Chapter 25 #2
the refreshments setup in the back right corner of the room.
When he finally got there after two pointless conversations about the goddamn weather, Bez was describing the food offerings
to a reunion attendee wearing an expensive-looking suit—was that chemistry-class Ned?—while Charlotte and Johnathan brought
out more trays of Gruyère-packed gougères, bacon-topped deviled eggs, mini quiches with various fillings, raspberry-brie bites
in puff pastry, crudités and dips, and cookies decorated like seaweed.
In retrospect, the latter should’ve been Karl’s first clue things were gonna be odd tonight.
There was more food too, back in the school-cafeteria staging area and walk-in cooler. All of it was delicious. And for once,
that wasn’t solely due to him.
“How’s it going?” He took a heavy tray from Charlotte and placed it on the long, cloth-covered table himself. “Problems?”
“Not even one.” Pausing, she blew a stray strand of pale hair from her eyes. “Nothing damaged in transport. No complaints
from partygoers and lots of compliments. We’re a well-oiled machine with all our supplies in place, boss.”
Her skin was a bit flushed from exertion, and tiredness had her looking her actual age for once. But she was . . . huh.
Sounded stupid, but she was glowing. Back straight, chin high, brimming with self-assurance in a way he’d never seen.
He examined her, curious about the transformation. “Anything you need from me?”
“We’re great.” A nudge of her finger straightened a display sign listing the quiche filling options, ingredients, and allergens.
“But thanks, Karl.”
Her sharp-eyed survey of the table had a proprietary air. That unmistakable mixture of bone-deep pride and dogged determination
to catch and fix whatever might go wrong before anyone else spotted it.
Same thing he felt every time he walked into his damn bakery. Ownership.
“You like doing this shit,” he said slowly, shocked by the realization. “Charlotte, I—”
“Karl?” A polished fingernail tapped his arm. “There you are.”
He turned on his heel to find . . . Becky. In a slim-cut, champagne-colored dress and matching heels. No corsage, because
yeah, this wasn’t actually prom. Even though it kind of felt like it.
“Janel said you were here.” She beamed up at him, her blond hair braided into a pretty crown atop her head. “I’ve been searching
for you.”
She looked almost exactly the same as twenty years ago. But when he studied her, he couldn’t drum up any of the old longing.
Not even any of the old affection. The last faint lick of attraction had faded over fifteen years ago, and it wasn’t coming
back.
Even the hurt had gone now. The embarrassment too. Something about confessing to Molly had sealed the edges of that particular
wound, and seeing Becky didn’t reopen it.
He had not one goddamn ounce of desire to talk to her. But since he tried to be a decent human being—“Hey, Becky. How are
you?”
“Good. Still in Baltimore, still a mortgage broker.” The tip of her fingernail brushed one of his shirt studs. “And at the moment, I’m having trouble believing my eyes. Karl Dean rocking a tuxedo? I wouldn’t have predicted that. Not in a million years.”
No way he was discussing his prom-redux plan with her. So he just grunted, because what the hell else could he actually say
in response? Yeah, turns out my body doesn’t physically reject fancy clothing, even though I don’t usually wear this shit?
“I would’ve expected you to be fidgeting, but you seem incredibly comfortable.” She was still marveling. Still talking as
her fingertips smoothed over the deep blue lapel of the jacket, then traced the fragile petals of the rose in his boutonniere.
“Confident, even. I’m impressed.”
Was he supposed to thank her for acknowledging that he wasn’t a total disaster in formal wear, despite her expectations?
“Yeah.” He took a big step back, hoping that’d quash all her weird touchy-feely shit. “Rental place made sure everything fit
well. Starch in the shirt collar’s itchy. Otherwise? Comfortable enough.”
She nodded but didn’t seem like she was really listening. “I was hoping to talk to you, Karl. Do you have a minute?”
When he craned his neck, he was trying to spot Molly’s approach, or even a disaster-in-progress at the refreshments table.
But . . . nope. No Molly. No issues to solve.
“I guess.” Scowling, he followed Becky to a quiet spot along the far wall of the gym, near a pissed-looking anglerfish. “What’s
up?”
A flash blinded him, rapidly followed by another.
When he’d blinked the spots away, he saw Sylvia moving toward her next victim. Which meant Saturday’s paper might feature a photo of him cozied up in a private spot with Becky, who was standing far too close. The last thing he wanted, for a million reasons.
The nosy-ass people of Harlot’s Bay were one thousand goddamn percent going to start bugging him about whether he and Becky
were together again. If Molly left, they’d figure she’d gone because he was reuniting with his ex and hassle him about that too.
Bad enough. But way fucking worse? If Molly saw the picture, she might think something she shouldn’t. Especially given her
personal history.
The next time Sylvia came by for a latte, he would be leaving his workroom, having a private conversation with her, and taking
care of the problem. Even if it meant offering her the exclusive interview she’d been haranguing him about for weeks.
“—owe you a long-belated apology,” Becky said, because apparently she’d begun talking at some point. “When I ended things
way back when, I was cruel, and I’m ashamed of what I said to you. My only excuse is that I was a dumb kid who didn’t know
how to tell you ‘I need to see more of the world before I settle down with anyone.’ And to make the break feel easier, I convinced
myself we should split up because you weren’t enough for me. But the reality is that no one would’ve been enough for me, because I needed to become more than I was. I’m so sorry.”
