8. Carly
CHAPTER 8
CARLY
W e don’t say much in the car.
I want to thank Gabe again for what he’s done for me, but he doesn’t seem like the sort of person who enjoys being told he’s done a good job. He hasn’t smiled at me once, and everything he says is so gruff it makes me think that he hates me, but he clearly has a sense of honor and right and wrong.
I suppose I can respect that anyway. I don’t have to like him. I’m not here as his friend.
I’m here because I have nowhere else to go, and he has been kind enough to open his doors to me. As soon as I can go, I’ll be out of his hair, and he’ll never have to worry about me imposing on him ever again.
Part of me wants to tell him all that too, but his eyebrows are furrowed as he stares unblinking at the road. I don’t want to disturb the brooding that’s going on.
I do keep sneaking glances at him, though. I hadn’t really noticed before, what with everything going on, but he is quite handsome in a way. He has a well-defined jaw and broad shoulders, strong arms and a rugged beard. He’s not my usual type, but the more I think about it, the more I can understand why people are attracted to men like him. I must be crazy for thinking it, but he is kind of cute.
Plus, his eyes are so alluring — steely and sharp, and they betray a keen intellect, even if it’s buried under a gruff personality.
I’m sure he’s the kind of guy who, if you take your car to him, can fix it without even having to look at what’s wrong with it. I would be surprised if he didn’t know his stuff. It’s what makes my car being out of order even more painful. There’s no reason why he would lie to me about it.
It’s not like he wants to keep me around.
After all, the look he gave me when he suggested that I stay with him wasn’t exactly one of happiness and generosity. It was one of doing what needed to be done.
When we pull up to his house, I have to suppress a gasp. It’s a beautiful place with wood siding and a dark roof, the kind of place that looks like it’s been hand built with love. I wouldn’t be surprised if he did it himself.
He has a small garage, but he doesn’t open it. He probably has another car in there. I would almost go so far as to say maybe his wife’s car is in there. But he doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who has a wife, and I didn’t notice a ring. He’s a loner. That much is obvious.
He’s the kind of guy who doesn’t need to rely on anyone and wouldn’t thank you for suggesting that he might want to.
“We’re here,” he says as he kills the engine. “Come on. I’ll show you inside.”
He slams the truck door shut behind him and unlocks his front door. Tentatively, I get out too, and he gestures for me to go in. I step into his warm hallway and shiver at the difference from the cold. It smells of firewood and pine and immediately makes me feel safe and comfortable. It’s a very welcoming home for someone who clearly lives alone.
“Oh,” I say, realization making my stomach flip. “My bags are in my car. All my things…”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says, ushering me further in. “You can borrow some pajamas for tonight. We can go over to the shop in the morning to get your things.”
“Thank you,” I say softly as my head spins. If this was a date, I’d say we were moving way too fast. Wearing his pajamas? Isn’t that a weird thing for a stranger to do?
But it’s that or sleep naked, I guess, and I don’t really want to do that in a stranger’s house either.
He leads me up the stairs to his spare room. It almost looks like a show home in here. The bed is made: the sheets a rustic beige plaid, a small red blanket folded at the foot of it. A tiny armchair sits by the window, a perfect place for a guest to sit and look out at the scenery, and the dresser looks like it’s been cut out of a single oak tree.
But a fine layer of dust sits on the bedside table, and I can’t help but wonder when the last time was that he had any guests over.
“Make yourself at home,” he says. “I’ll get you a towel for the bathroom. “I’m sure you want to clean up after everything.”
“Yeah. Thank you.” He frowns, and I can almost hear him thinking that I sound like a broken record for saying it over and over again, but I am grateful. I have nothing else to say but my thanks.
He darts out of the room and comes back with two white towels. It fits. He’s a meticulous kind of guy, I think. The kind of person who likes everything to be in its proper order. Having me here must be a nightmare for him. I’m completely throwing off his routine.
Giving me one last look, he excuses himself and shuts the door behind him as he leaves, and I’m left in the silence of someone else’s house. It’s awkward to be here. I barely want to breathe in case I’m taking up too much space, but I do want to shower. I need to feel clean.
I stand frozen on the spot for another moment, then give in and head to the bathroom to turn the shower on. While it warms up, I toss my clothes on the floor, then step into the warm water.
It rushes over me in a torrent, and for the first time all day, I can almost forget all my worries.
I know that the second I step back outside, a nightmare will be waiting for me, but I don’t want to think of that now. I’m going to take things one step at a time, and my step right now is to get clean. There’s only one bottle of soap in here, so I save washing my hair until I can buy some shampoo. Soap isn’t unwelcome, though. It’s clean and fresh-smelling, and I almost feel human after washing with it.
But I can’t keep pushing off the inevitable forever. Finally, I get out of the shower and wrap myself in a towel, pulling it tightly around me. I’m not looking forward to putting my clothes back on, but it’s not like I can borrow anything from Gabe.
At least, that’s what I think.
When I emerge back into the room, a pair of jeans, a couple of shirts, and a sweater are lying folded on the bed. I approach it tentatively, feeling a little weird. Why does Gabe have women’s clothes?
He’s not a creep, is he? He definitely hasn’t given me that vibe so far. Maybe he has a sister or something.
I pick up the sweater. It’s a little big for me, but it’ll do.
I also notice one of his shirts folded up on the pillow as if he’s trying to say, Here you go. Pajamas . I can’t help but smile at that.
