Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
WREN
I bolt from the house so quickly that I don’t realize I look like a frisky minx who’s been ravaged in her bathroom until I’m nearly out of town, when a quick glance in the rearview mirror reveals my mascara is smudged halfway down my face, and my hair is fuzzy all over.
Cursing Barrett and myself and his stupidly amazing tongue, I turn around and head to my gym to get tidied up.
I’m sure Barrett has left my place by now, but I don’t want to risk running into Starling. She thinks I’m overreacting; I could see it on her face as I gave her a quick hug goodbye and stormed out the front door alone. But she doesn’t understand what it felt like to spend that long night alone with no idea why Barrett had bailed.
And his “explanation” was, to use his favorite turn of phrase, absolutely ridiculous.
He’s either lying or men really are from Mars and women are from Venus.
Maybe he’s lying to be nice. Maybe you’re awful in bed and he doesn’t want to hurt your feelings.
Leaning into the locker room mirror to reapply my mascara, I mutter, “Never had any complaints in that area before.”
But the words aren’t comforting. It’s been a long time since I had sex with anyone on a regular basis and none of my boyfriends ever acted like I was anything special in that department. They never said no to a chance to get it on, but they never went out of their way to seduce me, either.
Maybe I’m doing it wrong, but everyone I’ve slept with has been too nice to give constructive feedback.
“Are you okay?” a young woman in a Golden Gophers t-shirt asks from behind me, catching my gaze in the mirror.
“I’m fine,” I say, forcing a smile.
“You just looked like you were…scared or something,” she says.
I let out a shaky laugh. “Well, there are lots of things to be scared of on the verge of thirty-one.”
The girl nods seriously. “Yeah, I already worry I’m turning into my mother. I can’t imagine what I’ll be like in ten years.”
Her words bring a real smile to my face. “Yeah, well, I got lucky there. My mom’s pretty great.”
“Lucky you,” she says, rolling her eyes as she lifts a hand. “See you around. Glad you’re okay.”
I am okay. And I know a way I can be even more okay.
Back on the road, I call my mom, putting her on speakerphone as I head south. She answers on the second ring with an excited, “Wren! What a nice surprise. Are you on a break at work?”
“No, I’m on my way to a conference,” I say. “I’m in the car for a while, so I thought I’d call and check in. How are you? How’s work and the walking club? The quilting circle? Is Tabitha still making you listen to Hamilton every time you meet up to sew?”
“Work is great now that tax season is behind us,” Mom says, the way she always does between May and January of every year. She’s a very upbeat accountant clerk. “And now Tabitha’s on a Tori Amos kick. Wren, that Tori is as talented as all get out, but has so many sad songs. They’ll just break your heart into pieces, I tell ya. Last week, three of us had to excuse ourselves to cry in the hallway. Pat is going to bring in a Paula Abdul playlist next time. That woman knows how to make some happy music.”
Already feeling better, I suggest they might want to try The B-52’s, too, and we move on to the latest news from the walking club. Mom only lives twenty minutes away, in a slightly smaller town than Bad Dog, but with international calling issues the past three months, we haven’t had a chance to catch up in a while.
I fill Mom in on my return to work and how Starling’s settling in, which prompts a worried noise from the other end of the line. “She texted yesterday that she lost her job,” Mom says. “She seemed happy about it, but I know she doesn’t have that much money saved up. Should I be concerned? Maybe send her a little something to tide her over?”
“I think she’ll be fine, Mom,” I say. “She’s picking up extra cash for watching Dr. McGuire’s new dog for him part-time and she’s doing so well at the Furry Friends Society. If the board votes to establish a permanent fundraising position, I’m almost positive she’ll get it.”
“Ah, so, Barrett got a dog?” Mom asks. I tell her a bit about the weird, but adorable, Keanu and Mom laughs. “Well, that’s great news. For Keanu and Barrett. He’s always seemed like such a lonely man. Sweet and smart as a whip, but lonely, even with that big family so busy around him.”
I chew my lip, kind of wishing Mom and I were the sort of mother and daughter who talked about steamy sex-capades with our bosses.
But Mom hasn’t dated since my dad left and the few times that I’ve tried to share more intimate things in the past, she always seemed uncomfortable. That just isn’t in her wheelhouse, but she is an excellent judge of character. She basically summed up what Barrett shared with me earlier this week in a few sentences, making me wonder if she might have more insights to share.
