Chapter Two
Caleb
Now
“Honestly, Stace, I don’t know what you want from me.” I do. I know very well what my kind-of girlfriend of the past three months wants. She wants what they’ve all wanted over the years and what I can’t give her.
Stacey holds out her hands in defeat. I think she knows as well as I do that we’ve reached the famous end of the line.
I’ve got nothing more to give her, and she knows it.
“I want you, Caleb. I want…more with you.” She dips her head to her pristine white sneakers, and her blonde hair falls like waves around her shoulders.
Stacey is gorgeous by anyone’s standard.
She’s the girl-next-door who’s grown into an attractive, accomplished, and compassionate woman.
She’s everything I should want, but I don’t.
Not like that. Not in a white-picket fence, Sunday apple pie, and driving-our-kids-off-to-college-one-day kind of way.
I’ve never wanted it, and it’s safe to say I never will.
“More?” I kick at Marilyn’s flat tire. Today’s a bust whichever way you choose to look at it.
Stacey is breaking up with me, and my usual Saturday ride down the coast has turned into a day cooped up in my empty house.
Spare tires for a Fastback aren’t easy to come by.
I’ll have to order one, and then it’ll take at least—
“Caleb! Are you even listening to me?” Stace plants her hands on her hips and narrows her blue eyes on me.
They’re pretty, but not the prettiest blue I’ve ever seen.
No, the prettiest blue eyes belong to him, to Kayden.
They’re bluer than the wide September sky when there’s a bite in the air and the endless ocean when a storm has passed.
“Sorry, Stace. I’m listening.” I card my hand through my hair, which has gotten way too long around the ears and in the back for my liking.
I also found a couple of grays this morning when I brushed my teeth, and Stacey was humming along to some pop song in the kitchen.
It’s okay, though. Sal has way more grays than me, and as long as he does, it’s okay. ‘What do you mean, more?’
I offer her my crooked smile that usually does the trick, or at least, it did in the beginning when it was all just fun and games and no strings attached.
Stacey sighs, worrying her bottom lip. It’s nice and plump, and I fucking love the way it vibrates against my skin when she goes down on me. I’ll miss that: Stacey going down on me on the kitchen floor or in the den or wherever.
“Like I know there’s a plan. With us. That we’re going somewhere.” Right.
I decide to venture into dangerous waters because sometimes you just need to grab the bull by the horns. Not that Stacey is a bull. She’s more of a deer with those slender legs that go on for miles and miles. “You mean living together, kids, the whole fucking layered cake?”
Stacey blushes, then looks up at me through her long eyelashes.
“Yes,” she whispers, and I nod, because I already knew she wanted that. Why wouldn’t she? Stacey is thirty-six, four years younger than me. The clock is ticking, and she’s the whole package, so why wouldn’t she want the whole damn cake, too? “Is that so wrong?” Fuck my life.
I rub at my forehead, recognizing that familiar throbbing sensation when a headache is building.
“No, Stace. That’s not wrong. Not at all.
” I hold out my hand, but she takes a step back toward the house.
I do not want to do this outside where all my nosy-ass neighbors can witness yet another failed relationship of mine, but it looks like today’s the day.
“But that’s not me. Jesus, Stace, I told you going in that it’s not me. It’ll never be me…”
Her eyes widen, a pleading edge to her voice when she speaks, “But I thought—”
“What? That I’d change my mind?” I don’t like the edge of annoyance in my voice, but I hate feeling cornered like this. I’m too old for this shit. Why the hell do I keep putting myself in situations like these? Grow the fuck up, Caleb Morgan.
My phone buzzes in my jeans pocket, and it’s probably Sal. He’s been texting me all morning about some delayed plywood shipment. Several projects of ours have stalled, and yesterday we sent most of our twenty employees home because there was nothing for them to do.
“Yes,” Stacey mutters. “We’re really good together, so I did think that. Is that really so unreasonable, Caleb?”
“No.” I shake my head as I continue to rub at my forehead, the throbbing sensation intensifying every second.
“It’s not. But Stace, I’m not gonna change my mind.
Ever.” It’s time to tear off the Band-Aid in one go.