Putting on fresh clothes feels good, but nothing can stop the fear inside my chest at knowing that I have to look at my voicemails. Fortunately, the house must be underneath a satellite or something, because I finally manage to get a couple of bars of signal.
I have seventeen missed messages and four voicemails.
The bride told me she was going to call me this evening, and no doubt she’s furious that I’ve blown off our engagements. Not that I think she should have any right to contact me before our meeting in my own personal time, but I live to please these people.
I take a sharp breath, then listen to the voicemails.
The theme across all of them is the same. How dare you not pick up on the first ring. Where are you? Haven’t you landed by now? I need your opinion on whether the bridesmaids should wear fuchsia or hot pink. I need your opinion on the food. The venue. I need you to tell me that this is all going to be perfect, or else my big day is going to be ruined. I thought you were supposed to be the best in the business. It’s not very professional to ignore business calls.
Hands shaking, I delete them all and throw the phone onto the bed.
The responsible thing to do now would be to cancel the meeting altogether, to tell her straight that I’ve been having some issues with the weather, and I’m not going to make it. All the brides I deal with — and indeed, most of the grooms – are highly strung, high-maintenance pieces of work who think that other people are there to serve them.
I guess that’s the mentality you get when you’re rich and can afford to pay people to do whatever you want. And I suppose I am there to serve these people, but to be at their beck and call night and day… Well, I’m just supposed to be planning a wedding. Being their servant too is utterly exhausting.
I know for a fact that if I tell her that I have to cancel, especially if I just text it, she is going to hit the roof with rage. She needs me to be there with my PowerPoints and spreadsheets at once, or else her entire week is going to be ruined forever, maybe even the entire marriage.
It doesn’t seem like a very stable relationship to me if that’s the thing that’s going to ruin the entire marriage, but it’s none of my business. They pay me to sort things out. So, sort things out is what I’m going to do.
I just have to figure out how I’m going to do that.
Outside the door, I hear the floor creak and what I presume is Gabe’s bedroom door shut.
He’s obviously had a long day too and is retiring for the night. I can’t go bothering him again.
The seed of an idea starts to plant itself in my mind, and a sick rush of guilt overcomes me at the idea of it. I have to get to Grand Rapids tonight if I want to salvage my situation tomorrow, but without buses or cabs or trains or my own car, there’s only one vehicle I can think of I could access to get there.
I poke my head out of my room and peer out. The light is on inside Gabe’s room, and I can hear the faint murmuring of television from within. He chuckles occasionally, and I imagine him sitting there with a beer, watching some sports or variety show or something,
He told me to make myself welcome, so if he hears me sneaking around, he’ll probably assume I’m going to the kitchen for water or a snack. As quietly as I can, I rush down the stairs and head for the front door. There, shining in the bowl next to the coat rack, are his car keys.
This is a stupid idea.
He already thinks little enough of me without me stealing from him as well.
But if this bride spreads negativity over social media and cancels the job, I’ll have no money, and my reputation will be in tatters. This business is my livelihood. It’s my life. I can’t let one missed meeting spoil it.
I hook my finger through the key ring and take a deep breath.
Hopefully he’s listening to the TV loudly enough that he can’t hear the door opening or the way the frame rattles as I shut it again.
The snow is still coming down and wind strikes at my face, blowing my hair everywhere. I suck in a breath between my teeth, shivering, wishing I had brought a coat or was wearing anything better than just some old sweater. At least I don’t have to be outside for long.
I stomp my way through the snow to the truck, brush the flurry off the windscreen, and jump inside. It beeps when I unlock it, and I wince, hoping it hasn’t caught Gabe’s attention. I glance up at his window, waiting to see the curtains twitch, to see him looking out, but he doesn’t. If I’m really lucky, he’ll have fallen asleep in front of the TV and won’t even notice his truck starting and driving away.
I slide into the driver’s seat, stick the key into the ignition and turn it. The car splutters to life. I squeeze my eyes shut again, waiting at any second to get told off. I deserve to be yelled at for this, but I’ve committed to the plan now. I’ll make it up to him later. I’ll pay him whatever he wants. I’ll get on my hands and knees and apologize. I’ll explain everything, and maybe he’ll understand.
He’s not an irrational person. He’ll understand why I had to do this.
Won’t he?
Crouching forward as if that might make the sound of the truck driving away any quieter, I hit the gas and turn off onto the road. My phone is running out of battery, but I managed to put the GPS on, and if I can just hit the highway, I’ll be fine.
Driving a vehicle that isn’t yours is always weird, but I never drive something this big, and I wobble down the road, the dark consuming the surroundings, the snow blinding me as the lights bounce off it. As far as I know, I could be in the middle of nowhere. I feel like I am.
I’m just starting to get a little more confident about the drive when I turn onto another narrow country road. I’m terrified that I’m going to run into another car, and I barely blink as I stare at all of the three feet I can see ahead of me.
That’s when the ghost flies in front of me.
I scream as the truck hits a patch of ice and my eyes meet those of a terrified deer springing into the air. Its fur is bright white from the truck lights, and its thin legs tremble in fright. As it vanishes into the night, I spin off the road, my knuckles pale on the steering wheel as I grip it. The moment lasts forever, a dizzying spiral of shame and hubris that’s leading me to disaster.
When the truck grinds to a halt, the engine is still running, but I’m buried deep in a snowbank. I let out a sob and peel my hands off the wheel. I’m okay. I’m shaken, but I’m alive.
How could I have been so stupid?
What am I going to do now?