Chapter 19
D uring those rare moments when Lainey had a break between projects, she liked to go to her favorite coffee shop and brood. Not that she allowed herself to brood about her real life—that was too painful to contemplate. Between her dreary financial situation, Dexter, her family’s disinterest in her life, and what happened with Ian, there was too much real life controversy to choose from and it could easily tip her over the edge into despair. And because she was a sunny, optimistic person who liked to dwell on the bright side, she refused to ruminate on her own crummy problems. Instead she selected a fantasy from the catalog she kept in her mind, usually something so far fetched it had no basis in real life, or certainly not her real life. In fact it was quite possible she’d lifted the entire daydream from a Lifetime movie.
Whatever the case, she ordered a latte and stared pensively out the window, thinking about the evil babysitter who’d kidnapped her precious child while she’d been distracted by postpartum depression. Or maybe today she should be the child who had been kidnapped, now grown and realizing something was amiss. Or was today the day she pretended to be the kidnapper, not evil but with a tragic backstory. Maybe she genuinely believed the kidnapped child was hers originally, kidnapped at birth? It was a lot to think about and hash out and she was happy for the mental tidal wave that kept her from thinking about real life. Bonus points for the rain today, which helpfully added to her internal melodrama.
She was knees-deep in trying to figure out how to launder money to fund her new pretend life on the lam when the back door tinkled, causing her head to turn instinctively in that direction. It shouldn’t have been a shock to see Ian enter—it was a mutually beloved coffee shop—but it still was. She hadn’t seen him since that moment when she confessed her love and he scampered away in terror.
The terror was still in place today, comingling with horror when recognition hit. He froze, eyes wide, mouth ajar. But before he could sprint away, Lainey took control. Maybe it was because she had just been imagining making a quick getaway from the police or maybe it was because she still felt the potent sting of mortification. Whatever the reason she grabbed her keys and purse and jetted out the front door like her tail was on fire, not bothering to see what Ian might do, if he planned to do anything but spring out the door nearest him, which he undoubtedly intended before Lainey made her escape. Lainey had watched his hand reach for the handle and it had felt like a second rejection, so she made her split second decision and bounded away first.
But then she was stuck. She had come in through the back. In order to get to her car, she would have to circle around the entire shopping complex, in full view of the coffee shop and Ian. So instead she turned right and walked another familiar path, opening a door and stepping inside.
The coffee shop was providentially near Lainey’s favorite candy store, one that had been in existence for as long as she could remember and probably a long time before that, run by an old man named Mr. Weaver who looked like Willy Wonka’s understudy.
Now she paused in the entryway, comforted by the familiar scent of fresh chocolate, and stared at the vast displays.
They were different from her candies for certain, more old school—lots of dipped chocolates and creams. No sculptures, no ants wearing makeup (which had been such a hit at the preschool she donated them to that she decided to make them a regular part of her offerings.) But the shop had been there for as long as Lainey could remember, and it looked like the place that had been there even longer, probably since before she was born.
Why does everyone else succeed when I can only fail , she wondered.
“Good afternoon. See anything you like?”
The elderly owner, Mr. Weaver, toddled out from a back room and stood behind the counter staring at Lainey who couldn’t seem to think of one word in reply.
He tipped his head. “Do you need more time, or can I help you?”
Finally Lainey was ready to reply. She opened her mouth, gulped a deep breath, and burst into loud, convulsive tears.
“ I t smells good in here,” Dexter said when he let himself into Lainey’s half of the house. He always expected it to smell good, and it never disappointed. He had come to associate pleasant smells with Lainey, so much that when a new peach supplier arrived at the office with a case of samples for them to try, he immediately pulled out his phone and sent her a text, a Pavlovian response to tantalizing scents.
“We’re having pot roast,” Lainey said.
She sat at the kitchen table, head down and resting on her arm. Dexter pinched a piece of chocolate from the bowl of odds and ends she’d started setting aside for him. He sat beside her.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Lies.” He poked her. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m thinking of quitting my job,” she blurted.
“I thought you already did that.”
“That was my last job. I’m thinking of quitting this one.”
“How do you do that? Give yourself two weeks notice?”
When she merely nodded in reply, he knew she was serious.
“Hey, what’s going on? Talk to me.”
“Nothing. This is me being reasonable. It’s time to end this and get a real job again,” she said. Dexter eyed her as she got up to remove the roast from the oven, giving it a poke before putting it back in again.
“I don’t like this,” he said. She was missing all her Lainey sparkle. He hated to see her so defeated. On the other hand, what if it was for the best? She’d tried an experiment and it failed. It happened to people every day. Maybe she should return to work before she got too far underwater, incurred debt it could take decades to undo.
