CHAPTER SIXTEEN SAWYER #5
“Excuse me?” We set the table down, but Jaz doesn’t move, waiting for an answer.
I was paired with her to move furniture when Peter scooped in on Fallon.
Of course they’d be paired up, but I thought I’d be moving furniture on my own—until Fallon said Tank closed the hardware store early and was taking over the bar for her with Sully so she could help us.
So, Jaz is my new partner.
How much you want to bet I’ll be on the other end of her knife at some point?
“What the hell is a word echo? And why are you trying to craft our conversation?”
“A word echo is when you repeat a word within close proximity of the same word. Since we already used ‘muscles,’ I figured we could use something different, something with flavor. I realize this is not normal, but you’re talking to someone who writes for a living—proper conversational flow is something I think about pretty much constantly. ”
“Ew, don’t be creepy.” She pushes past me, bumping my shoulder on the way out.
“It’s not cree—”
“Fallon, Sawyer’s being creepy,” Jaz says as Fallon and Peter approach us, an accent chair in their hands.
“I’m not being creepy.”
“I told you I didn’t want to be partnered with him. He’s trying to use word echoes on me.”
“No,” I retort, catching up. “I was attempting not to word echo—makes for a more interesting, less boring conversation. But with all the creepy talk and the repetitive mention of ‘word echo,’ we are in fact negating the whole purpose of what I was talking about.”
“Oh great, now you’re saying I’m boring. Wow, Julia, you really don’t know how to make friends, do you?”
I press my fingers into my temples, massaging them. “I wasn’t calling you boring; I was attempting to avoid ‘boring.’”
“You know what, I’m attempting to avoid boring as well.” Jaz bumps Fallon out of the way and grips the accent chair. “Peter is my new partner—I refuse to be subjected to his creepery.”
“‘Creepery’ is not a word,” I shoot back.
“You would know, Mr.Dictionary,” Jaz says, pushing Peter down the path.
“Hey, I was enjoying some time with my girlfriend,” he protests.
“You’ll have plenty of time later to whisper doctor lingo into her ear as your form of foreplay. Now let’s get a move on.” She pushes again at Peter, who has no other option than to let Jaz take over.
I turn to Fallon. “I wasn’t being creepy.”
“I don’t know—she paints a damning picture.” Fallon smirks, and for the life of me, I can’t help myself as I put my arm around her shoulder and guide her toward the cabin.
“I see where your loyalty is.”
She doesn’t pull away but instead bumps me with her shoulder playfully. “Best friends since we were five; saw each other every summer. Loyalty sticks with her.”
“That’s fair.” I drop my arm—don’t want to push my luck. “You know, if you and Peter want privacy tonight, I can try to find another place to stay, or just set a mattress on one of the floors in the cabins.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not going to make you sleep in an empty cabin. Besides, it’s, uh... it’s that time of the month for me, so nothing will be happening with Peter.”
“Oh.” I nervously laugh because I’m a twelve-year-old boy. “Uh, do you... do you need chocolate or anything?”
Fallon pauses and looks up at me. “Seriously? That’s what you’re going to say?”
“I don’t know.” I pull on my hair. “Not sure how to react to that. Do you need a break? A tampon? A cup of water to... help flush things out?” I pause and scratch the side of my cheek. “Jesus, maybe I am creepy.”
She lets out a laugh and takes my arm, pulling me toward an empty cabin. “I wish it weren’t true, but yeah, there might be a little creep in you.”
“Perhaps there’s a little creep in all of us...” I shake my head. “Why does that sound like I’m speaking of a mini alien?”
“You really have a disturbing mind, you realize that?”
“Yeah, it’s why I started writing, to help let loose some of these ideas.”
“Hence a martian falling in love with a human...”
Her lips tug at the corners, and I point at her with mock anger. “We are not to speak of my failures. I’m already logged in as creepy. You have to help a guy keep his dignity.”
“Do I?”
“No, but it would be a nice gesture.”
“Maybe I can find it in my heart. Come on, let’s start on the carpets—Jaz and Peter can work on the furniture.”
Together, we head into one of the empty cabins. The smell is musty, the carpet is a leopard print of gross stains, and there’s a questionable hole in the wall where the bed’s headboard used to be.
“What’s that from?” I ask, pointing to the hole.
“Can’t be sure. Possibly a blatant display of male fragility.”