“Why do you think that is, Mom?” I ask. “Just because he’s an introvert in a family full of extroverts?”
“Maybe,” Mom says. “The older brother thing might play into it, too. You know yourself, older siblings tend to have more responsibility, more weight on their shoulders. And you only had one little sister to help take care of, not seven. The McGuires weren’t always well-off, you know. Back when Barrett was little, his daddy was still working handyman jobs. He hadn’t flipped houses or bought the hardware store yet, but he was busy all the time, trying to get ahead. I’m sure Barrett had to step in and fill his father’s shoes more than the younger boys ever did.”
“True,” I say. “And Barrett’s family still leans on him. A lot.” I bite my lip. “So do I, I guess. He’s always the first person I call when I need my garbage disposal fixed or a crazed turkey removed from my front yard.”
Mom laughs. “How is my grand turkey? So glad Kyle’s turned his life around and learned how to be a good boy.”
I fill her in on Kyle’s flirtation with the female turkeys over the fence, but then can’t resist circling back to Barrett, this man I maybe don’t know as well as I thought I did. “Do you think Dr. McGuire’s always been sad? Or do you think it’s just since he and his wife divorced?”
“I’ve always felt a bit of sadness in him,” Mom says. “I get the sense that he feels like he doesn’t fit in, which can be hard. Even on a man who seems to have everything going for him. You can be smart and successful and handsome, and still feel like you’re on the outside looking in. And that’s a hard feeling.”
“Yeah,” I agree, softly. “It is.” I love my co-workers, but I’m not on intimate terms with any of them and my jewelry making friends are more like casual acquaintances.
My only deep friendship is with Tatum, Drew’s fiancée, and we’ve only known each other a few months, most of which I was out of the country. I’m hoping we’ll be close for a long time, but now that she’s getting married and having a baby, things might be different.
I might be back on the outside looking in again soon, too.
“Just know I’m here,” Mom says gently. “Any time you might be feeling lonely. I love you just the way you are, sweetheart, and so does Starling.”
“I know, Mom,” I say. “Thanks. Love and miss you.”
“Love and miss you, too. Let’s get coffee soon or shop the farmers’ market when it opens,” she says. “Drive safe.”
I promise I will and end the call, mulling over everything she said as I drive, until I come to a strange hypothesis.
Maybe Barrett and I are struggling to figure out how to be more than friends not because we’re so different, but because, in many ways, we’re very much the same.
We’re both nerdy and behind our peers when it comes to coupling up and settling down. We both find weird things funny and laugh at inappropriate times and have at least a touch of social anxiety. When mine rears its head during staff parties, I dull it with a glass of chardonnay, while Barrett deals by being grumpy or cutting out early without saying goodbye.
Insight hits like a bolt of lightning.
The night we were together, I’d had a couple drinks and a part of me still wanted to linger in the bathroom, just to delay what I expected would be a searingly awkward “so that happened” conversation. Barrett was sober and exhausted from a long day at work and a stakeout to try to capture Kyle.
If our positions were reversed, can I say with absolute certainty that I wouldn’t have made a run for it, too? Or at least been sorely tempted?
After a bit more self-reflection, I admit that I really can’t, and decide maybe I owe Barrett an apology.
And if not an apology, then at least an olive branch.
You think? I mean, the man did amazing, fantastical things to your body without asking anything in return. And told you how much he missed you. Several times. You from three months ago would be giddy with excitement. You’d be calling Tatum to share the happy news, dissecting every word he said for hidden meanings, and secretly scrolling through china patterns.
“Yeah, well, I’m not me from three months ago, anymore,” I grumble. “And who registers for china anymore? I’d rather have one of those indoor grills.”
I’d rather have a do-over, honestly.
If Barrett and I could just go back to that night in February and try again, maybe everything would be different. He wouldn’t run, I wouldn’t run away to Thailand and spend three months hardening my heart against the man I’ve crushed on for most of my life, and maybe we’d be living happily ever after by now.
Or realized that all we do is fight and miscommunicate and that we’re better off as colleagues and nothing more.
Either way, we’d be out of this weird limbo, this frustrating place where I feel compelled to fight my feelings and challenge him at every turn, no matter how much a part of me wants to lean into our attraction and all the fun we could be having after hours.
But do-overs don’t happen in real life.
At least not without a little help…