Chapter 18
18
P earls go with everything. If they don’t, you’re dressed wrong, honey.
“It's tomorrow, Jane, not today.” Carlisle protested.
“But what are you wearing?” Jane asked from the phone sitting on the vanity.
Carlisle leaned over her sink, applying her makeup for the first time today at five p.m. She'd slept most of the day, making almost six straight hours.
Normally she was catching somewhere between three and four at a stretch. She was finally building up enough of those short naps to spend her awake time feeling rested. It wasn't good, but it was an improvement.
Jane liked to remind her to count the small wins. Today’s six hours went in the win column as it was the first time since . . . When Carlisle thought back, she had to admit: since the accident.
Now, she was rested enough, and she was putting on makeup to go see Simon for their usual neighbor dinner that had slowly turned into something more. They’d challenged themselves to go vegetarian for the night. He was baking slices of broccoli heads in balsamic vinegar, something he’d found online. And she was bringing a hearty bean stew that she'd put in the crock pot this morning. It was definitely an experiment.
“What are you doing tomorrow night for the date?” Jane’s voice asked.
“Movie and dinner.” Carlisle picked up each compact and opened it to see what was inside. She did not remember. She’d worn the same makeup over and over these last months . . . if at all.
“In that order?” Jane asked.
“Yes.”
“Oh, so it’s a little nicer.”
“For the dinner and drinks,” Carlisle added, “I mean, a movie is a movie.”
He was taking her for drinks. He’d had the occasional beer during dinner, he’d had the hard seltzer, and she’d not figured it out. She still wanted to ask why he'd said he couldn't drink that first night.
Jane didn’t hear her thoughts and said, “Well, it’s at night, so the black dress?”
“To a movie? I was thinking jeans.” Carlisle didn’t want to come across as too eager or as “putting on airs” as her mama liked to call it. Southern girls did not do that! Though, in Carlisle’s experience, they did that all the time.
The noise Jane made about the jeans was clear. She would not be wearing them. Her friend tried again. “It's the end of summer, so a short skirt?”
“Not too short,” Carlisle protested as if she weren’t picking this outfit out for herself.
“That sounds good. Casual enough for a movie, but nice enough to go out afterward. Send pictures,” was Jane's last demand about the date. Then she shifted topic, while Carlisle tried to figure out if her eyeliner was too much. “What about the website?”
They would be eating at the picnic table again. She'd already put on the tinted foundation which, of course, made her look completely washed out now. She picked up one of her brushes and kept talking into the open phone lying beside her. “He tested it. He ordered two kits to the same address, paid for it with his credit card, and then came back twenty-four hours later and canceled the order.”
“Ooh, good call,” Jane offered.
“Yeah. But I realized after he cancelled it—which I told him to do, because I don't want his money?—”
“Of course, of course,” Jane added.
“I realized we actually need someone to place an order as part of an initial round and make sure that it shows up on our list. So when we send out the first batch we know nothing got missed.”
“Good point.” It sounded like she was taking notes. Good, because Carlisle was testing eye shadows. “Are you up for it?”
“Sure.” She wasn’t doing much else, at least this was useful.
Before she got the word fully spoken, Jane blurted out, “Guess what I got today!”
“Herpes?” Carlisle asked out of habit. That was how they always answered when asked to guess what someone got in the ER. They’d routinely said: chlamydia, scabies, Ebola, and worse.
“No, ma'am,” Jane replied. “I got word from the shipping company that the kits will be here three days earlier than they originally said.”
“Oh my God.” Carlisle felt herself almost starting to hyperventilate. “That's faster than they said.”
“I have to appreciate that,” Jane added, obviously not freaking out the way Carlisle was. “But it means you and I both need our garages ready earlier. Can you do that? ”
“Of course.” It was a lie, and Carlisle heard the tone in her own answer. Probably Jane did too.
She wasn’t ready. She wasn’t at zero, but there were still a handful of things she needed to move. She could do it. “I'm off to dinner now. I will call you and send pictures of outfits before the big date tomorrow night.”
“Thank you very much,” Jane added ignoring the lie about her garage readiness. “Go have fun. Continue with that kiss test and report back.”
She’d told Jane about all of it. Or almost all of it.
She’d confessed that at dinner two nights ago, she’d spent the whole evening leaning into him. Rather than talking, she’d found she was using her tone for things other than words. That she'd stayed away last night, almost just to convince herself that she could. To prove to herself that she was a grown-ass woman who wasn't making an idiot out of herself for the man next door.
A man who she would have to continue to see at least in passing if things went horribly awry.
