Chapter 14 Willow
fourteen
Willow
That afternoon, my hike up Hunger Path doesn’t bring me the peace I expect.
The threat of a storm makes the air tense and insects nervous.
I came to clear my mind, think things through, but it doesn’t do that.
Not today. I make it to the summit, watch the minuscule human activity down below, and jog back down wondering about the meaning of…
everything. Of Mom pouting. Of ancient stories.
Of my curiosity about a diary. Even the absence of condoms in a certain drawer seems like something I should be able to make sense of, but cannot.
Halfway down the trail, I’m nearly toppled over by a big dog running loose.
“Moose!” I call out. The Saint Bernard is Justin’s dog.
He usually never leaves Lazy’s, Justin’s pub, and he’s always down for a scratch behind the ears.
But today he barely slows down before galloping to the village.
Even the dogs are acting weird. Must be the weather.
Back at Lilyvale, I bring some wood from the neat stack outside into a room at the front where earlier I noticed ashes in the fireplace. Feeling semi-useful, I take a shower then settle down with a mystery novel.
That evening, as heavy clouds roll in, Noah and I have dinner alone, sitting catty-corner at the kitchen counter. “You didn’t have to wait for me,” Noah says with an apology in his voice.
The truth is, I don’t know what the etiquette is for fake newlyweds. Do we keep tabs on each other, I’m-on-my-way type of thing, or do we just ignore each other when no one is present?
Somewhere along the middle of that seems about right. “Wild guess, newlyweds wait on each other for dinner,” I counter. “At least in the beginning?”
Lane is out on a date, Beck is god knows where—but he left heating instructions taped to the fridge for a chicken casserole, which I took as an invitation to have for dinner.
Truth is, I didn’t feel like eating alone.
Noah is quiet, and the silence irks me. “I can’t wait to go back to work tomorrow,” I confess, breaking the soft sounds of metal on china. “Get back to normal.” I need to talk to someone.
Noah grunts. “Not sure what normal is going to look like.”
It occurs to me that Noah didn’t have the luxury of hiding today, and his day might have been tough on the social side. “Did… were people… annoying?” For lack of a better word.
“Surprisingly, Ms. Angela didn’t come over to find out what was what.”
She wouldn’t, since she’s who put me up to this. I stay quiet on that topic.
“Grace and Alex came looking for you,” he continues, “which… okay. Didn’t quite know what to say to that.”
Alex is my boss’s soon-to-be-wife, and Grace is his cousin. They know I work at the bakery. “That’s weird.”
“The whole day has been weird. They’ll get used to it.” He clears both our plates, declares he has work to do, and goes into his office.
On the first rumble of thunder, I go upstairs, brush my teeth, wash my face, put my pajamas on, grab a pillow and a throw blanket, and cuddle on the couch, windows wide open, to the sound of the rain and the bursts of lightning, not really worried about the wind pushing water inside.
I’m in need of some weather tonight. Something loud and soothing.
I barely feel him carrying me to bed, strong arms and his manly scent awakening my core before my brain has time to catch up, but it all goes by way too fast. After that, I sleep like a baby, waking up to the smell of coffee on my nightstand. Sweet.
But no Noah.
He slips out of the house before me, and it’s just as well.
As newlyweds, if we were to walk to work together—me to the bakery and Noah to the store—we’d have to hold hands, which I’m sure Noah could manage.
But wouldn’t we be expected to at least peck when we part ways?
That would be awkward, yet if we aren’t good enough at pretending, people will start talking.
The rain is still falling steadily, and I pull on the hood on my raincoat, keeping my head down if only to avoid having to talk to anyone.
On my way to work, I can’t help but glance at the store. Although the sign on the door is turned to Open, it looks dark inside. And why didn’t they put any umbrellas in the display windows? It seems like an easy, natural thing. It rains, you show that you sell umbrellas.
At least the gutters aren’t overflowing, and the rain is already receding.
Continuing on my way to work, I send a quick text message to Mom.
It’s the same message every day since she’s been diagnosed.
We might have had a poor relationship in the past, but like Noah said, it can be fixed.
Things between us seem to constantly ebb and flow, and at this point it’s on me to get us to a peaceful stage.
How’s it going today?
And every day, generally within a couple of hours, she answers with either a thumbs up or a poop emoji.
The one time she didn’t answer, I stormed her double-wide over lunch break and found her asleep at the kitchen table, face on her arms, tea spilled.
