Chapter 21
Nowhere Saloon is noticeably empty when I arrive on Monday evening. This afternoon, I sent Caleb the first draft of a grant application, and he texted back.
Want to meet to review? I have some updated numbers.
He’d taken the liberty to ask Adelaide to stay with my mom.
I wondered if it might be a ruse to see me, because who meets in a bar to go over budget information?
He could just as easily have come to the house.
What is this? A date? An excuse to get me alone?
An opportunity for a rerun of last night’s make-out session?
I didn’t have the nerve to ask any of those questions and, frankly, was relieved to get out of the house.
Mom spoke about a dozen words to me today in total, and they were all transactional as I tended to her injuries.
Is that too tight?
No.
Do you need help getting up?
No.
Rinse and repeat. All day long.
I’m grateful to see a friendly face when Dakota approaches me with a smile and makes me the perfect margarita.
Not too sweet, and just strong enough to release my tension and settle my nerves in advance of seeing Caleb after letting him kiss me senseless.
After dreaming about that kiss all night long.
As I wait, I drink the margarita a little too quickly and scroll on my phone to avoid watching the door.
I open Instagram, where I have a billion notifications.
Cassie must have had insomnia last night, because she sent me a dozen reels sure to corrupt my algorithm, all with an obvious purpose: a handsome lumberjack chopping wood, the iconic GIF of Chris Evans splitting a log with his bare hands, and a bearded hottie licking a spoon.
I roll my eyes and return to my feed when my gaze snags on a recommended follow, because there, in a cheery profile photo, is Nadia.
My stomach turns as I stare at the thumbnail picture of her profile. I should put my phone away and ignore the temptation. I should lean on my superpower of avoidance.
But I hover a finger over her face and cut myself open with one swift swipe.
Her profile is public. The most recent post is captioned “Jeffrey Gill Jr. We are loving all seven pounds, three ounces, and twenty inches of him.” It’s a slideshow of a cherubic newborn, swaddled in the hospital-issued blanket and striped hat.
The baby is squishy and pink and perfect.
This one photo is enough self-harm, but I scroll until the knife is at my throat, poised over an artery—until Jeff appears with the tiny bundle in his arms. Jeff, asleep on the hospital cot.
Jeff and Nadia together, proud grins as they hold their baby.
Nadia nursing the baby in the hospital bed as Jeff leans in.
In tidy, filtered shots, I see the life I could have had. A new baby. A faithful husband. The chance for Cassie and me to raise our families together.
I gave it all up for him, and then he gave it to someone else.
I can’t name the emotions roiling in my gut—it’s some combination of embarrassment, bitterness, and sorrow.
And anger, mighty and misplaced. On an intellectual level, I know my anger should be reserved for Jeff.
But I’m also mad at myself. For trusting someone who’d cast me aside, for choosing him in the first place, for convincing myself that the ache I felt when holding friends’ babies was a remnant of evolutionary instinct and not my own body calling me a liar for denying my dreams.
My dreams had never come true, and somewhere along the way, I decided to ignore them in favor of an achievable reality. Instead of choosing someone who made me giddy, I settled for the simple man I thought couldn’t hurt me. Maybe I chose Jeff precisely because we hit only one note—like a metronome.
At this point, I don’t care that he slept with someone else. But I’m pissed that I wasted most of my childbearing years while he can still litter his sperm all over fertile soil and impregnate other women until his dick withers to dust.
“You okay?” I look up to see Dakota’s pretty blue eyes awash in concern.
“Yeah.” I pull some cash from my wallet and set it on the bar top.
I need to get out of here before I embarrass myself, before I cry on a barstool in front of strangers or seek solace on Caleb’s shoulder again.
I don’t want to be this fragile person or waste any more tears on a man who didn’t love me enough to deserve them.
“You look a little pale,” Dakota says as she fills a lowball glass with two shots of vodka.
“I’m fine. But could you tell Caleb I had to leave?” I swivel on the stool and stand, one hand on the bar to steady myself.
“Of course.” She eyes me, a little suspicious.
I’m not usually so emotional. It must be Grand Trees. And the unexpected detours my life has taken. I imagined thirty-five as a moment of security, of being firmly planted on a stable landing. Instead, I’m here, revisiting past hurts while coping with fresh ones.
