Chapter 5
I’d effectively been stunned into silence.
The IOU looked exactly as I remembered, which was crazy because I didn’t remember remembering it.
My handwriting had been adolescent and the signature looked huge and stupid.
I scanned the scrawled language, reliving the moment after its creation when he’d caught me and kissed me softly under the mistletoe.
I felt my cheeks turn hot at the memory of our first kiss, and how I’d basically mauled his face for our second.
Tearing my eyes from the incriminating evidence of my stupidity, I picked up my water glass and took a sip, peeking at Alaric. He wore a look of serene and satisfied expectation. I wanted to strangle him.
“I can’t believe you kept it.”
He smiled, not kindly, but also not without affection. “I told you I did. It lives in my safe on that velvet pillow.”
It lives in my safe, I mouthed to myself, letting the words roll around. Sinking back into the booth, I rested the crown of my head against the high seat. I suddenly had a headache. Something, probably the vein or nerves responsible for incredulity, throbbed behind my left eye.
My first impulse was to laugh it off. The idea that a hastily scrawled IOU, written on a scrap of paper when I was eighteen, could have any legal or moral weight was absurd.
Massaging my forehead, trying to smooth out the anxiety under my skin, the longer I looked at the photocopy, the more the memory of writing it wormed through my armor and straight into my soft parts.
I’d assumed he’d thrown it away right after I left that night. But, no. He’d saved it. The quality of the photocopy told me the original was still in pristine condition. And now here he was, like some kind of debt collector in a Charles Dickens novel.
Eventually, I stopped sulking and sat upright, latching on to a new strand of logic, and pushed the folder back across the table.
“Forget it,” I said.
He didn’t move. “Forget what?”
I gestured at the IOU photocopy with a dismissive flap of my hand. “An IOU promising you three days of my life would never hold up in a court of law. I’m not doing this with you.”
The lines on his forehead deepened. “So, what you’re saying is, you’re not going to honor this IOU? You’re welching on our deal?”
The word welching hit like a slap, even though it was said lightly.
My eyes instinctively looked up at the collection of names and napkins and Post-its and scrap paper and cards above our booth, all the disgraceful locals who’d failed to honor a bet or a deal, even a trivial one.
Some were decades old, yellowed and curling.
Many people up there were probably dead, but their infamy remained, like the smell of fish after being microwaved.
A stab of something unpleasant pierced my chest, but I said only, “Correct. Fine. I am welching. I am not giving you three days of my life because of something I wrote when I was basically a kid. If you want to sue me, be my guest. Good luck.”
Alaric seemed to consider my words carefully, then—after a time—he nodded. “I see.”
A moment passed, a deep, mutual silence. He picked up the photocopy, gazed at it with a small, inscrutable smile, and then looked at me in a way that made my heart beat faster. I struggled to look unperturbed.
“You are so cute when you do that,” he said, startling me. “And you probably have no idea.”
“I—I’m not cute. I’ve never been cute in my life.”
“Wrong again.” Giving me a wink, Alaric reached into his jacket pocket and produced a tiny, yet heavy-duty, red stapler.
He set it on the table between us, then stood slightly, as much as the booth and table would allow, positioning the photocopy against the wall beneath the Welcher’s Grape Juice sign.
A new spike of panic sent me to my feet. I grabbed his arm and yanked him back into the booth so hard, we nearly knocked over his water.
“What the hell are you doing?” I hissed.
He didn’t try to break my grip. “I’m putting your IOU on the Welcher’s Wall.”
“You can’t do that!”
“Why?” He made no attempt to disguise his enjoyment of the situation. “You just said yourself, you aren’t going to hold up your end of the deal. You’re a welcher. A liar. You don’t keep your promises. You can’t be trusted. You’re—”
I lunged across the table and covered his mouth with my hand, just as the waitress arrived with my salad and Alaric’s Dr Pepper.
She blinked at us as she drew even with the booth, the picture of polite confusion. “Y’all’s pizza needs another ten minutes.”
I nodded. My hand remained over his mouth, my body leaning nearly horizontal over the booth. Yes, I was a thirty-six-year-old woman behaving like a stubborn, ill-mannered child, but I didn’t care.
