Chapter 4 #3
Wes’s knuckles whitened on his fork. “Jesus, he sounds like a fu—” Almost immediately, however, he paused again, slowed again. He exhaled. “He sounds like a jerk, Isabel. He probably is, but—that actually doesn’t matter right now. Just—how. . . how are you feeling?”
The correct answer was obvious.
Heartbroken.
She didn’t say it.
Honestly, she’d appreciated Chase. She’d appreciated how no one ever questioned why they’d gotten engaged only eleven months after meeting at the San Francisco Medical Center, the hospital that ran her clinical trial.
To anyone wondering, the answer was self-evident on her side: handsome, charming, doctor.
Even a neurologist. On his? She was useful at his networking events, quiet and attractive.
A conversation piece, if not a conversationalist. Evidence of the efficacy of BioPulse’s Ceretobicin as well, which he endorsed and promoted.
An engagement ring secured her time for his increasingly busy schedule of dinners and promotional conferences.
She knew this. And. . . he liked her body, too, while she liked the simplicity of his routines.
Gym, coffee, sex. The security of expectations, and of knowing that there would be nothing suspicious about their relationship to flag during her spousal visa application.
Being with him was—no, is, present tense, you can still fix this somehow—easy.
Mostly.
The coldness of her skin under his hands was her problem, not his. She’d tried to love him. A perfect man by so many standards, aspirational? She’d known she couldn’t—child exhibits attachment issues—but she’d tried.
She’d tried hard to be happy. . .
She must have spoken some part of those awful thoughts; Wes nodded. “What’s your plan?”
If he wasn’t recoiling, though, maybe she hadn’t confessed the worst of herself?
That was something.
But as for her plan: realistically, she didn’t have many options. Not now that Chase had left the state. That made her choice simpler. She told him, “There’s no point in my returning to San Francisco. Not when he’s in Las Vegas.”
“You could go to Vegas. If—you’re seriously still planning to marry him?”
The why? shimmered over their table, silently.
It was nothing to the heat mirage of Nevada: dry, scorching air searing her skin, her blood, her skull—
“Yes, and—no. Not Nevada.”
“Why not go back to San Francisco, though? Don’t you live there?”
“Chase has a condo in Pacific Heights.”
“. . . right. Let me guess: you have a key, but you’re not on the mortgage?
” Wes raised a last forkful of French toast with a metallic clang.
He didn’t bite into it, just watched her for a moment over the cold chocolate and bananas.
Then, “If you won’t head north to the city, will you stick around Monterey for a while? Or stay with family?”
“—scared the other children—returning her to a government home—”
Her chair screeched back. “No.”
“No to Monterey? Or no to family?
“No—no. . . family.”
“Monterey it is. So why not stay at the bungalow? I’ll move into my hostel in a couple days, and you’ve already got the offer from Ethan.
Plus, if you’re here, he and Erin can go to their satellite launch without wasting the booking.
Especially since the cost actually is all in the family.
You can visit MORI, too. If you want to. If you’re interested.”
All in the. . .?
No.
He had to understand. “I wouldn’t—if I. . . I’d pay them for the time. I have money.”
His sun-tanned cheek dimpled. “Does that mean you’ll stay?”
If she didn’t return to Pacific Heights, which she wouldn’t. . .?
“Yes, but only until I know what to do.”
Only until I can identify and make the right decision.
“Well, unless you plan to live on condiments and champagne,” Wes signaled to their skating server, who deposited the check, then took his cash over Isabel’s objections, “your next step is the grocery store.”
“There’s a Grocery Outlet on Broadway Avenue,” the waitress volunteered.
Wes tipped her with a bright smile that almost obscured his wince as he pocketed his change. “Thanks.”
They went to the Grocery Outlet.
Wes pushed a cart through the automated sliding doors and steered around two locals in Birkenstocks discussing the ethics of almond milk.
He rolled down an aisle that advertised a two-for-one sale on cereal, tempting for both the price and the prize inside: either a ring pop or a plastic figure from the latest Pixar film.
He shuffled four boxes into the cart, along with a loaf of day-old bread and an armload of spinach pasta on clearance.
Isabel added discounted cantaloupes and greens.
Beans and rice in bulk followed. Multipacks of herbal tea came next, then tins of chickpeas, followed by bruise-spotted veggies from the bottom of a stocker’s bin, handed out with a shrug.
She briefly considered a packet of dried pineapple. She put it back before Wes noticed. It wasn’t on sale. Old habits ran deep.
“See that hot sauce, over by the salsas and garlic paste?” He directed her attention to a middle shelf a few minutes later, where a lineup of bottles promised oral annihilation by various varieties of chilis.
“None of them are discounted.”
“No. One of those was in my family’s hot-sauce competition over the holidays last year. Not as spicy as the Chiletico I bought from a street stall in Costa Rica. But it made a good starter. Nothing’s ever gotten my tongue tingling like Sumatran durians, though,” he said with a lopsided grin.
Costa Rica.
Sumatra?
“You’ve traveled to so much of the world.” They joined a queue winding toward a checker’s stand. She extracted her wallet.
“I can—”
“No.” Fair was fair, and he’d counted his breakfast change so carefully. Against his protests, she added, “You’ve even been to British Columbia.”
“Yeah.” But his smile faded. A distracted frown furrowed his nose. He reached for a bell pepper, passing it from hand to hand. His elbow pushed their cart forward as another shopper collected their canvas bags and left the stand. “I don’t usually stay in one place for long.”
Back and forth, back and forth went the pepper.
They advanced another few feet in line. “What about you, though? What’s your travel history? Outside of Vancouver, Seattle, and the Bay Area?”
She nudged the cart up to the cashier. “That’s everywhere I’ve been.”
Nowhere. She’d been nowhere, and belonged nowhere. . .
Wes shoved their groceries into bags. “Come with me.”