As ready as she could be and hopefully not overly made up for picnic table bean stew, she grabbed the large, quilted bag her mother had given her. It was sewn for the exact act of carrying heavy dishes. Because her mother told her she was a Southern woman. She would need to take a stew or a container of fried chicken or a baking dish of casserole to a funeral or a family get together. So, while Carlisle had not had that problem—or any problem near it—she had the bag.
It not only had handles, but it was insulated and sturdy enough for the weight. In her other hand, Carlisle carried the tackle box where she kept all her first aid supplies and then pushed her way out the back door with her foot. Her mother would not be proud of that move, but she would let it go because there was a nice man with a nice car and a good job on Carlisle’s horizon .
Across the back yard and up the wood plank deck steps, Carlisle felt like she was wearing a path. But she found the back patio empty, though there were a few things set out already: a bowl of potato chips and another of what looked like French onion dip. She put down her tackle box on her side of the picnic table, or should she be sitting on his side?
No , she told herself. That was a question for after their date tomorrow . She carefully set the bag on top and headed inside, finding Simon at the oven. With the door open he frowned at the vegetable and poked at it. “The broccoli’s not quite done. It needs a few more minutes.”
Not a kiss in greeting. Carlisle grabbed silverware, napkins and plates and headed back out. As she did it, she found that she was already comfortable in his home, and he seemed comfortable letting her reach into his cabinets and know exactly where he kept things.
This was backwards from how dates normally went .
Back inside, she thanked him for helping with the website. Then he smiled and leaned in. Maybe she was impatient, but she didn’t wait for him to kiss her. She lifted onto her toes and brushed her lips softly across his, a simple kiss that she was in control of. Then she pulled away before it could go any further. She wanted the date first. She wanted to learn all the first date things they hadn’t gotten to yet and make some kind of informed decision.
As if she wasn’t head over heels and in too deep already.
She led the way back outside, ready when he brought the broccoli out and served them both. She pointed to the bag of chips. That had not been on their menu. “I understand that potato chips and dip are in fact vegetarian but . . . ?”
“It's in case the rest of the food sucks. At which point we'll eat some chips and order in some burgers.”
She couldn't help but laugh. Still, she didn’t need the burger. They both ate the entire meal, happy with the results. The conversation moved easily, despite her nerves about the big date. She told him what Jane had said about the orders arriving early and promised to bring him one as a thank you gift for helping out.
Even as she wondered if he was just being nice, he promised not to have any accidents for the next three days. She'd laughed at first and then was grateful that she'd laughed because a fleeting shot of cold wrapped around her heart.
There'd been a time, not that long ago, when his comment would have stopped her dead in her tracks. She knew better than most there was no way to promise that. But she brushed the cold and the brief panic off and hoped he didn’t see.
When the dishes were put away and the picnic table cleared off, she decided it was time to address the elephant in the room. Heading into the kitchen after him, tackle box in hand, she announced, “It's past time to remove those stitches.”
“Oh, it’s okay. You don’t have to.”
“You already had them taken out?” He hadn't said anything about going to the office or checking in with his doctor. Though he did seem to be cleaning the area and awkwardly taping his own bandages over it most days, she’d been the one actually taking care of it. Sometimes she practically forced her care on him.
He shook his head, and she pushed down her frustration at his stubbornness. “You were supposed to have them out at ten days. It’s day thirteen.”
“I'll go to the doctor tomorrow.”
“Is your doctor even in on Saturday?” But before he could answer she added, “You're already risking the skin growing into the stitches and then we'll have to do another surgery to get them out.”
As irritated as he’d been about having an open wound stitched, she imagined that would be something he did not want. He frowned. “I'll do it myself. ”
“You can't do it yourself!” She tried hard to keep her tone even. “You need a professional and, even so, you're in no position to reach that area of your back.”
Tired of fighting him, she grabbed the tackle box off the counter as he headed off into the front hallway. She followed, as stubborn as he was. “You have to get them out. You need to get them out today.”
“I’m fine,” he protested again.
“Every day you wait you’re letting it get worse.” Why wasn't he listening? She was literally a professional.
He had all her attention, but he turned away from her. Still frustrated, she reached for the back of his shirt. Even as she watched her own hand head toward the hem, she knew she shouldn't do it.
Jerking violently away, he whirled around to face her. His hand shot out, locking on her wrist, stopping her. “Drop it. Just let it be done.”
Asshole .
This was stupid. He was a grown man. Or maybe this was the red flag she’d warned Jane about. Maybe he wasn't fine. Her teeth ground as she bit out the words, “Okay. Let's let it be done. I'm done here. Do not pick me up tomorrow night. We're not going out.”
Picking up the tackle box, she turned and headed toward the back door, her anger rising and her heart cracking.