A short pause, then, “Will there be, uh, anything else?”
Alaric shook his head and so did I.
“We’re good, thank you.” I flashed a strained smile.
She nodded, backing away slowly. When she’d retreated to a safe distance out of earshot, I dropped my hand from Alaric’s mouth but snatched the photocopy of the IOU as I sat back in my seat.
“It’s unfair of you to put this IOU on the wall,” I said, struggling to control my breathing.
He looked extremely—almost forcefully—delighted by my outburst. “Oh yeah? Why is that?”
“First of all, I was under duress when I signed this.”
He made a show of nodding. “Uh-huh. Okay. What else ya got?”
I sputtered for a second, then added, “It was eighteen years ago. There must be a statute of limitations on IOUs. And—” I scrambled for more valid-sounding arguments. “And my legal guardian wasn’t present. And it wasn’t notarized.”
“You were eighteen, and therefore your own legal guardian.” He regarded me with what looked like indulgent skepticism, his gaze both pleased and unimpressed.
My cheeks burned. I fidgeted with the edge of the photocopy. “I’m not giving it back to you.”
Crooking his finger at me, encouraging me to lean in, I did so. He did too, positioning our faces within eight inches of each other, close enough that I could smell his cologne. “I’m guessing it would really bother you if I put this IOU up on the Welcher’s Wall. Is that right?”
I didn’t answer. My expression spoke louder than any words.
The truth, which I refused to say out loud, was that it would devastate me to have that IOU up on the wall. To be labeled a liar and untrustworthy was an unbearable thought. I hated that he’d guessed this about me and I hated that it was true.
Maybe I wasn’t a good person, but I wasn’t a liar. I was many things—stubborn, rigid, purposefully anhedonic—but at the very least, I was consistent. Reliable. If I drew a line, I kept it straight. I wasn’t nice, but I was fair. I wasn’t generous, but I always paid my debts.
And I’d been this way since I was four and watched my father break his word to our family. I’d been a child, but I’d been old enough to understand that nothing in this world mattered more than keeping one’s word.
Again, I wondered if Alaric understood this about me, and if that was why he did all of this now, and this thought made my eyes sting.
I refused to cry. Instead, I tore up the photocopy of the IOU, shredding it to dispel the threat of tears. The violence of the action worked, allowing me to stare impassively at Alaric with dry eyes.
Crumpling the pieces in my palms, I formed them into a ball. “There. Now you can’t put it up.”
He smiled, his eyes impossibly bright, and I thought for a moment he would call me cute again. But then he pulled out another photocopy from somewhere behind him in the booth, followed by a neat stack of at least a hundred more, fanned out like a deck of playing cards.
My mouth fell open.
He picked up the stapler again and grinned. “This stapler is full. So, unless you want every one of these copies up on that Welcher’s Wall, why don’t you take a second look at the contract?”
I stared at him, disbelieving. But what could I do? This was a mess of my own creation, one I couldn’t solve with money or threats. He wanted me to review the contract? Fine.
Thus, with jerky, furious movements, I pulled the folder toward me and scanned the document inside.
It was written in the kind of simple legalese that made it impossible to misinterpret: “Alison Weston, hereinafter referred to as the ‘Obligor,’ agrees to provide Alaric Jordan, hereinafter referred to as the ‘Obligee,’ with no less than seventy-two (72) consecutive hours of her time, commencing at 7:00 AM local time, December 22 of this year. During this period, the Obligor shall accompany the Obligee to activities of his choosing, provided such activities are not illegal, immoral, or in violation of local ordinances. The Obligor further agrees to participate in good faith, and—”
I stopped reading, feeling heat flood my cheeks. “This is ridiculous.”
He shrugged. “Honor the IOU or suffer the consequences. Your choice.”
My pulse fluttered in my wrist as I gripped the paper tighter and skimmed the rest of the contract.
All it required of me was that I had to be physically present for three days, starting tomorrow morning.
And, of course, I had to “participate in good faith.” Which really just meant no sulking.
Or, at least, not more sulking than my baseline.
I tried to think of a scenario where I could get out of this without being branded as unreliable for the rest of my natural life. Every one of my ideas led back to the Welcher’s Wall.