“Neither do I,” she sighed, resuming her seat. “When I was a kid, my dad always had big dreams. He quit more jobs than I could count, was always looking for the next big thing.”
“Does realizing you’re like him upset you?” he asked.
Her jaw dropped and she made a little gasping sound like he’d stabbed her. Before he could begin to even realize he’d upset her, she turned and fled up to her bedroom, slamming the door. Dexter remained frozen, flabbergasted and annoyed. Of course she was the kind of person who ran off to her bedroom in a heap of emotion in the middle of an otherwise rational discussion. The question now was which sort of man was he? The kind who went after her, or the kind who returned to the safety of his own home?
His glance slid longingly toward the door and freedom. Then, with a sigh, he headed toward her room. Would she lock the door? No. He wondered if that was a sign she secretly wanted him to follow.
He didn’t bother to knock because who else would it be but him? He opened the door and let his senses acclimate to her room. It looked about like he remembered—not a sty, but not immaculate. Sort of organized chaos, much like Lainey. She didn’t stir when he opened the door, meaning he had to go farther in to get a reaction. He took a few steps in and cleared his throat.
She remained hunched in a tiny ball like a wounded pill bug.
“Psst,” he tried.
No reaction.
His gaze slid warily to the bed. Dare he lay in bed next to his wife? It seemed he would have to because he’d reached the going for broke point. He picked up a pair of leggings and set them aside, followed by a bra he touched with only the tips of his fingers. He flung it away and wiped his hand on his pants before he could absorb any girl cooties or wasteful emotions.
The bed sunk low beneath him, forming around him as if it remembered the shape of his dent. I have a dent in Lainey’s bed. He pushed the thought aside as he lay down beside her and eased closer.
She continued to ignore him.
Even though common sense told him not to touch her when she was so closed off, some instinct made him reach out and smooth his hand gently along her arm and—miraculously—she softened a bit and unfurled, like a touch-me-not in reverse. “Lainey.”
“What?” Her tremulous little whisper did something to him, something uncomfortably akin to queasiness. He didn’t like that quaver, and he liked even less that he’d been the one to put it there. Or had he?
“Did I upset you?”
She rolled onto her back and glared up at him with tear filled eyes. “Seriously?”
Once again his hand reached out, this time stroking the side of her wet face. “I’m not so good at peopleing. You know this about me. I need you to tell me things. Don’t assume I know them.”
The lip wobble became more pronounced and tears leaked out her eyes at a faster rate. “You hurt my feelings.”
The queasy feeling in his gut intensified. “I did? How?”
“You think I’m a dreamer, doomed to fail.”
“What? How did you get that from what I said?” he asked, thoroughly confused as he reviewed the conversation in his head. In his mind, he’d merely been stating facts. She had, in fact, quit her job to follow her dream, like her father who had also done the same.
“You think I’m like my dad,” she exclaimed.
“Well, kind of, you are,” he said, glad they were back on the same page, at least until she wailed in misery. Except this time she didn’t pull away from him; this time she went full barrel into him, pressing her face to his chest and clutching his shirt in her hand where it lay at his stomach. For a minute, he held her and let her cry and it was odd how much he didn’t mind. Formerly Dexter hadn’t been comfortable with any excess shows of emotion, and yet he’d held Lainey while she wept so many times he’d lost count. And he didn’t hate it at all. In fact it gave him a strange feeling of purpose and power in the pit of his gut. Lainey cried and he could make her feel better, could make her soften up and stop crying. That yield was kind of amazing, like cuddling a sleeping puppy. After a while her sobs died down to sniffles. Exhausted, she lay curled in his embrace, still clutching his shirt.
“I don’t want to be like him, Dexter,” she said at last.
“Why not, Lainey?”
“Because his dreams always came first. Before me and Murphy, before our mom, before our finances, our house. It was always about his dreams and what made him feel good, what made him feel fulfilled. And it wasn’t that his dreams always failed, it was that he always failed to put us first. Sometimes you have to take the loss in order to be a team player, unless you’re my dad, then it’s always about finding a personal win.”
Dexter’s hand continued to smooth gently up and down her arm as he let her words sink in, trying to understand them. “So even though you and your dad have that thing in common, even though you both left a job to pursue a dream, you see yourself as different because you’re willing to take the loss. You’re not willing to make others suffer for your own selfish ambition.”
“Yes, although…” she swallowed hard and made herself say it. “The only person I have to make suffer is you and I…” Say it, Lainey. Admit the hard truth. “I want you to be proud of me. I don’t want to fail in your eyes.”
His hand paused its journey up and down her arm. “I see. Did you already take another job?”