I race to the back exit, toward the small gravel parking lot, and reach into my purse to grab my keys when the door is thrown open. I stumble straight into Caleb, who catches me by the elbows, steadying me.
“Whoa.” His fingers curl around my bare arms, but his grip is soft. “Are you leaving?”
“Sorry, yeah. Tonight’s not going to work for me,” I stammer. “I’ll email you about the grant.”
“O-kay.” His words are elongated in irritation. He steps back and drops his hands. “Thanks for letting me know.”
“I told Dakota to tell you.” I lose conviction as his irritation clears and something akin to hurt washes across his face.
“I’ll see ya.” He steps to the right just as I move to my left, before we both shift to the other side.
I deflate, losing all momentum for escape.
He looks over my head when he steps back to the right, gesturing for me to pass.
When I do, he doesn’t carry on down the hallway. I turn back with my hand on the knob.
“I’m sorry, Caleb. I’ll incorporate your edits as soon as you send them.”
“That’s fine. I get it.”
“You get what?” I think we’re having two different conversations.
He turns to me slowly but still doesn’t meet my eyes. “I can take a hint, Eden.”
“I’m not . . .” I trail off. “I’m just having a terrible day, and I’d be shitty company, and I need to go be miserable without making you miserable, too.”
His eyes narrow as if he’s assessing my honesty.
I’m not sure whether I can commit to walking out on him if I stand here much longer.
Even skepticism looks good on him. He’s in a pair of dark jeans and a green thermal that makes his eyes appear amber.
I think he might have brushed his hair. His dark-brown waves are pushed off his forehead and curl slightly around his nape.
And he definitely trimmed his beard; it’s short and neat, and there’s a hint of dimples underneath. Lord help me.
“I’m always shitty company. I’m a miserable bastard about 90 percent of the time,” he says.
I snort. “Give yourself some credit. I think it’s only about 80 percent.” During the other 20 percent, he’s letting me warm my feet between his calves and grope him in the forest.
“I wouldn’t mind being miserable with you,” he says.
Something detonates in my stomach—sparklers or fireworks or perhaps an atomic bomb—and it’s potent enough to turn me to goo. “I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
His laugh, loud and unabashed, is a light source, a texture, an energy of its own. “Will you let me buy you a drink? Or is there something in there you’re scared of?” He waves toward the bar.
“I just downed a margarita and then ran out,” I admit. “I’m not sure I can go back in there and retain my dignity.”
“Did you have another aggressive admirer?” He runs his hand through his hair, returning it to its natural state of chaos. The messy look works for him, too. I think he’s the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen up close, and I’m kinda impressed with myself that he kissed me last night.
He really kissed me.
I clear my throat. “Nope. Just that bad of a day.”
“Did you and your mom get into it again?”
I bite my lip to keep from spilling my humiliation all over this hallway. I’ve shared enough sob stories with this man. The baby photos of my ex-husband’s love child need to stay in my emotional vault.
“Wanna get out of here?” He moves until his proximity arcs like static. I look up at him and nod dumbly.
Caleb cups my elbow and leads me outside. I don’t question him when he moves to his truck, stopping to open my door like we’re on a date.
Are we on a date?
Did I almost stand him up and let my jackass ex-husband get in my head and ruin the first bit of fun—of joy—I’ve had in months?
I slide onto the bench seat as Caleb jogs to the driver’s side. The truck’s interior smells like him, his soap mixed with lumber and a hint of leather.
“Where are we going?” I ask, but I’m not sure I care. The sun is setting, and a beam of light is streaming in from the driver’s side window, bathing him in gold.
“Any requests?”
His place, his bed specifically, but I let that intrusive thought die without speaking it aloud.
“Surprise me.” It seems like the safest option, or at least the one that absolves me of culpability. “But I’m not dressed for anything outdoorsy.”
“I noticed.” His gaze skids over my navy maxi dress and white sandals. I’m even wearing earrings and applied mascara and lip gloss. “You look beautiful,” he adds, so quietly I almost miss it.
He pulls out of the lot, his elbow resting on the open window and his other hand on the steering wheel. He casts a glance my way, and it occurs to me how stiff I must look in comparison. I’m sitting upright, both feet planted firmly on the floor, seat belt cutting across my neck.
We drive in silence for several miles as he maneuvers along a windy road into the hills.