I let out a roar of a laugh. “That very well could be a reason. Should we frame it, add ‘Artist unknown’ at the bottom?”
“A novel idea, but not sure many would understand. Please tell me you can patch it.”
“Pfft, of course I can patch it.”
“That confident?”
“Fallon, please, that’s child’s work.”
“Which means you can patch it tonight? So we can paint tomorrow.”
“I don’t know; do you have the supplies to patch it?” I ask with a raise of my brow.
“Do you really need supplies? If you’re so good, I’d assume you could patch it using whatever is at your disposal.”
“I’m good, Fallon, but I’m not MacGyver. I’ll need at least some wall joint compound. Do you have any of that?”
She taps her chin. “Can’t say that I do. I can check our supplies, though.”
I laugh. “If you don’t have any, I’ll grab some from Tank in the morning. We can save this cabin last for painting, so it has time to dry. In the meantime, let’s get this carpet torn out.”
We slip on gloves, and I mentally prepare myself for the dust and grime that comes with ripping up these carpets.
It takes us a few minutes to get our footing, but once we start pulling and rolling, we’re able to take it out in minutes.
I wipe my forearm across my forehead. “Ready to pull it out the door?”
“When you say ‘pull,’ you mean you’re doing the pulling and I’m doing the pushing, right?”
“Right,” I say. I hop over the roll and then maneuver out the door, where I grip the end of the carpet roll. “Ready?”
She gets into pushing position. “Ready.”
“Three, two, one... go.”
Together, we push and pull with such great force that we both surprise ourselves and pull the carpet right into the open grass field in front of the cabin, causing both of us to trip over our own feet.
I fall backward into the grass, while Fallon falls forward against the carpet, only to roll off it and land face first in the planter by the door.
“Oh shit, are you okay?” I ask, springing up from the ground.
“Yes.” She laughs.
She rolls to her back when I reach her, and I take her hand in mine and help her to her feet. When she’s steady, I notice a dot of mud on her cheek. Before I can stop myself, I’m removing my glove and reaching up to wipe it away.
Her eyes snap to mine in confusion. “You have some mud on your cheek,” I say quickly. “I’d say it looks good, but it really doesn’t.”
“Are you saying I can’t pull mud off?”
“I’m saying it doesn’t highlight your best features, which would be your eyes. It distracts anyone looking at you from getting lost in them,” I say before I can stop myself.
My finger lingers on her cheeks as her gaze remains fixed on mine, as the breeze stands still, and the sun begins to set behind the mountain. Our eyes connect, and something passes between us. An appreciation? An understanding.
I’d be kidding myself if I said I wouldn’t be overjoyed if Fallon acted on the attraction between us.
But something is there, a dangerous kind of emotion that gives me hope.
“Everything okay over here?” Peter’s voice cuts right through us, sending a jolt of reality straight into my chest.
Fuck, pull away, man. “Yeah, she just fell,” I say, turning to avoid eye contact as he strides past me.
“You okay, sweetheart?” Peter walks over to her, concern on his face.
“Yes, just tripped is all.” Fallon’s voice has a shake to it when she answers. I want to glance over my shoulder to see if I just imagined it, the rattle to her answer. I want to get one more look at her, see if her cheeks are stained in pink, if her eyes are cutting in my direction.
Did she feel it?
The zap between us?
The pull?
Or is it all me?
Knowing Peter caught us in an intimate position, I don’t want to ruffle any feathers, so I let him coddle her as I turn back to the task at hand—the carpet. I grip the edge, and with all my pent-up frustration, I tug it toward the dumpster.
All the while, I remind myself: She’s not yours, Sawyer .
She’s not fucking yours.
I thought I knew what being uncomfortable was until I stepped into Fallon’s upstairs residence with her and Peter.
After the tumble, Peter claimed Fallon again while Jaz hacked away at the carpet with her knife. I stood over her, watching in horror. If Jaz ever ended up on the news, I’d know exactly why.
Finally, I coaxed her away from her carpet victim and rolled it up before carting it to the dumpster.
Somewhere along the way, Peter lost his shirt and was walking around, sticking his chest out for the world to see.
I would like to say that there was something wrong with the man, like a wonky nipple or a weird chest-hair pattern, but honestly, I couldn’t pinpoint anything—which I found more irritating.