“Not for you. Not for anyone. I don’t believe in all that.
Marriage, kids, the whole shebang. I don’t want it. I told you, Stace.”
It’s a low blow, because if there’s something that human beings are known for, it’s holding out hope even when there’s none left.
And even though I’ve played an open hand from the very beginning, there was always, at least in Stacey’s mind, the minuscule possibility that she was the exception.
Only she isn’t. There is no exception to my rule.
“Okay. I guess this is it then?” Stacey wipes her eyes, and this is the hard part, because as much as I’m an asshole, I’m also a people pleaser.
I know myself well enough that I need to get Stacey out of here before I blurt something ridiculous like, ‘You don’t have to go right now,’ and before I know it, we’re fucking in the garage or something.
It’s not that far-fetched, and it has happened before.
Not with Stacey, but with some other poor guy or girl.
It always gives people hope, because if you can fuck them, then why not marry them too?
“I guess so. It’s for the best, Stace.”
“Right.” Stacey grabs her purse and keys from Marilyn’s hood.
Her eyes are wet, but she’s holding back.
I feel strangely grateful that she’s not making it any harder.
Over the years, I’ve had ex-lovers throw anything from bedside lamps to twelve-pound turkeys at me while screaming dickface and asshole in the frozen foods section at the Anchor Point Market downtown.
Steve Daley, the town librarian I hooked up with a couple of times a few years ago, even slashed my fucking tires outside The Tavern.
It’s one thing if you come at me, but don’t mess with my girl Marilyn. She’s just an innocent bystander.
“See you around, Caleb.” Stacey passes me in the driveway and presses a quick kiss against my cheek. “You need a shave.”
I chuckle under my breath. She isn’t wrong, but it’s Saturday, and I can’t be bothered.
I’ll probably just kick back for the rest of the day on the deck with a few Millers and Bruce on the stereo singing Born to Run like that isn’t the fucking story of my life.
I need to call Sal back, too, before he comes over and kicks my ass.
“Bye, Stace. For what it’s worth—”
“Don’t,” she throws out over her shoulder before she opens the door to her Mitsubishi Mirage and gets in, slamming the door behind her.
Within seconds, she’s gone, speeding through the cul-de-sac before she disappears around the corner toward town.
My neighbor Ronald waves at me from across the street, where he’s pouring gas into his lawnmower.
I wave back, then pat Marilyn’s hood with regret.
Not today, baby girl. I walk back toward my house, the front door still open.
Inside the kitchen, I lean against the counter as I call Sal back.
“What the hell took you so long? Don’t tell me you didn’t end it with Stace after all,” he sighs through the phone.
Sal’s my best friend, and I tell him everything.
Poor guy, the amount of crap he’s had to listen to over the years.
The guy deserves a fucking medal. Okay, so he stole Vivian from me in high school, but still…
I groan into the phone, and Sal laughs. “I did. Of course I did. What do you take me for?”
“Was she upset?”
“Nah… I don’t think I’ve messed up too badly. We’ll still get a discount down at Wallace’s if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Shut up,” Sal laughs again, but I know that’s what he was asking.
Stacey is the general manager down at the hardware store where we order most of our paint from.
Yeah, yeah, I know. Don’t shit where you eat and all that.
But it’s not like Barnacle Cove has an endless pool of guys and girls I can dip my toes into. You’ve gotta work with what you’ve got.
“Any news on the misplaced plywood?” I stare out the window facing the backyard.
The grass is up to mid-calf now, and I ought to mow it.
Spring was warmer than usual with a lot of rain, and it’s been hard to keep on top of everything.
Sal and I have put in way more hours down at the shop lately because our custom sailboats are in higher demand than ever.
During COVID, people took up a lot of outdoor activities, including sailing, and the trend has continued.
Over the past year, we’ve hired five more employees.
My love life might be in shambles, but professionally, I’m on a roll.
“Tuesday. It’ll be here Tuesday.”
“For fuck’s sake.” The headache intensifies at the thought of my day with beers and Bruce going south because I have to do damage control and send out emails to our clients, informing them about possible delays. Force majeure and all that shit.
“I know. Nothing we can do about it.”