Chapter 24
Twenty-Four
Lainey
I open my mouth.
Close it.
Then open it again.
Then close it, pace away.
Pace back, lips parting—
Faye’s head comes up, her eyes locking with mine, and she points to the back door. “Outside, Lanes. I mean it.”
“But—”
“This is good,” she says, pointing at the screen of my laptop. “Really good.” Amusement edges into her expression. “But it’s impossible to read it with you hovering over my shoulder. Shoo,” she orders. “I’ll come get you when I’m done.”
I nibble at my bottom lip.
Then force my feet to move, taking myself—and my wine and a slice of Faye’s banana bread—outside.
Ollie is upstairs asleep and since Gray is on the road trip with the Grizzlies (and Sawyer), we decided to have a girls’ night.
But Bri is off working at the youth shelter and Reese didn’t sleep well and some of Kailey’s former coworkers from the Breakers are in town so she ended up hosting them, and Harper is eight-million years pregnant, so it ended up just being me and Faye.
And, as it often does, it turned to work.
Tonight it was deadlines and stubborn characters who just won’t get their lives together and…The Book That Shall Not Be Written.
Or maybe I should be calling it—
The Book That Shall Not Be Written (But is Being Written Anyway).
I mentioned I couldn’t get it out of my head, admitted I haven’t been able to stop writing it, and naturally Faye needed to read it.
And I let her…all the while shitting myself, telling myself that it’s terrible, that it’s the worst thing I’ve ever written, that she’ll think it’s stupid, that she’ll agree it makes no sense with my current career trajectory.
“It’s not stupid,” I whisper. “It’s good, and so what if it doesn’t fit in perfectly with my other books?”
The night air doesn’t answer me.
Rude.
Sighing, I sink down onto the porch steps and sip my wine.
It was raining earlier, leaving the grass dotted with tiny glittering orbs of moisture. Overhead, the clouds cling to the sky, diluting the moonlight, but keeping the temperature a few degrees warmer than the last couple of days have been.
All of which is to say, with my wine and my banana bread and my cozy pajamas and thick, fuzzy socks, I’m quite comfortable.
Physically anyway.
Inside, my mind’s a mess.
My heart is racing, and anxiety has my nerves running in overdrive, but I force myself to sit still and sip at my wine, nibble at the slice of banana bread, stare out at the lawn.
Then frown when I see something moving in the shadows at the tree line.
Probably that raccoon Sawyer mentioned.
I’d better make sure the trash can lid is secured.
I set my wine glass down, pop the last of the banana bread into my mouth, and go around the side of the house (keeping on high alert for any raccoons who might be unhappy about my presence).
Trash day is tomorrow and we are in desperate need of the garbage truck to come—the bins are stuffed full with moving leftovers and holiday remnants: wrapping paper and empty cardboard boxes, ribbons and bows and leftovers that Ollie didn’t eat (though he did love Harper’s homemade rolls).
When I reach the cans, I’m glad I made the detour.
The recycling bin’s lid is askew and I sigh, try to stuff down the flattened cardboard boxes and scraps of paper from the rejected plot points of The Book That Shall Not (or Shall) Be Written.
There are a few other odds and ends—old notebooks, a few ideas that never came to fruition, papers I no longer need.
Including…
I exhale as I bend down and pick up the copy of my marriage certificate from the ground.
The storm from earlier must have blown it free.
It’s smudged and wrinkled, wet from the pavement. But since it’s one of a half-dozen I found when I was cleaning out old files, I’d chucked it. Frowning, I fold it in quarters and shove it down into the can.
It’s public information, so I’m not worried about anyone stealing it—plus it’s not like I’m still married—but I do feel a little niggle at throwing it away.
Like I need the reminder.
The warning.
“That was the past,” I tell myself. “Things are different now. I’m different.”
But even as I close the lid, I wonder if that’s true, wonder if this thing with Sawyer will change like it had with Ben, will morph into something I don’t recognize, into something that slowly eats away at me, at my heart and soul.
If resentments will replace love.
No, not love.
We haven’t even woken up together.
It’s like—as in I like the person he is, like how he treats Ollie and me, like how considerate and smart and hardworking he is.
I like him.
But I’m not the Lainey I was.
Liking—or even loving a man—won’t ever be enough, not fully.
Because if things change…if they even threaten to change, I know I won’t be her again.
I can’t be her again.
The thought brings a cold chill to my nape.
Or maybe that’s the temperature dropping as the wind picks up, rustling the branches, sending leaves dropping to the ground around me.
I shiver and close the lid, rubbing at my nape as I head for the porch and my glass of wine.
Only when I get there, it’s not where I left it.
Frowning, I turn in a circle, looking for it to have fallen over, to have rolled onto the grass.
But there’s no sign of it—no glass, no spilled wine. Nothing.
“What the—”
The back door flies open, and Faye rushes out.
“Did you take my wine glass?” I ask.
She skids to a halt, brows pulling together. “What? No, why would I take your glass?”
“To refill it?” It’s a hopeful question.
Her lips twitch. “Sorry to disappoint, but I was fully entrenched in The Book That Better Freaking Be Written Because It’s So Freaking Good.”
“Really?” I ask, nibbling at my bottom lip.
“Really,” she says.
I inhale, exhale. “Really?”
“Really,” she repeats, snagging my arm and dragging me forward. “Maybe your raccoon friend stole it.”
I slant a look at the trees, know stranger things are possible. “Maybe,” I tell her on a shrug.
“Anyway, who cares? Let’s get you another glass and you can fill me in on all things sexy Viking-esque hero who’s going to steal your heroine’s heart.”
Laughing, I rest my head on her shoulder. “Now that I can do.”
We go inside. We eat and drink and laugh and talk…
Until I forget all about the missing wineglass.