was in a sweatshirt—the same gray hoodie I’d slept in while we were in LA.
That had me biting down on the inside of my cheek, hard.
There was no stubble, after all. It had been a trick of the hotel room lighting. Ian was just as clean-shaven as always. His dark hair had grown out a little, though. He looked tired, maybe, but good.
I hadn’t been totally without updates on Ian.
Eddie J had been texting me regularly since I’d returned to Kirby Falls.
The man was determined for us to be friends, and I couldn’t say I minded.
I knew that Ian had wrapped up filming in the studio very recently.
And I also knew that Ian had fired Gloria after what went down at the premiere.
A better person might have felt regret at that.
But I was a vindictive asshole, and only wished her good riddance.
“Where are you?” I asked, curious despite myself. Then, aware of my listening parents and how awkward this might get, I walked out of the kitchen and into the living room.
“In London still. One more night, then on to New York. Are you okay? Has the media been bothering you?” Ian’s face got closer like he’d leaned forward.
“No, I’m fine. Candace fielded the calls to the orchard. And I guess you heard about the town’s help.” My voice caught on the last word, so I switched gears. “Anyway, they’re gone now. Everything’s fine.”
There was a moment of silence while we just looked at one another.
A hundred words crowded my throat, a dozen conversations leaping to attempted fruition.
I’m sorry I left that way. I’m sorry I left at all. I wish I could be someone bold and glamorous and brave. I wish I could be right for you. I wish you were here, beside me. I love you, too. Fuck . . . I love you.
But what came out was, “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” he answered roughly. “Yeah, I’m good. I wish I was there, you know.”
“Me too,” I told him honestly. If he were here, we could talk.
Maybe Candace was right. Maybe we could figure this out.
“I’m sorry,” Ian said suddenly. “About the last time we spoke. I shouldn’t have pressured you like that or told you things you weren’t ready to hear.”
I frowned. “No, Ian. You don’t have anything to—I’m sorry. I reacted badly. I was hurt and—”
“All finished!” George shouted as he ran into the living room. “Now I’m going to take you to visit Ralph.”
Before either one of us could react, George snatched the phone and hustled out the front door. I heard his little feet pound across the porch and down the steps.
Releasing a pained breath, I collapsed onto the sofa, wishing so many things could be different.
When George returned ten minutes later, the video call had ended, and the kid had a dozen new pictures of Ralph to show me.
I didn’t let my disappointment show. After all, I was grateful to have George here.
I didn’t want to consider how difficult this would all be if he was halfway across the world right now, too.
With Darren, it was just the five of us for dinner.
Candace was having a lot of morning sickness, all hours of the day.
I’d been checking on her often, bringing her different ginger food items to try.
I’d been reading a lot about pregnancy and wanted to help Candace and Mercer however I could, ridiculously happy at the thought of being an aunt in the near future.
I’d never really considered having a family of my own.
But it was hard to ignore how much I loved George.
Spending so much time with him in the fields, witnessing his youthful exuberance and curiosity, I was grateful to be a part of his life.
I thought seven-year-olds were pretty perfect.
I loved how excited he got and how big his emotions were.
I loved his sweetness and the simplicity of his world.
But I also had the intense desire to see the kind of person he’d grow up to be.
Looking around the dinner table and watching my parents chat happily with the little boy who’d appeared in my life by chance, I had to remind myself that we weren’t George’s family. All of these moments, all of this time together was bittersweet. Because, in my heart, it sure felt like he was mine.
The first text from Ian came through that night.
After I’d read George a chapter from his book and tucked him in, I sat down in the dark sunroom of Junior and Nola’s house to await Sophia’s return. I pulled out my phone and saw the notification.
Ian: I didn’t get to say goodbye when George took off with the phone, so I wanted to tell you goodnight. I hope that’s okay.
I told myself to be brave and to trust my instincts. I wasn’t a martyr, and there was no reason to sacrifice my happiness, especially when it was staring me in the face and texting me good night.
Me: It’s okay. You can message me whenever you want. I’m not mad at you, Ian.
He replied right away.
Ian: Okay.
Ian: But you said you wanted space, and I don’t want to crowd you.
Me: It would be nice to hear from you while you’re away.
Ian: Then I’ll text you.
Joan: Good. Have a nice time in New York.
Ian: Thanks. I miss you guys.
Me: We miss you too.
Two days later, I got a selfie of Ian in Times Square. So I sent back a photo of Ralph trying to eat Brady’s shirt.
The next day, Ian sent me a link to a DIY chicken coop that looked more like a chicken mansion. But it made me smile until my cheeks hurt.
Then, the following evening, I got in late from book club and found the red light blinking on my answering machine. In the shadows of my kitchen, I listened to someone release a slow breath, and then “Hey, Joanie” came through the speakers in Ian’s deep voice.
Overcome by how welcome it was to hear him in my home again, I slid slowly to the floor as Ian continued rambling nervously over the length of the recording.
I laughed a watery laugh when he joked self-deprecatingly about this being his first time on an answering machine, and he hoped he was doing it right.
I wasn’t sure how he’d gotten the number to my landline, but I was glad for it. Grateful to whichever family member had seen fit to hand over my happiness when I’d been too oblivious, too stubborn, too cowardly to do it myself.
With elbows pressed to the countertop, I pressed the play button again and heard the smile in Ian’s voice, felt the comfort in his words.
It wasn’t over-the-top or demonstrative.
He knew me too well for that. But it was a steady recounting of his day and things that reminded him of George or me, moments he’d been compelled to share.
It was painfully domestic and equally as romantic. A gentle reminder that he was still here in every way that mattered. A touching love letter for my ears alone.
The messages on my answering machine and the texts continued over the next few weeks, and it felt like a knot loosened somewhere in my chest. We didn’t discuss our relationship or the future or what happened in LA.
Instead, we talked about George and life in Kirby Falls.
What Ian was missing by being gone. What could be his .
. . if he wanted it. If I was brave enough to offer it.
I’d thought I needed space from Ian to get my head on straight. To come to terms with the inevitable end of us. To, maybe, fall out of love.
But the longer Ian was away, the more I realized I didn’t want distance. Because with every message I received, it was a little reminder, an arrow to my heart, that I’d spent all my life missing a love like this. And I didn’t know if I could bear to wait any longer.