Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
After a full flight with a crying baby in front of me, a panting dog behind me, and an overly friendly woman in the seat right next to me, who absolutely would not shut up no matter how curt my responses, I’m drained.
I skip the long line at the car rental counter and order a ride. The driver doesn’t ask any questions about my two requested stops before the hotel: a liquor store and a drugstore.
Thankfully, he isn’t chatty at all. The only question he asks is what kind of music I prefer. When I half-jokingly suggest anything loud and angry, he smiles and nods.
“Been there,” he says, and then he cranks up the volume. I make sure his tip reflects my gratitude.
My room smells fresh, and everything seems new, even the mattress. After this day, a recently remodeled hotel room feels like a gift.
Shandy has sent me half a dozen text messages. Her tone has become less threatening and more desperate in the last few. I can’t give her what she wants, though.
She can ask why and how all night long, but I’m never going to be able to answer those questions.
I open the bottle of wine from the liquor store with the cheap folding corkscrew the clerk threw in for free, followed by the bag of chocolate chips from Walgreens with my teeth.
Dinner of champions.
I text Gareth like I promised. He calls in response. Because he’s one of those people.
“Hey,” I say through a mouthful of melting chocolate. A swish of wine between my cheeks like mouthwash enables me to go on. “How are you doing?”
“Am I interrupting your dinner?”
“It’s fine. I can talk and eat.”
“I assume Shandy has probably been sending you messages, too.”
“A few. Now that I’ve had a chance to calm down, I kind of get where she was coming from. In all fairness, she was expecting to confront you alone. But then I walked into your office, and she lost it.”
“Doesn’t excuse her behavior.”
“No, but it’s understandable why she freaked out.”
“She’s not a child. What time is your meeting tomorrow?”
“Nine. Picking my car up at eight.”
“You didn’t rent a car tonight?”
“Too tired to drive.”
“I guess I shouldn’t have sent you off so exhausted. How was the flight?”
“Not the best.”
“Okay, I’m going to let you get some sleep. I want you well rested when you come home.”
“That place hasn’t been home for me in a very long time.”
“Things change. Sleep well, sweet girl.”
“Goodnight.”
I turn on the TV, and search for the worst trash-fire reality show I can find. The wine gets better with the second glass, and I remember I have a protein bar in my purse that I’d intended to eat on my flight.
This night’s looking up.
Shandy sends a new text: Please just go away and never come back. You’re fucking toxic. You always were. My dad deserves better.
Time heals. She’s obviously going to need a while longer to process this.
* * *
A few days of work is exactly what I’ve needed. This is my real life, staying busy has saved me more than once. Measurements, floorplans, material samples, ordering, arguing, thinking on my feet—proving myself. Exceeding expectations. Outpacing demons.
I absofuckinglutely love every minute of it. But there is not enough coffee in the world to clear my head this morning. Thank goodness for digital boarding passes because I have no idea what happened to the paper one the kiosk spit at me when I checked my bags.
“Cart coming through!” The driver beeps his horn as he yells the warning to part the shuffling crowd.
Oh well, I was probably going to spill coffee on myself at some point today, anyway. That’s what I get for thinking I could wear a white sweater in an airport.
All I want right now is to get on the plane and sleep for three hours. My phone buzzes, and I fish it out of my purse without breaking stride, knowing the text will be from Gareth before I even see his name.
Gareth: Are you at the airport?
Me: Headed to the gate. Spilling coffee with every step.
Gareth: See you at baggage claim.
Me: You really don’t have to pick me up. And you definitely don’t have to come inside.
Gareth: But I am. We’re going to the lake for the weekend. See you soon.
I should protest, tell him I need to get back to my apartment, take some time alone to sort things out. But the second I read “the lake,” my core heats up, and my shoulders melt like wax.
Mmm, wax. The memory of him and that candle is going to burn forever. With nothing more than two words in a text, he’s got me hot and dripping like a walking, breathing candle, though I’m not exactly mastering either task at the moment—more like a stumbling, winded candle.
Shit, I should’ve hopped on that cart. I drop my phone back into my purse and take another gulp of coffee.
The pilot’s voice is deep and soothing, possibly more so because I’m barely awake, but I swear he should narrate audio books. Dirty, dirty audio books.
“We’ve got clear skies ahead, folks. Sit back, relax, and enjoy the flight.” I lower the window shade and follow captain’s orders.
T minus two hours and forty-eight minutes to Mr. B. Dirty, dirty Mr. B.
* * *
The mirrors in airport bathrooms are from hell. Or maybe it’s the lighting. It’s got to be one of those things because I can look fine before I leave for a trip, but as soon as I look into a mirror in an airport bathroom, I look like I just clawed my way out of a grave.
I take a deep breath and remind myself it’s always like this. That haggard corpse in the mirror is not what Gareth will see. God, if he knew I was giving myself this silent pep talk right now, he’d die laughing.
The urge to grab another coffee is strong, but I resist it. Gareth is probably waiting, and I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror long enough that my bag might be on the carousel already.
Why am I so nervous? It’s only been a few days since we’ve seen each other, and I’ve been fine. Busy. Working.
Not obsessing over him. Much.
I see him before he sees me. Damn, he looks good.
This feels good, coming home to him.
Home.
Fuck.