Chapter 14
fourteen
PRESENT DAY
KATE
Ipractically skip through the security gates and across the cobblestone streets to my front door, clutching my bag of groceries. The gates worked perfectly, and that extra level of security is not lost on me.
“Liza!” I call, balancing my heavy grocery bag in one arm and withdrawing my key out of the door. “Liza Guyzaaaa.”
My keys clink into the stone bowl as I close the front door and lock it. Our cushy living room looks warm and inviting. Liza’s latest romance read is bookmarked on the coffee table, and I walk past it to drop the grocery bag on the quartz kitchen countertop.
“I got stuff to make lunchables!” I holler as I withdraw a heavy round of brie, prosciutto, and crackers. Because what is charcuterie if not adult lunchables? In lieu of a juice box, I lift a bottle of Prosecco from the bag.
“Liza! Get your butt out here,” I yell at her closed bedroom door. “We’re celebrating my kick-butt idea I had at work today!”
I sweep two crystal flutes from the cupboard and fill them to the brim. Maybe she fell asleep? Her residency at the hospital has been kicking her trash lately, and a spurt of guilt fills me at the thought of waking her up.
Two glasses in hand, I tiptoe to her bedroom door and nudge it open with my hip. Her unoccupied bed is flawlessly made. I frown. It’s Monday. She never stays at Cams on these nights since her hospital shift starts early on Tuesdays.
I circle back to the living room, set the full glasses down on the coffee table beside her book, and text her.
Kate: Where you at, Liza Guyza?
Liza: Forgot to tell you I decided to stay at Cam’s. Love you!
The plush cushions give way as I sink onto the couch. Disappointment settles over my enthusiasm like a wet blanket.
I pluck both glasses of Prosecco off the driftwood coffee table and take turns sipping out of each of them.
Crossing my ankles on the table, I accidentally knock Liza’s book onto the floor.
I glance down at the cover. A bare-chested man holds a swooning damsel in clear distress while a basket of apples dangles precariously from her hand.
I scoop it up. “The Blacksmith and The Orchardess?”
Orchardess? Really? I don’t think that’s even a word. What, are romance writers running out of material these days? Another long bubbling sip tickles my tongue, but this time out of Liza’s glass.
Of course she didn’t take her book—she’s living a live-action romance right now.
I take another lengthy sip.
But I don’t think Cameron The Finance Guy is also secretly a blacksmith. And he’s not nearly as ripped as this sweaty cover model. I eye the man’s muscles as I tip Liza’s glass and finish it off. You know who does have abs like these?
Brandon.
I glower at the stupid book, realizing my incredibly successful day is in danger of ending with backsliding thoughts of Brandon freaking Roberts. If that doesn’t depress me, I don’t know what will.
A lonely silence presses against my ears, and I wander around the condo, sipping and shuffling, shuffling and sipping.
Is this what it will be like once Liza’s moved out?
Just me and the beige-colored walls to tell about my day?
The finality of that massive diamond on her finger has changed everything.
My head grows fuzzy and warm as I ignore the groceries on the counter and shuffle back to the couch. Sadness hangs heavy in the air, like it also knows Liza won’t be coming home. A tear escapes without my permission, and soon, I’m bawling.
I don’t feel like a fierce boss woman anymore.
I fall, timber-log style, onto the indigo throw pillows that Liza picked out last month. I cry into them for a long while until my blurry eyes snag on Liza’s dumb book again. I snatch it off the table.
What would it be like to find my own big-bicepped blacksmith? Would I even want to be his orchardess? Maybe he would wait for me to get home, and I’d tell him about Amantha’s exhibition plans instead of talking to the walls.
And then we’d pick apples or something?
I’m not quite sure what an orchardess does besides swoon with an impressive amount of cleavage.
My thoughts aren’t making sense anymore, and my tears only flow faster. The champagne glasses are soon empty, my heart turns heavy, and a headache begins to soak into my temples.
I was never great at being without Liza, even as a child. Especially if it meant I was one on one with my parents. She always made me feel safer somehow, even though my parents rarely disagreed with her about anything.
I don’t bother lifting my head from my snotty pillow to swipe my phone off the coffee table.
Maybe Amantha is still in the city and hasn’t returned to the suburbs yet?
I check the time. Unlikely. She and Val are probably back home with Anthony.
Maybe Susan is visiting, too. I think of them all around Amantha’s worn dining table, and the lonely ache only intensifies.
I want my big-bicepped blacksmith.
Now.
Opening my phone, I skim my contacts for someone who might be free tonight.
Someone who just might have identical abs to the blacksmith.
Although it’s a bad idea in the making, I find myself searching for Brandon’s number. Maybe just talking to him will make this night not feel so lonely? It’s not like I’d ask him to come over or anything. My head feels woozy, and I have an inkling I’m not thinking straight.
But after a minute of searching, I still can’t find Brandon’s number. Maybe I renamed him something after we broke up? I do that sometimes. My soggy brain is making it hard to remember.
I flick through random contacts, passing “Weird guy from the salon”, and “Eats tuna for lunch every day”. I freeze when I stumble upon the unknown number that texted me earlier. Not the Hopefully Yours one, the Tanner one.
UNKNOWN: Hey, I hope it’s okay your mom gave me your number. Our first date was a bust, and I’d like to make it up to you. Are you free tomorrow? This is Tanner Evans, by the way.
I scramble to a sitting position, which takes a lot more effort thanks to the swaying living room.
Using the back of my hand, I swipe away my snotty tears and reread the text.
I don’t believe in fate, and maybe it’s the Prosecco talking, but Tanner’s text feels…
promising now. I mean, I know I blew it off earlier, but it seems kinda serendipitous.
I pick up the empty champagne glass and tap my finger against it.
If being set up worked for Liza, what’s the harm in giving Tanner Boring-Pants a shot?
It could be my belated New Year’s resolution to myself.
After all, if you want something you’ve never had, you gotta do something you’ve never done, right?
What if I gave Tanner a chance for a full month? I can do anything for thirty days. So I throw caution to the orchard-scented wind and respond.
KATE: It was a bust, wasn’t it? But it’s not your fault.
TANNER: I appreciate you saying that. Are you free tomorrow?
I tip my head from side to side with each thought.
Free tomorrow?
Lonely tomorrow?
Lonely the next day?
I curse out loud, and it feels good. And because I’m alone, and Liza hates swearing, I’m soon spinning and spouting off every naughty word I can think of—loudly, I might add—for no other reason than because I can.
The entryway table is told where to go. The refrigerator magnets learn a lot about being conceived out of wedlock.
And I call a sofa cushion a female dog. Repeatedly.
I collapse back into a sad little heap on the couch, hoping Mrs. Kovolchuk couldn’t hear my meltdown through the wall.
I wipe my nose again with the back of my hand.
KATE: I’d love to go out. Pick me up at 7?
I toss my phone aside, feeling wildly empowered.
I’m going to give Tanner a chance. A real chance. And if things go well after this date, who knows?
Maybe he’ll be my blacksmith, and I can finally figure out what an orchardess does.