Because I know that if I’d taken my shirt off, I’d have exposed a freckle on my pec, close enough to resemble a third nipple if you only were allowed a quick glance. On closer study, it’s obviously a freckle, but not everyone knows that.
Knowing my tumultuous relationship with Jaz, I didn’t dare go shirtless. I knew she’d make some note of my freckle. She’d already seen me with my shirt off, but with my luck, she’d choose the worst moment to discover the offending freckle.
Once the carpets were torn out, we called it a night. Jaz went back to the bar, an extra pep in her step from being able to slash away, and I achingly followed behind Fallon and Peter, who were holding hands.
Showered and ready for bed, I had to navigate through the residence, heart heavy in my chest as Peter caressed Fallon on the arm, the back, pecked her with kisses here and there, made it absolutely known that even though she might have spent a portion of the day with me, he would be spending the entire night with her.
The affection was too much for me, too painful, and instead of sticking around and sitting in the living room with them, I retired to my room.
“Are you comfortable?” Fallon asks. “I hope it’s not weird being in Sully’s bedroom.
” She’s leaning against the doorframe of Sully’s room, wearing a pair of red cotton shorts and a simple Canoodle T-shirt.
From a quick glance—and I mean lightning speed—I can see that she’s not wearing a bra, and that’s all I’ll say on that matter.
.. except, God, she looks cuddle-able. Like she could melt right into my chest, legs tangled, arm around my waist.
“This is great,” I say, hands on the mattress beneath me. I give it a little bounce, and the springs squeak. The mattress is old and lumpy, and I’m sure he’s never once replaced it.
“I hope you’re not someone who moves in their sleep, because with that squeak beneath you, you’re going to be up all night.”
“Lucky for me, I lie stiff as a board, on my back, hands at my side, like a pencil.”
She laughs. “Why can I envision it?”
I press my hand to my chest, scandalized. “Fallon, how dare you envision me in bed.”
She’s laughing some more just as Peter walks up behind her and slips his arm around her waist so his hand rests on her stomach. He presses his lips to her neck, and jealousy skyrockets through me. “Ready for bed, sweetheart?”
“Yeah,” she says. “Just making sure Sawyer’s comfortable.
” She turns toward me, and I notice that she doesn’t lean into Peter’s grip, nor does she rest her hand on his, something a loving couple would do—he touches her, she touches him.
Instead, he clings to her like a life float, while she stands tall, eyes trained on me, making me dare to hope I might actually have a chance. “You good?”
“I’m good. Thank you, Fallon.”
“No, thank you, Sawyer. I’m honestly so grateful for everything you’ve done.”
“Yes, thank you, Sawyer,” Peter says from over Fallon’s shoulder.
I catch his thumb rub her stomach. It’s the lightest of movements, not something I think another person would observe, but it nabs my attention like a knife piercing into me.
I know, from the perspective of writing romance and observing the little things about a relationship, that a stroke of a thumb is almost more intimate than a kiss.
Anyone can pucker up and press their mouths together.
But only a person in a devoted relationship would have the privilege of stroking their thumb over their partner’s skin.
And that’s what fucking breaks me.
That stroke of his thumb.
Like a tornado whipping through me, I’m swirled and consumed by jealousy, by anger, by longing.
Why the hell did I have to ignore her on our blind date? Why did I have to retreat to the one place where I’d run into someone I click with, someone I could see myself with, someone who is completely and irrevocably attached?
Why can’t I be the man who holds her? Who caresses her?
Why does it feel like I’ve tossed myself into a self-induced purgatory with no way out?
“Okay, good night, Sawyer,” Fallon says.
“Yes, good night, Sawyer,” Peter says, bringing Fallon into his chest, and then I see it—she smooths her hand over his, and it’s like a goddamn gut punch.
For a moment, the smallest, shortest of moments, I thought that maybe she wasn’t feeling the same way about him that he does for her.
From her smirks, to the playful way she jokes with me, to the stolen glances, my imagination conjured up hope, whispered in the back of my mind that I had a chance.
But with that small, innocent touch, her loving body language toward Peter, those thoughts are banished.
I offer a soft smile through the pain. “Good night.”
And then they take off, hand in hand, to Fallon’s room on the other side of the residence, where they’ll share a bed...
I flop back on the mattress and grip my head, agony ripping through me.
“Fuck.”