Chapter 12
The next morning, all giddy memories of Harlan’s good night kiss vanish during a call with my sister. Trying to control my anger, I squeeze my eyes shut. I all but growl into my cell. “Forget I brought it up, Molly.”
“Meredith, what if Stanley is the one for you?”
The multi-offensive comment shoots through my heart. “Enough.” I bite out my response while shaking my head.
“Why do you sound upset? You’re the one who mentioned him.”
The early-morning call to my sister is a disaster of epic proportions.
“Did you catch the part where he has left me six messages this week? That’s not normal.
” I cross my hotel room and peer out the window.
“I only said something to you about it because I wanted to make sure he’s all right.
When someone calls that often, you’re either in a relationship or something’s wrong. ”
She huffs. “What I’m saying is, as far as I know, everything’s fine. And because everything’s fine, I think you need to consider Stanley. His interest in you isn’t a secret now.”
“You don’t find this creepy at all?”
“He was surprised when I told him you were out of town—”
“Wait.” I tap my finger on my front teeth. “He called you?”
“Yeah. He sounded worried and asked why you aren’t returning his calls.”
I rest my forehead on the windowpane. “Molly, that’s weird.”
“Not with your history.” She releases a long sigh. “I don’t know, what if he’s the person you didn’t know to hope for? You lost your husband, but the best man in your wedding could be a safe place for you to land. There’s something beautiful about it.”
The person I didn’t know to hope for? As if he alone can solve my problems? Is that what she thinks?
I drift from the conversation. Stanley isn’t unattractive.
He’s a little taller than I am but with a small frame.
His green eyes go nicely with his brown hair.
But he does nothing for me in the attraction department.
To no avail, I spent years during my marriage trying to find some nice, introverted, supportive, homely woman for Stanley.
My gaze follows a black Suburban as it rounds the circle drive to the hotel. I lose track of it when it drives under the awning. “I don’t have those kinds of feelings for Stanley. He’s a friend. That’s all.”
Molly groans. “How would you know if he couldn’t be more? You don’t let yourself think about other men.”
A layer of sadness accompanies the realization that my sister isn’t always someone I can safely confide in. I clench my fist and knock on the window three times. “I think of other men, Molly. Just not Stanley.”
As a matter of fact, a certain beautiful-souled man is due to arrive in a few minutes.
“Well, I think you should reconsider. He’s loved you for years and would be a good option for you.”
Good option.
Safe.
The person Molly, if she got her way with my dating life, thinks I should hope for?
What would she do if she knew about Harlan? Definitely not the safe option she wants for me. But I’ve been living safe for quite some time, and it’s not doing anything for me anymore.
I crane my neck and catch a glimpse of the clock across the room. Shoot. “Gotta go, Mol. Will you be at the airport when I land, or should I Uber?”
“Of course I’ll be there, Meredith.” She pauses. “I’m always there.”
I wonder if she knows that’s kind of a problem. For both of us.
I turn on my heel and walk to the unmade bed. “Okay. See you later.”
As soon as she says goodbye, I toss the phone down, plop on the bed, and hold my head in my hands. What’s going on? I’m not even home yet, and the luster of this vacation is dulling. Was this trip a total waste?
Prissy won’t admit it, but I think she’s disappointed I didn’t commit to purchasing a property.
Then there’s Harlan.
Harlan, who is coming to get me any minute now even though I’m not ready. I shoot to my feet and survey the room.
All of a sudden I’m a human tornado sifting through the space for lost belongings.
Brochures, receipts, and chocolate wrappers go flying while I hunt for anything I might need to take home.
In spite of its lack of use, I run to check the safe in the closet.
Oh no. What if I left my favorite pair of underwear in the mountain of towels on the bathroom floor?
My thoughts are broken by a robust knock on the door, followed by a gruff-sounding “Room service.”
Freezing, I contemplate an absurd escape to the balcony. It works in the movies.
“Mer?” Two more knocks.
Shoot. “Coming.”
I open the door, and the man in front of me is so ruggedly handsome, I’m embodied by a flaky teenager.
Harlan is dressed in a long-sleeve, navy-blue Broncos T-shirt and faded jeans that fit oh-so-well in all the right places.
His brown hair is disheveled, not in an I’m-trying-to-look-like-this way but in an I-just-rolled-out-of-bed-and-couldn’t-care-less-how-great-I-look way.
But it’s the warm mahogany eyes with crinkles around the edges that pull back the chandelier of my emotions and let it swing.
Bottom line, I’m in trouble.
He leans against the doorjamb.