“Are you going to sign it?” Alaric clicked the red stapler. A threat.
“Theoretically,” I said, stalling for time, “let’s say I decide not to sign and you go ahead and put the IOUs up on the wall. What then? Will you unlimbo my court filings? Would we be square?”
Alaric scratched the stubble under his chin, leveling me with a flat gaze. “We would be square, but I would not unlimbo anything. In fact, if you don’t agree to honor the IOU, then I’ll be bailing out Duke and the Weston Company. I’ll even pay off all the debts on his mansion.”
My stomach dropped, a deadweight splashing through my guts.
But then Alaric added in a quieter tone, “However, if you honor the IOU, if you give me these three days, then, I promise, I’ll unlimbo the filings. I won’t raise a finger to help Duke, I won’t give him even a dollar, and I won’t bail out the Weston Company.”
I tried to read him, to detect any angle or trick, but all I detected was weary surrender and sincerity. I believed him.
Just to be sure . . . “So, what you’re saying is, if I give you these three days—”
He interjected, “You’re not giving me anything, Alison. You owe me three days already.”
I pressed on, “—then you’ll back off and let me move forward with my plans? No interference? Is that what you’re saying?”
He nodded grimly. “That’s what I’m saying.”
I examined him for several seconds, unblinking, then asked, “And what happens when I lay off everyone at the Weston Company? What will you do then?”
Alaric sighed, suddenly looking tired. “If, after the three days, that’s your decision, then so be it. I won’t do anything.”
“You won’t secretly buy it all back? You won’t open a new business to hire everyone or otherwise swoop in and save the town?”
He hesitated, and I could see he was torn. But then Alaric looked me dead in the eye. “If, ultimately, your decision is to close the Weston Company, then I promise, I won’t step in and rescue anyone.”
Something inside me softened. I could see this point caused him pain. Alaric Jordan wanted to save everyone, even the ones who didn’t deserve saving.
Then I remembered who I was, and what it had been like to grow up in this town, and why I was here.
“Fine. Then we have a deal. I’ll sign the contract.” This three-day delay would certainly be inconvenient, but that’s all it was. An inconvenience. I had zero concerns about Alaric doing anything nefarious or exploitative with the time. The man was irritatingly upright and always had been.
His voice was much quieter than mine as he agreed, “Fine. It’s a deal then.”
We were silent for a long time after I pulled out my pen to sign the document, hoping I wouldn’t regret this decision. Across the restaurant, the birthday party reached its apex, a pack of children screaming the lyrics to “Happy Birthday.”
The waitress brought Alaric’s order, a massive pizza crowned with sausage and green pepper and so much cheese. The scent punched me in the face and made my mouth water.
Alaric seemed to notice my covetous interest, because he said, “Do you want a slice? There’s more than enough.”
I bit my bottom lip, then nodded once, giving in. “Half a slice. Please. Thank you.” Pizza would be my consolation prize for signing that ridiculous contract. I’d earned pizza.
He cut one neatly and slid it onto a plate, then passed it over to me.
I blew on it, then took a cautious bite, bracing myself for disappointment. It tasted amazing. The crust was crisp at the edge and pillowy inside, the toppings hot and intense, the whole thing so good I nearly moaned in appreciation.
Alaric watched me while looking faintly pleased.
“Is it good?” he asked.
I nodded, too occupied with chewing, tasting, and swallowing to form words.
His eyes lost focus and his smile faded. Seemingly shaking himself, he picked up his own slice, eating in silence.
After a minute, he said, “It’s just a shame.”
I looked up. “What’s a shame?”
Alaric set his pizza down and wiped the grease from his fingers on a paper napkin. “Well, once you shut down the Weston Company and lay off all the employees, Mr. G will lose more than half his business. He’ll probably have to close, too.”
My ears started to ring, making it impossible for me to respond. All I could do was bite the inside of my lip.
My attention dropped to the delicious pizza, then shifted to the uneven tabletop, then moved to the signed contract that now belonged to both of us. A slow, heavy sense of shame rolled over me, hot and sour.
Quite suddenly, I no longer had an appetite.