That day, something shifted in our relationship.
I didn’t see a sick woman too weak to care for herself.
Beyond the filter of illness that blurred the reality, I saw the reality of my mother who didn’t have in her bones the will to fight for herself.
Who never had someone look out for her when she was weak.
A woman who’d been taken advantage of, and either failed to see it or didn’t know the first thing to do about it.
That day, seeing her balding head sprawled on her spindly arms, bony shoulders barely lifting with her shallow breaths, it was as if I’d bottled all the love I couldn’t give her growing up, and it was now spilling out of me.
I carried her to bed, made her take her meds, spoon-fed her oatmeal.
It didn’t matter that she was trying to shoo me away, trying to convince me she’d been taking a cat nap and I should try it someday.
I told her I loved her, and her answer was, “I’m sorry.”
I keep my eyes on the screen of my phone, hoping she won’t give me the silent treatment. I know I’ve changed when it comes to our relationship. I’m not sure she has yet.
Mom:
Me:
I’ll come over after work.
Mom:
You and Noah come over for dinner.
That stops me in my tracks. So many things bounce in my head, from Mom being too tired, to why does she even—but of course she does.
There could be genuine reasons, such as she now has a son-in-law and not only that, but he’s a Callaway, to she-saw-straight-through-our-lie-and-what-in-the-world.
The thing that sticks, though, is that Mom shouldn’t get tired.
Mom:
Cleaned the house little by little with Aunt Angela over the last few days. Shannon dropped off lasagna and Cassandra a salad.
I don’t ask her more about yesterday morning. She’ll tell me if she wants to.
Me:
That’s really nice. What time do you want us there?
Mom:
Whenever you kids can get here. Not going anywhere.
Huh. You kids. Okay.
I heart her message and send a quick text to Noah to let him know.
I’m already at Chris’s bakery, a large Victorian that stands on The Green.
I’m early and on rainy days, business is quiet. I’ll have time to get “the conversation” with my boss out of the way. I haven’t told him we got married, only that I urgently needed PTO, and I don’t know that Noah told him either. We relied on ECHoes, and that was sort of a dick move.
Kiara’s cute pink vintage delivery van (the one she used as a bridal suite) is outside the bakery, doubling my nervousness. She must be making her daily delivery, and I’m in for not one, but two hard conversations. But somehow, I’m almost relieved to have these soon be over.
The scent of fresh croissants greets me as I push the door open, easing my tension with its familiarity and pure yumminess. Chris has already loaded the shelves with a variety of breads.
“Here comes the bride!” Kiara says as she sets a tray of colorful macarons on a display shelf, then walks to me with a tight smile.
“Hey,” I answer, giving her a side hug. “How was Paris?” Lame attempt to change the topic.
We walk in silence to the back of the bakery, where I shuck my coat off, toe off my rain boots, and don my work shoes.
“I’m sorry,” I say, finally finding the courage to look her in the eye.
“I don’t know what else to say.” I’m clutching my boots and my coat, and even I can tell it’s to feel protected.
“Put your stuff away,” she says. “I’m not going to bite you.”
I shove my things in the closet then turn to her. My gaze flickers to her left hand, where Colton’s solitaire is shining next to the simple white gold band he slipped on her finger just days before Noah and I eloped. My heart clenches at my betrayal. “I’m sorry I hurt you.”
Her eyes mist. “You did hurt me.” Blinking tears away, she pulls me in for a hug and holds me against her, her arms clenched around me. “What happened?” she whispers.
I shut my eyes. Can I go with the lie Noah and I agreed on? Or do I owe my best friend the truth? Who comes first? My fake husband and real-life crush, or my best friend?
Remembering that the interests of the whole town hang on this fake marriage, I make my choice as she releases her hug.
Unable to quite look her in the eye, I busy myself making coffee—the first task of my workday.
“Noah… Noah opened up to me during the wedding and I… you know how I’ve always felt about him.
So…” I look at her, hoping she’ll fill in the rest.
She crosses her arms, her eyes dancing. “So you did the big nasty. And…?” she quips.
I gape at her, not knowing where to go with that. This is a direction I didn’t see coming, and now I can’t remember… What did Noah and I agree to say again? I swallow with difficulty. “We decided we didn’t want to waste more time and-and-and we didn’t want a big wedding and—”