7. Nate
Nate
The plan is in motion.
Despite the melancholy that stems from coming home to an empty house every day, there’s a thread of hope that I’m clinging to. Something that’s making me believe that this isn’t the end for me and Rory.
I’m going to show her that I’m here for her. That I’m the same solid, steadfast guy she knows. That no matter what, I’m not giving up.
It has to work.
Right? Otherwise, this just makes me seem stupid. Or desperate. Or both.
Rory hasn’t answered my text messages or picked up my calls for four days.
Despite that, I send her texts a few times a day. Just to let her know I’m not going anywhere. That I’m thinking of her. That I’ll wait for her.
I need her to know that I’m a constant in her life, that who’s there for her no matter what.
I look over the string of one-sided texts that I’ve sent since Monday.
Rory
I miss you.
I’d love to talk. Let me know if you’re open to it.
I’m not going anywhere, Rory. I’m here for you.
Good morning, Rory.
I hope your day is going well. I love you.
Message after message, with no response. But they’re showing as delivered and then as read, even if she hasn’t responded to a single one.
So I’m holding onto that shred of hope, and if anyone has better ideas on how to win her back, I’m all ears.
“Any other ideas, Ollie?” I ask, peering down to where he’s lying at my feet.
Ollie lifts his head and tilts it to the side, but his expression doesn’t hold any wisdom. At least, none that I can decipher.
Maybe his loyalty lies with Rory now. He and I are partners at work, but she’s the one who’s been bribing the dogs with peanut butter.
I reach down to scratch Ollie’s head as I blow out a breath. “Well, buddy, if you don’t have any brilliant ideas, I’ve got a few thoughts. Wish me luck.”
Because here’s the thing. I have patience. I can wait for Rory to come around.
I just need to be ready when she does.
That was Allie’s suggestion, at least, and other than me, she’s the one who knows Rory the best.
Just be there for her. Let her come to me.
And I’ve been one hundred percent sure that this plan will work, but now that it’s been days of radio silence, doubt is starting to creep in.
I can be patient and wait it out, but maybe I need a new plan. Or at the very least, a plan B, just in case.
“Should I try something else, Ol?” I ask.
He quirks his head, which isn’t much of an answer, but then, I’m asking a German Shepherd for dating advice.
A neutered German Shepherd, for that matter. What does he know about love?
God, I’m losing it.
I check my watch. A few more hours before I have to head in for my shift at the station, and I’m down to my last frozen dinner.
A pang hits my heart, thinking of Rory’s cooking, the way it felt to have a home-cooked meal waiting for me when I got home from work.
Just one more thing I miss about her.
Pulling in a deep breath, I stand and grip the back of my neck. “Shopping.”
I have no idea who I’m talking to. That wasn’t even a full sentence.
Ollie looks at me like I’m crazy.
He may have a point. I’ve gotten to the point where I’m just muttering random words to a house that’s empty other than a dog.
Just one more reason that I need to get out of this house before I lose even more of my sanity.
Time to go be a functional human, if I can manage that.
Standing between the sweet potatoes and the yellow onions, I remember why I haven’t left the house for two days.
I’ve barely made it halfway through the produce section. But between the apples and turnips, I’ve received three pity glances, not counting people who might have been subtle enough to hide their expressions.
And now, an actual hand on my arm from Mrs. Alpert.
“I was so sorry to hear about you and Rory,” she says, patting my forearm with her wrinkled hand.
“Uh, thanks.”
I don’t know the proper response to a comment like that from my former high school teacher, especially now that she frequently calls the police department to come check on things at her house.
Had I known that my relationship status would be such a hot topic, I would have been ready. Maybe I would have prepared a statement. Or a comedy routine.
As it is, I have prepared absolutely nothing other than my plans for the evening, which include microwaving a frozen dinner and heading to work. Maybe, depending on timing, heading to work and then microwaving a frozen dinner. Variety is the spice of life and all that.
I manage something that I think approximates a smile and turn, reaching for a sweet potato.
I do not want a sweet potato, but it’s the first thing that catches my eye.
I’m not even sure how to cook a sweet potato, honestly. But my movement has the intended effect, which is to shake Mrs. Alpert’s hand from my arm.
I reach for another potato, just to beef up my cover. I hope someone in my life knows what to do with these things. Do you make mashed potatoes out of them?
Mrs. Alpert leans over, surveying the meager contents of my cart. “Mmm,” she says, nodding.
I’m not sure I want to know what that means.
She doesn’t give me a choice, though.