He blinked at her, stunned by the unexpected apology.
Sounded sincere. Not just nice, but also honest and . . . yeah, kind.
“Now here we are, twenty years later. I’ve finally wised up, and from everything I hear, you’re still the same person you’ve always been: a hardworking, successful man who cares about his family and his community.
A good man.” Her mouth twisted into a sad smile.
“I’ve found that if you hitch your star to someone who’s not a good man .
. . sooner or later, he won’t be good to you either. ”
That was the voice of painful experience, and he wished like hell she hadn’t learned her lessons the hard way. But—
“And we always had great chemistry, didn’t we?” She sucked in a deep breath, hands trembling slightly, and moved in a step
closer. “So I was wondering . . .”
At long last, there was Molly, only a half-dozen steps away, her eyes on them. Only—why was she turning around and angling
toward the refreshments table instead?
“Molly!” he shouted. “Over here, woman!”
She swiveled on her heel and headed their way again, taking her damn time about it.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he told Becky, whose soft, pink lips had formed a tight line. “Promised her we’d dance as soon as she
got done talking to Janel.”
Her shoulders rose and fell in a silent sigh. “You and Molly, huh?”
“Yeah.” He certainly fucking hoped so. “First time she’s been back in twenty years, but . . . yeah.”
“Oh, wow.” Becky snorted, shaking her head ruefully. “My timing is the freaking worst.”
“I guess,” he said, not really following the conversation. “Appreciate the apology, Becky. All the kind words too.”
When she asked for forgiveness, apparently she liked to sweeten the pot with compliments. He’d have accepted the apology either
way, though.
That sad smile returned. “I’m glad, Karl.”
They both watched Dearborn’s approach. When Molly finally arrived at the semi-private spot along the wall, Becky held out a hand in greeting before he could say anything.
Her voice was friendly, her chin tipped high. “Good to see you again, Molly.”
“Likewise.” Molly accepted the handshake, smiling pleasantly. “How are you, Becky?”
“I’ve been better, but I’ve certainly been worse too. Thank you for asking.” Becky’s arm dropped to her side, and she studied
Molly’s suit for a moment. “I hear Karl owes you a dance, so I’ll get out of your hair.”
Karl nodded. “See you around.”
“That’s not necessary,” Molly told her at the exact same moment.
“It really is, Molly.” Becky huffed out a soft laugh. “I’m going to grab a slice of eel cake out of sheer morbid curiosity.
Take care, you two.” She paused, already mid-turn, and spoke over her shoulder. “I always had a feeling you’d get together
sooner or later, and I guess I was right. Didn’t think it would take quite this long, but . . .”
Becky disappeared once more into the crowd.
“Finally.” He grabbed Molly’s hand. “Let’s dance, Dearborn.”
When he tugged, though, she didn’t move an inch. Her expression was that serene mask he hated, but he could read her eye crinkles
now. She was upset, or at least worried.
“For fuck’s sake, don’t tell me you think—” he began.
She held up a hand. “I know you weren’t flirting with her. You might not be the world’s suavest man, but as I’ve seen for
myself, even you have better game than that.”
Good she at least trusted him not to be her father. Still, something was clearly wrong. He watched her warily, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Once he ran out of patience, he prompted, “But . . .”
“But I . . . I can . . .” Her jaw ticked, a faint tell. “I can bow out if you want.”
For two heartbeats, he couldn’t do anything but gape at her, unable to understand what the hell she was even talking about. Then he somehow managed to parse her bullshit, at
which point he nearly lost his goddamn mind.
“What?” he shouted, throwing his hands in the air and ignoring another way-too-bright flash of light from the side.
Her voice lowered to a hushed whisper. “She’s local, unlike me—”
“She lives in Baltimore,” he snarled, incensed.
“—and pretty, and smart, and clearly into you again.” Her shoulder hitched in a jerky shrug. “You could do way worse, Karl.
That’s all I’m saying.”
In the white stillness of another blinding flash-burst, he envisioned it. A future without Molly. A life with Becky or one
of the other women in this room, who were all—yeah, okay—pretty enough. Some of them were even beautiful. Smart too. Friendly.
Funny. Kind.
But they weren’t Molly. None of them made him feel like Molly did, and always had.
Even if one of them wanted him—doubtful, despite Molly’s claim about Becky—he didn’t want them, and he certainly didn’t need them the way he needed Molly fucking Dearborn, who was slipping through his fingers with each moment that passed.
He had to say something. Had to fix this shitshow, ASAP.
“Come with me,” he told her, and she didn’t resist this time as he marched them away from the wall, hand in hand. Didn’t question him as he forged a path through the crowds, to the gym’s entry, then down one dimly lit hall after another, until he’d reached their old homeroom.
It was unlocked, which was a mistake on the school’s part—chances of drunk people banging in here later tonight were damn
near one hundred percent—but handy for his purposes. Which might or might not include some non-drunken banging of his own,
depending on how the next few minutes went.
Moonlight illuminated the classroom, so he didn’t flip the light switch before closing the door behind them. Did flip the
deadbolt, because they needed privacy for this conversation.
Palm sweaty against hers, heart thudding against his rib cage like it was trying to escape, he gathered all his courage and
forced the words from his reluctant throat, one by one.
“Stay,” he told her. “Stay in Harlot’s Bay, Molly. Please.”