I’m now in more trouble than I was five seconds ago.
“Tell me again why you’re leaving so early?” He holds out a cup of coffee.
I cradle the caffeine offering in my hands. “My plane takes off soon?”
“Humph.”
I nod to the bakery sack he holds. “Are you going to hoard those treats, or is one for me?”
“Banana nut or blueberry muffin?”
“Banana nut.”
He grins. “You gonna let me in, or are we gonna eat breakfast out in the hall?”
Am I going to let him in?
I swallow. “Yes. Sorry.” I turn sideways to allow him entrance, grabbing the bag as he slides past me.
He stops, stance wide, left hand shoved in his front jeans pocket, right hand holding his coffee, and takes in my room. “What happened in here?”
“I kind of got carried away.” I attempt a sip of my scalding coffee, but the heat emanating from the hole at the top of the cup warns my tongue of its demise.
“Checking for lost stuff? Yeah, I’m the same way. Want a second pair of eyes to make sure you didn’t leave anything?”
“No,” I blurt out too fast, thinking of the possible stray underwear. In an effort to distract his helpful ways, I set my cup down and distribute the muffins.
Harlan takes a huge bite, chews, and swallows. “Hey, I wanted to ask you something. Are there any significant dates coming up? Hard days? Anniversaries or birthdays?”
I forget to breathe.
“Meredith?”
Shaking my head, I pull out of my awed stupor. “My calendar is like a minefield. How did you know that?”
He wipes a hand on his jeans. “I’m always a bear to be around on the death anniversary of my dad.” He shrugs. “I thought I would ask.”
Three birthdays, a wedding anniversary, and the accident anniversary. Add my birthday, Mother’s Day, and Father’s Day to the list, to say nothing of any of the regular holidays like Thanksgiving and Christmas. If I think about it too much, I want to crawl in a hole and hide for the rest of my life.
I swallow down a lump of heartbreak. “Chloe’s birthday is October twenty-fifth.”
Harlan nods and steps toward me. “What will help?”
I place my muffin on a side table and walk to the window. The light from the lampposts streak the dark, glistening streets.
“I’m not sure how to answer your question.
It only took a few failed attempts to realize I can’t avoid pain by planning how to cope.
I have to lean in. Feel what’s there on a specific day.
Figure out what I need in the moment.” I wrap my arms around myself.
“Sometimes I draw the shades and stay in my sweats. Sometimes I go to her grave. Always, there’s an exhausting meltdown involved.
My sister checks on me, but I usually don’t want to be around people. ”
Harlan clears his throat.
“Thank you for asking.” I turn to face him. “It means a lot to me.” Tears threaten to fall, so I amble to the bathroom to finish my search.
“Where’s your phone? I want to plug in all my contact info.”
“On the bed.” I close one of the doors and inspect behind it for stray clothing.
“My cell is the best way to get ahold of me, but I’m also going to add Penelope’s information. If you can’t find me, she’ll know how to track me down.”
I gasp. Hiding under the bath mat is my beloved pair of one hundred percent cotton, faded pink granny panties. They’re so industrial they should be called underwear, not panties. But they are shockingly comfortable. No one makes ’em like these anymore.
“She’s not that bad,” he says. “I thought you two buried the hatchet.”
I glance at Harlan, and he bites his lip while he punches data into my phone. “Um, no. Penelope’s great. I, uh, found something I forgot to pack.”
“Oh, good. What was it?” he asks, staring at the screen.
“Nothing.” I scurry past him to shove the precious commodity underneath every other item in my luggage.
He stabs at my phone, his brows drawn.
“Is it giving you problems?” I nod toward my cell.
“It’s kind of special, isn’t it. What’s going on with this thing?”
“I did some research. Apparently the screen is losing sensitivity and only works when and how it wants to.” I kind of wish it had spontaneously stopped working when I was talking to Molly. “I’ll get it fixed when I get home.”
He continues to work on the phone, then smirks. “Programming my chosen ringtone took a little longer. But it’s worth it.”
“What?” I dive to grab my phone, but Harlan’s long arm keeps it at a safe distance. “What song did you choose?”
His eyes glitter. “You’ll just have to wait until I call you.”
Something in my belly flips. He’s calling. Me.
Harlan grins.
My belly flips again. Swinging on the chandelier isn’t so bad.
Once I zip my suitcase closed, Harlan pulls it off the bed. I take one last glance around the room, spread my arms out, and drop them. “I guess it’s time.”
He wheels my luggage down the hallway as if it doesn’t weigh eighty-three pounds. When we arrive at the elevator, he pushes the down arrow.