9
Elise
In the morning, there are fresh scratch marks on my cottage door.
I don’t remember any scratching sounds during the night though. It makes me think briefly of the wolf sightings, but maybe I’m just anxious and ready to leap to conclusions. Maybe I’m just paranoid.
Briefly, it makes me think about whether I’ll still get my damage deposit back on the cottage, since technically I’m still renting. It’d be nice to be able to keep that when I move on from Mystic Falls. Admittedly, I’ve been dealing with my anxiety over this whole situation with an excess of preparation, reaching out to as many people as I could think of. I’ve put a couple feelers out into moving somewhere else, working in a restaurant for my old culinary school friends, or being a private chef for old clients again. Anything that will help me hit the ground running in a week.
I don’t really know what I’m more scared of: the idea of running into a wolf, like I keep hearing about, or my ex.
I’d rather be hiding in my cottage through all of this, but I think if I choose to do that, then one of the Hayes boys will sense that my drama with Shawn is too big to be in the same room as him and too easy to guess.
I haven’t seen Shawn at all since our little chat the other day. We didn’t lay down any ground rules for how we’d be getting through the next week or so until the wedding, and I’m going to be around a fair bit. I can hope he understood implicitly that I want to see as little of him as possible, but one can never know.
I also don’t really know how he got to Mystic Falls. He hasn’t got a car in the driveway at the Hayes House. There isn’t exactly a bus route around here, so I can’t imagine what other options there are. But I’m not about to go ask him.
My mom still hasn’t called me back either. I keep thinking about calling her again, and trying to tell her everything that happened, crying like a child that’s discovering the hell of stubbing one’s toes. If nothing else, she should be able to empathize with the horror of running into your ex-husband in public after years of not seeing him.
I’m determined not to let any of it bother me. I’m going to do my job as efficiently as I can, and then in my spare time, I’m going to get ready to pack up and move away.
Until then, I’ve been burying myself under frosting.
“So, these are all buttercream bases. We’ve got lemon buttercream, vanilla buttercream, coconut, toasted marshmallow, cinnamon brown sugar—”
I pause for a glance at Logan, who hasn’t said a word since he greeted me at the front door, now lurking in the Hayes’ kitchen while I set things up.
And honestly, that’s fine.
Of all the Hayes family, he’s probably the one I can deal with the most right now. Even if he wasn’t all that happy that I dragged him out of his office for this first thing in the morning, I wanted to get it out of the way before I got started on the food prep for the brewery. There’s a bunch of stuff I had been preparing at the Hayes’ kitchen pre-Shawn’s return that I need to get ready to move to the brewery.
For the wedding cake icing flavors, I’ve taken a little shortcut, and just made a regular batch of buttercream and a batch of meringue in the stand mixer and then sectioned it out and stirred in a few different flavor extracts.
“If you want Swiss meringue, we’ve got the same flavors added to little cups of a batch of that. I am going to draw the line at making multiple types of meringues,” I tell him, because I still have to figure out what to use all the separated egg yolks in. I think I’m going to have to make pasta from scratch and I don’t love the thought of having to dig my pasta roller out.
This whole cake thing has been kinda last minute, and it’s not my usual thing. In my mind, this is cutting corners. Usually, I want clients to have a wide variety of options, not two options disguised as ten.
“You made a lot of icing.” Logan nods.
“I made a couple batches of icing.” I shrug. “Buuuuuut, I also got out some jams I had on hand, and we can make permutations of jams and icings for the cake filling, and then with some of the cakes from yesterday. So now there’s even more options, when you think about it.”
Logan moves further into the kitchen, and stares at the array of little cups and paper slips denoting which icing is which, the pile of spoons for tasting them. He reminds me of a Borzoi sometimes, a face a little too long, with even longer hair.
Instead of tasting anything I’ve prepared, he looks at me and says, “You don’t want Deanna to decide this?”
He rarely calls her “Mom,” especially when talking to me. Maybe it’s a holdover from the work he does at the brewery. Can’t very well call her that to most people.
I hold still for the first time maybe this whole morning, and it puts a crack in the dam in my chest. I don’t know that I could withstand a whole icing and cake taste testing with her right now. I don’t want to be in the same room as her, talking about wedding things, and start marinating on how she never bothered to attend mine.
“Dude, it’s your wedding,” I tell him, and that information doesn’t seem to make much of an impact. “You are required to make some decisions.”
Logan nods once and continues to stare at the icings like they’re a puzzle I’ve laid out for him. Usually, I credit him as being a little more on-the-ball than Aiden, but he seems at a loss for what to do.
“We can toss out the jams part of this if that’s throwing you off,” I suggest weakly. I have a vague feeling that isn’t the problem, though.