“Those are supposed to be healthy,” she says, pointing to the two sweet potatoes in my cart.
I nod. “So I’ve heard.”
“What are you planning to do with them?” She picks up a potato of her own from the display.
Uh, no clue. Throw them at someone? Use them as door stoppers? I have absolutely no clue how to turn these orange rocks into something edible.
“I, uh. Just going to bake them, I think.”
Fortunately, she nods. “Nice and simple. Just how I like mine, too.”
“Mmm-hmm.” I’m not entirely sure how to end the sweet potato conversation without being rude.
“Does Rory like sweet potatoes, too?” she asks, reaching for another.
I grip the potato so hard it’s a wonder it doesn’t explode. How did I get to this point?
A week ago, Rory and I were in a great spot. We were headed for marriage and kids and all that, and no one was asking me about how I was planning to prepare root vegetables for dinner.
As I think about it, my anger focuses on the sweet potato in my hand.
Is it a yam?
Is it different than a yam? If so, how?
Who the fuck knows the difference? Why can’t it just be a normal potato and be happy like the russets and other things a couple of bins over?
This fucking tuber has done nothing but have the misfortune of being at the top of the pile, but I hate it with a fury.
Freaking beta carotene and vitamin A or whatever the fuck is supposed to be in these things. No one asked for this.
“Ooh, this one is perfect!” Mrs. Alpert says, holding up a sweet potato that, apparently, is perfect in some way.
They all look the same to me. Bumpy and dirty and full of despair about ever getting your soulmate back.
“Nice,” I manage.
It’s the first compliment I’ve ever paid to a potato, so cut me some slack here.
Mrs. Alpert tosses the perfect potato into the plastic bag along with the others. “Well, I have a date tonight, and I’m going to make some sweet potatoes as a side, now that you’ve inspired me. Wish me luck, Officer Patterson!”
The whole situation seems unreal.
Sweet potatoes, for obvious reasons.
My high school teacher having a date.
Being single all over again.
Losing Rory.
With those last two, it’s pretty clear that this is a nightmare that I need to wake up from.
I set the sweet potato back with its colleagues and grip the handle of my shopping cart, then force myself to breathe in and out in a slow, controlled pattern.
“Have a good night, dear,” Mrs. Alpert says, setting her bag of potatoes into her cart.
She gives me a wave as she walks toward the checkout.
I do my best to not pass out.
Deep breath in.
Out.
In.
Out.
Put the fucking potato back where it came from.
Deep breath in.
Out.
Go to the frozen foods aisle.
Deep breath in, and out.
Find something that looks like it’s not super toxic and can be cooked in the microwave.
Deep breath in.
I continue breathing as I add three freezer meals and a frozen pizza to my cart, make my way to the self-checkout, and manage to pay without speaking to any other humans.
It’s only once I’m safe in my SUV, the few groceries I actually bought in the back seat, that I take a real breath.
Is this how it’s going to be from now on?
I press my forehead against the steering wheel. I can handle this. Right? I’m a fucking cop. I’ve been through worse. And I can win her back.
I startle as my phone vibrates in my pants pocket.
I pull it out and read the message:
Lawton
Are you bringing stuff for dinner? Thinking about ordering from Mountain High Pizza.
I stare at the message for a second. Mountain High does sound a lot better than what I was planning.
Mountain High sounds good.
Good call. I’ll order it now. Pineapple okay?
Also can you pick it up on your way in?
I laugh as I lean back against the headrest. At least some things are fucking predictable. Lawton’s love of the pineapple pizza at Mountain High will never change.
Sure. Order me a pizza with cheese and pepperoni, though. I’ll pick it up on the way in.
I start the car, shift into drive, and pull out of the parking lot.
I’m almost feeling triumphant, having survived my first public outing after the breakup, until I get to Mountain High.
“Oh, hiiii there!” The high-pitched voice assaults my ears practically as soon as I step into the restaurant, making me cringe.
That’s not a voice I want to talk to right now. Or ever, really.
Yvonne might be my least favorite human in High Lonesome, but Kaitlyn Crocker is a very, very close second.
At this moment, it might be a tie.
Despite my not returning her greeting, Kaitlyn sashays right up to me.
Her skirt is both too tight and too short, giving the impression that it’s about three sizes too small for her, although I’m sure she intended it to fit like this.
She’s wearing a coat, some fuzzy cropped thing that barely skims her waist, but her outfit as a whole is wildly inappropriate for the twenty-degree weather.
Why doesn’t she move to Miami or somewhere so that she can dress like this and not freeze to death?