“I talked to a guy, Mr. Weaver. He runs that candy shop in the little complex out on the highway. When I told him how much I loved candy, he suggested I work for him. It’s not enough to fix all my financial woes, but it’s a start. Enough to give me some breathing room. Maybe…maybe I’ll be able to keep taking some orders on the side.”
They both knew she wouldn’t, though. The nature of her work was immersive, requiring hours upon hours of intense labor. There was no time to do it and hold another job, especially when she could barely get everything done as it was.
“Why don’t you think about it a couple of weeks, okay? Maybe something will turn around in the meantime. Don’t make any decisions until after the party and then…”
They both froze, sudden tension and awareness bouncing between them. And then what? What would happen after the party? What would happen to Lainey’s job? What would happen to them ? Would they jointly discover some magic to fix everything they pretended not to notice?
“And then we’ll circle back around and figure out a solution, okay?” Dexter said.
“Okay,” Lainey said, happy for a reprieve. She wanted it both ways, she realized. She wanted the safety and security of a nine to five job with the adventure and promise of following her dream. But that rarely worked out. No one could have everything, it was always either/or. Dexter had chosen safety and security, and he was doing okay. Did that mean she should, too?
And then there was Dexter himself. He was the nine to five version of a relationship—solid, secure, dependable. But was he also the adventure? Was he the dream? Or would that forever be reserved for Ian, who had been her ideal for so long?
Not that it mattered. She was married to Dexter, if only technically, and Ian was so far gone after her flopped pronouncement that he’d left permanent dust trails in his wake.
“You’re so tense,” Dexter noted. He pulled her closer, curving her back against his front.
“Look at you, you’re a pro snuggler now,” Lainey said, nestling.
“The big snuggling leagues keep trying to recruit me, but I’m keeping my options open,” he said.
“Steer clear of the Ivy League,” she warned. “They’re all for show, lots of cuddling bling, not a lot of cuddling substance.”
“I’m leaning toward the Big Ten.”
She giggled a little Lainey laugh. “What’s the Big Ten?”
“Golden retrievers, kittens, bunnies, babies, otters, piglets, calves, cockatoos, sugar gliders, and…” He needed a tenth. What was the cuddliest thing he could think of? “And Lainey.” He gave her a squeeze.
“Go Team Lainey,” she said, weaving her fingers through his.
“Go Team Lainey,” he agreed, giving her a full body squeeze.
She rolled onto her back, facing him. “You’re pretty good at the fake husbanding stuff.”
“You should see what I can do with the real kind,” he said, sliding his leg over hers.
She let out a puff of laughter that was half surprise, half nerves. They didn’t ever go there, to the real side. They kept things light and neutral and if either of them had other ideas, they kept them safe inside. She knew he was only joking, but it still shocked her to hear it. “Wowzers,” she drawled.
He tugged her slightly closer and wagged his brows.
“I can’t tell if you’re joking,” she said softly.
“Neither can I,” he said equally as softly. His finger stroked under her chin, angling her face toward his.
She sucked in a little breath. “Wh…what are we doing here?”
“I don’t know. I think maybe your tears short-circuited my brain, but who cares? Now would be a perfect time to stop thinking,” Dexter returned.
“If you’re the one saying that, this ship has already run aground,” she said.
“Probably, but at this particular moment, maybe I don’t care.”
“It’s the maybe that gives me pause. We…we have a contract.” She swallowed hard.
“It was never notarized,” he said, brushing his nose on hers.
Lainey felt like she was having an out-of-body experience. This was Dexter . He was supposed to be the easygoing one, the laidback softie who got her over this rough patch. And yet here he was, apparently making a move. It was hard not to contrast him with Ian, whose panic had been so intense it had radiated off him like an aura. She had always thought Ian was brave because he ran into burning buildings, but perhaps there were other kinds of bravery. Maybe making the first move was its own kind of bravery. The question was what to do about it. What should she say? Something smooth and diplomatic.
“My bell is ringing.”
His lashes fluttered. “What?”
“The timer. Downstairs. Pot roast?” Why did she make pot roast sound like a question? It was definitively pot roast.
“Yes, your bell,” he said, tucking a wayward hair behind her ear. Then he swept her into his embrace and rolled to the opposite side, depositing her deftly on her feet in one swift movement.
“Were you in the circus? That was some kind of acrobat maneuver,” she said. She told herself that was why she felt so disoriented.
In answer, he gave her another one of those suggestive eyebrow wags that set her heart aflutter.
“Pot roast?” she said, cheeks flushing.
“You tell me,” he said.
She hesitated, but the timer would not be denied and either she was too practical to risk charred roast or she was too cowardly to stay and face whatever happened next. In any case she spun and fled down the stairs.