Logan turns then, glancing to the doorway, right before Shawn walks by. A little jolt of anxiety moves through me. I don’t know why I didn’t think he’d bother showing up here.
I steel myself against looking at Shawn again. This time may be without the pouring rain to make him look sad and pathetic, but it’s no use. His hair is still that shoulder length, frizzy, curly mess, but you know it’s the softest thing you’ll ever touch. He’s wearing a faded shirt that fits just a little too snug around his biceps and, oh my god, when did his arms get like that? And of course, he’s always got this stupid look on his face like he’s been enjoying a nice day and seeing you made it even better. I see it when his eyes catch Logan’s.
“Hey, man, just wanted to catch you on my way out,” Shawn says, coming into the room and knocking shoulders with Logan.
Without a doubt, he is the most intensely physical person I’ve ever met. Every time he comes into a room, he has to go hug someone or lean on them or pick them up and haul them over his shoulder.
Even Logan leans into it. “Right, well. Stay out of trouble.”
It almost sounds like he means it humorously, but not quite. A beat goes by before the pair of them look at me just as my heart pinches uncomfortably. I keep eye contact with Logan because it’s easier, but I can see the silent question that he’s been sidestepping, and that Aiden has asked me roughly one hundred times. What’s the deal with you and him?
I have to look away to avoid it.
Something like muscle memory makes me turn to Shawn, somewhat expecting to have to go through the motion of saying hello. But the space between us feels hollowed out when he stands ten feet back. I can see how he’s crossed his arms over his chest, less like he’s mad and more like he’s stopping himself.
And for once, he’s looking at me like his day just got a little worse.
“We’re, um, figuring out the icing and cake combinations, for the big day,” I say, wondering what will make him leave.
Shawn nods, and eyes the marble island with my makeshift buffet. “Is this for everyone to try?”
“Well, I made enough because I figured Aiden and Deanna would also want a taste, but we’re not voting on which ones are best. Ultimately, it’s up to Logan.”
“Bride-to-be doesn’t get a say?” Shawn asks, directly dipping a finger into the first icing cup, and pulling out a dollop.
He’s tasting it just as I round the marble island and start putting the spoons into each of the cups, because apparently it wasn’t clear enough what they were for. I’m not quite fast enough, and he does stick the same finger he just licked in another cup before I can finish putting the spoons in all of them.
I can’t wait for Logan to leave so I can kick Shawn in the shins.
Logan continues to stand far enough back to watch this whole little vaudeville act, not commenting, also not intervening.
“I imagine normally his fiancée would do taste testing with us, but I wanted to get this out of the way, so I know whether I need to order a bunch of eggs or a bunch of butter for the frosting.”
“Have you met her?” Shawn directs at me.
“No . . . but I’m sure she’s lovely,” I say, glancing sideways at Logan. He keeps pretty much everything private, so it’s not odd to me that he’s never brought her up before.
Maybe they’ve been a long-distance couple. I don’t know for sure that he’s got a computer setup in his room, but I imagine that’s what keeps him up there, and they probably play a lot of online games together.
“Is she?” he asks, and Logan’s gaze drops to the floor.
“You remember Celine.” Logan shrugs, his body language a little too tense.
“I remember her mother always trying to get us to hang out with her.”
Shawn doesn’t seem fazed by this. I’m trying not to let my jaw hit the ground. They’re acting like it’s normal. I’m glancing between the two of them rapidly, waiting for one of them to give me a hint on how to react.
“. . . Is this an arranged marriage? Is this like a weird rich people thing?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“I don’t know? I mean, maybe,” Logan says, struggling between talking to me and glaring at Shawn. And for what, revealing this weird little factoid?
His posture tightens, his shoulders raise up a little, his arms cross over his chest.
“I don’t really want to get into it,” Logan mutters. Now he’s pointedly looking away.
Aw, shit. I sigh. “I just meant . . . I mean, it’s ok. You don’t have to. I can ask Deanna about the icings, if you prefer.”
He gives a brief nod and pretends to glance out into the hall like he heard someone calling him. “I should probably get going, I’ve got some things to do.”
“Oh, well can’t let nonspecific things wait,” Shawn starts to say, but Logan is gone down the hallway before he can finish his sentence.
I may have lived here a while, but clearly there was something missing from the picture. There’s some weird dynamic here that I only got a glimpse of from the other side when we were married. Those two years we lived together felt like enough to really know him, but they weren’t.
I don’t really know what to make of it, now that I’m starting to see what goes on from this side. Maybe I don’t know enough about how arranged marriages are supposed to work in the modern day to judge, but my heart goes out to Logan, whatever he’s going through.
I wait until I hear Logan’s footsteps disappear before I turn around and glare at Shawn.
“You knew that was private. I wasn’t supposed to know that, was I?” I narrow my eyes at him. “How did you know?”
“Because I know my family.”
There’s just a hint of bitterness in his tone.
“Whatever. I need to get working on the hors d’oeuvres for this evening.” I make a shooing motion at Shawn and start gathering some veggies out of the fridge.
I knew Shawn’s mother was the main reason I never met his family, that she opposed us being together, but he never gave me a real reason why. I’ve never thought of the Hayes family I’ve come to know through working together as particularly cryptic. It’s hard to reconcile what I know with the scant details Shawn gave me back then.
“You need help?”
“No, I don’t, you can go—”
“It’s fine to need help, y’know, it sounds like your workload has increased, and you could use an extra hand.”
Staring at Shawn, I realize something has changed. I haven’t seen this side of him before, a defiant streak that didn’t really exist when we met.
He wanders around the kitchen island, finding the sink piled high with the aftermath of my efforts. He glances at the comically long rubber gloves that are dripping from the dish towel hooks. I’m waiting for them to dry out again before I tackle the sink.
“I don’t need you to help me wash dishes,” I say preemptively, but he’s already pulling open the drawer with all of the dishtowels, laying them out on the counter for when he’s done.
“Isn’t that what I’m here for?” he says over his shoulder, then with a smooth, sardonic tone, “I know how you love to snap the latex on.”
I don’t really approve of wearing gloves for cooking, but I can’t stand washing dishes barehanded. I don’t like touching dishes with food scraps that have been soaking for the last hour, making a terrible soup in the sink.
“I thought you were here to annoy me,” I say over my shoulder, checking the fridge door shut with my hip.
“Well, that too. Maybe I wish I’d had more time doing dishes with you, alright?”
“Let’s be clear, you are doing them by yourself, voluntarily.”
“Sure, boss.”
I set the bowl of focaccia dough and veggies out on the part of the kitchen island that isn’t set up for icing flavor combinations and turn back around to root around for a knife and a cutting board.
“I just wanted a chance to talk a bit. We haven’t talked in . . .”
I pull the cutting board out. “Eight years.”
He flinches.
I turn away and take out the olive oil and a carton of cherry tomatoes. “What was there to talk about? Our lives untangled pretty easily.”
“You think I don’t want to know how you’ve been?”
I make a gesture to our surroundings, the palatial kitchen that I spend most of my time in. “What’s there to tell? I’ve been working with the brewery, and with your mom, for a few years. Clearly, I didn’t realize that when my business partnered with Aconite Ales.”
His eyebrows raise in surprise. “Years?”
I nod. “Yeah, it’s consistent work. I was enjoying a bit of job security, there isn’t always much of that in the catering industry.”
“I’m sorry,” he says after a moment, and I can see in his face that he means it.
Whatever that’s worth.
I fold my arms together and hold them close against my chest, weighing his apology. “Well, thank you. I appreciate that you apologized.”
“Yeah, I . . . didn’t always think to do that,” he says, then winces, and I wonder what specific things he’s remembering.
I’m not gratified by that. I squash whatever sense of peace I feel at thinking he regrets how he behaved during our relationship. I still hate him, on principle. But I can’t pretend I haven’t wondered what he’s been up to as well, how the years have treated him, what he’s like now.
He takes a cautious glance at me, apparently thinking along the same lines when he asks, “How’s your family doing? Or, families, in your case.”
I feel my expression sour reflexively, like taking a straight bite of lemon.
Shawn looks like he swallows a laugh at my expression. “That bad, huh?”
I huff out a breath. “No, they’re fine. Both my stepsiblings graduated high school last year.”
And neither of my parents thought to invite me to either ceremony. They forgot I exist, again.
I clench my teeth at the thought. It’s been so long since I’ve talked to either of them, that I honestly don’t know why I care anymore. I can get along fine on my own.
Deep in thought, I’m watching Shawn roll up his sleeves, not bothering with the big rubber gloves. He easily lifts the large ceramic mixing bowl that’s been soaking, and I can’t help but watch the lean lines of his wrists, the tension in his forearms as he works dried batter off the bowl’s rim with a sponge.
But I still want him to leave.
It dawns on me after a few minutes, that I’m really just staring at his arms. He’s always had amazing arms. I mean, I’m sure there’s always been some definition there, but it toes a line between a sort of natural muscley-ness and a guy who actually works out. I kind of wonder then, if he could pick me up. Not just in a theoretical, how-much-can-you-lift? way, but my body craving the feeling of being picked up and tossed over a shoulder in a sort of caveman way.
It’s then I realize that I’m horny for Shawn. Horrifyingly horny about the idea of him picking me up and roughly handling me.
That can’t happen.
I turn away abruptly and start getting more ingredients for lunch down from the shelf, some spice jars and condiments. “You should go. You’re just going to mess my system up.”
“Your system hasn’t changed in years, I can tell by the way you have everything lined up.”
My hand grasps a bottle of hot sauce briefly, picking it up by the lid. I have half a thought, that whoever used this last must not have screwed it on right, before suddenly it’s too light, and I’m just gripping the lid.
I yelp in surprise when the bottle makes its loud impact on the counter, and the last thing I see before squeezing my eyes shut reflexively, is the sauce splattering out of the bottle.
Deceptive, refrigerator-cold drops of it make contact with my face and I freeze.
“Oh my god, are you kidding me,” I squeak, and start to go to wipe the sauce from my face, but discover my hands are already wet with it, and I don’t know where the closest dish towel is.
“Wow, that got all over you,” I hear him from behind me, across the room.
“Eyes, Shawn. It’s on my eyes,” I tell him, and a second later there’s the sound of the sink running. I guess he’s rinsing the soap suds off his hands. I can hear him moving around the room. I can’t really pay attention to it at the moment, I’m more concerned with if the hot sauce is going to make contact with my eyeballs or not.
My heart is thudding in my chest. I hate getting hot sauce in little cuts on my fingers, I can’t imagine how bad it’ll burn my eyes. What do I even do if that happens? Would pouring milk in them be the answer? That sounds crazy.
“Did it get in your eyes?” I hear him ask, and this time he’s right in front of me, guiding me with light touches to turn away from the counter.
“No, I don’t think so. I don’t think I can open them,” I say in whatever direction, until I feel the counter against my back. I brace my hands against it as he touches just underneath my jaw, coaxing me to raise my chin so he can get a better look.
“Hold still, I’ve got you,” he murmurs, and I feel the cold touch of a wet paper towel on my face. “We’re just going to be very careful about this.”
I hold my breath and try not to move at all, as his fingers press through the towel and clear the majority of the hot sauce from my face.
With my eyes welded shut like this, the world is reduced to just his hands, fingertips carefully tracing over my face, the sound of his breath and the little warmth that ghosts from it over my skin. My heart is pounding, but decidedly less so from the fear of my eyes stinging.
The heel of his palm presses to my cheekbone, steadying his hand as he touches the wet paper towel to my eyelids, wiping a drip of hot sauce from my eyelashes.
“There,” he says at last. “You should be in the clear.”
His palm stays nestled against my cheek when I open my eyes.
I wasn’t ready for how close he was standing. I used to know this closeness, all the little details in his face.
He doesn’t say anything, and neither do I, fearing if we did it would break whatever fragile spell has fallen over us. His hands are warm and big, and I remember every bit about them.
There’s almost a gravity present, like standing on the edge of a massive cliff. The edge terrifies you and you don’t want to go anywhere near it, but you can’t help but be drawn to it, you can’t stop peering further and further over the edge, a gentle type of hell.
It’s clear Shawn doesn’t know how to navigate the lack of physicality between us either. Not touching seems stranger than anything else.
My cheek is pressed hard in his hand, tilting my face up towards his. My eyes flick from his long eyelashes to the hard line of his mouth. I wonder if his lips are just as soft as they were eight years ago. I wonder who he’s kissed since we divorced.
He barely blinks, both of us too frightened and suddenly inexperienced in these matters with each other.
The soft, fragile moment slowly fills with horror, as I have absolutely no idea what to do, afraid that it will never end or that it will end awkwardly and terribly.
For a moment, I think he’s going to say something I need to hear, like an apology, something heartfelt, some vital key to my closure with how things ended.
“You smell different. It’s weird,” he says after a moment, an expression like he’s personally stumped by this.
“That’s not a compliment,” I reply flatly.
“I didn’t mean it like—”
“I only want to hear two things out of you: compliments that respect my personal boundaries, and ‘have a nice day, Elise.’?”
He opens his mouth again to protest but sees my expression and thinks better of it.
I swallow and take a step back. “Thank you for getting it out of my eyes.”
He blinks, whatever came over us dissipating. “Yeah. Um. Anytime. Let me, uh, get you a paper towel for your shirt.”
I turn away and catch my reflection in the tile backsplash over the stove. My apron has taken the brunt of the hot sauce explosion, but my white T-shirt looks like it’s been flecked with a red arterial spray.
I take a few more steps back, my heart thudding with adrenaline, slowing down like I’d just come out of a near-death experience.