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Chapter Twenty-Eight

A urora

“Honey, I’m home!” I say as I enter the salon.

I thought it would be a funny way to announce myself, but it just stings my heart. Too soon.

“Out front,” Jamie yells. “Bring a can of disinfectant with you, please!”

“Sounds like I’m walking into something.” I rummage around in the storage closet. “Where are you keeping the cleaning stuff now? Wait! Found it!”

I snag the can and carry it with me to the front of the building.

“Here,” Jamie says, wiggling her fingers without looking at me. “Gimme.”

“What are we disinfecting?” I ask, peering down at the floor, and see … nothing. “What are you looking at?”

“Something moved right there. By the bottom of the chair.”

I look again, but all I see is tile. “There’s nothing there, Jamie.”

She holds the can like a weapon—arm extended, eye lined up with the bottom of the barrel—and fires away.

I cough, fanning my face, and step back. “Okay! I think you got it.”

She stops and peers down again. Unsatisfied, she blasts it for another five seconds for good measure.

“You told me you’ve been lonely, but you haven’t said anything about seeing things,” I say, hopping up in my old chair. “That might be a symptom of something.”

“I’m not seeing things. It moved. I swear.”

“Sure.”

She rolls her eyes but comes to me with wide arms. “I missed you so damn much.”

Her embrace is wide and warm. While it doesn’t do the same things for me that Tate’s hugs do, it’s appreciated, nonetheless.

“The place looks good,” I say, spinning in a half circle to observe my old haunts. “New lights in the windows? Nice.”

“And a new basket for magazines. Oh! I finally replaced the cute little hand soap dispenser in the bathroom.”

“It’s about time.”

“Right?” She sits in her chair and sighs. “You look good.”

I half smile. “Yeah, well, thanks for lying to me.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Honey, I’ve known you in various stages of life. I can tell when something is wrong. Spill it.”

Tate’s words ravage my mind again.

“So I waited my whole life for the one girl who I want to spend my life with, and then I get told to hang on. She might want to be with you. She might not. She might have your children. She might not.”

He didn’t tell me he loved me. Does he not love me? Does he think this is all too hard now?

I consider telling her about my fight with Tate, but it feels too heavy. My body hasn’t processed it yet. And if my hormones haven’t adjusted to meet my needs, I can’t even start talking about it.

“Can we start with you?” I ask.

“Sure. You know I love to talk about myself.”

I smile. “What’s been happening around here? Catch me up with all the drama.”

“You must really not want to talk if you’re asking for drama. You always hate when the gossip starts.”

I shrug. She’s not wrong.

“Maddie was in yesterday,” Jamie says. “New boyfriend, but it’s not a new boyfriend. It’s the one who left her at the bar downtown on Labor Day weekend.”

“Oh yeah. I remember him. We had a name for him. What was it?”

“Dill Boy?” Jamie asks, shaking her head.

“No! Gherkins Boy! She said his penis looked like a sweet gherkin.”

“Ha!” Jamie laughs. “I’ll have to remind her about that.”

“What about Onessa? I’ve been wondering about her cats.”

Jamie nods knowingly. “Tigerlily has passed.”

“Aw!”

“I know, I know. There was a funeral. I couldn’t make it. Beebop seems to still be grieving. Onessa might get a new cat, but not another orange one. She’s not sure.”

“She should,” I say, nodding.

“That’s what I told her. Oh, and Phil was in. Remember him? He brought tuna salad in a margarine container and ate it while he waited.”

My stomach recoils at the memory. We couldn’t get that smell out of here for a week.

“You know how we thought Phil had a thing for Barbara?”

“Yeah …”

“We were so right. That’s unproven right now, but I heard it from an excellent source.”

I laugh, the brick on my chest lifting just a bit.

Jamie watches me, trying to decide whether it’s safe to test the waters on my drama. I still don’t want to talk about it, but she is my best friend, and I could use an honest opinion.

I sigh. “Tate and I got into our first fight. Well, I don’t know if it was a fight or not. We had a robust disagreement. How’s that?”

“What about?”

“He wants things to get super serious, super fast.”

“How do you feel about that?”

I get to my feet and slowly pace the salon. So many nights I’ve walked these floors trying to work something out. A marriage. A divorce. Rumors and financial issues. Bruises and heartbreak. The list goes on and on.

If the walls could talk in this place, the stories they could tell.

“I feel awful,” I say, my heart squeezing at the look in his eyes when I left. “He’s a great guy and means nothing but the best. I wouldn’t have to pick between the bear or the man because Tate would slaughter them both for me.”

“Great answer. Wrong question.”

“Huh?”

“I asked you how you felt about him wanting to get serious, and you answered that you felt bad and he was a great guy. That wasn’t what I asked you.”

Oh . I take a deep breath. “I haven’t told him this, but I love him.”

Jamie flinches.

“I know. That’s wild coming out of this mouth,” I say, laughing sadly.

“But I do. There’s nothing not to love about him.

It’s crazy when I think about it because every time someone has told me they’ve fallen in love this fast, I’ve laughed at them.

And now, here I am, knowing what love feels like for the first time and doing it in record time. ”

“Another great answer to the wrong question.”

I spin around to face her. “What do you want me to say?”

“How. Do. You. Feel. About. Him. Wanting. To. Get. Serious?”

“You don’t have to be a dick.”

She points at me. “You’re emotional, so I’m going to let that slide.”

“Sorry,” I say, heaving a breath. “I feel …”

How do I feel?

I pace again, this time faster. I make a figure eight around two pillars on either side of the building.

“Talk it out,” she says. “That’s why you’re here. You could’ve thought quietly in your car.”

I look at her and shake my head.

“What? I’m not a trained counselor. You want my services? We’re doing things my way.”

“Okay,” I say, resolved to get to the bottom of this. “I feel fine about getting serious with him. I see myself with him for the rest of my life. I want his babies. I want his stories after work. I’ll even take his dirty laundry.”

Especially blueberry sheets.

Tears well up in the corners of my eyes as I remember that night in his bed.

“But I don’t want to get married. Not yet,” I say. “Maybe not ever. And he wants it right now, and I can’t give it to him. I feel … cursed .” I nearly spit the word out. “I don’t want to curse us, you know?”

“Did you tell him this?”

“I tried to. We both got a little hotheaded, and that never bodes well for communication.”

“No, it does not.”

“I don’t know what to do, Jamie.”

She sits back in her chair. “I might not have a degree in counseling, but I do have a cosmetology degree, and it’s basically the same thing—only I can do hair and nails.”

I laugh. God, that’s so true.

“Let’s break this down,” she says. “He wants to marry you. He doesn’t want to date, right? He wants marriage.”

“He wants me to be his wife.”

She considers this. “That’s really sweet, actually.

But I know where you’re coming from, and your concerns are valid.

I’m going to deduce from this that buried down deep inside that Adonis body—which I know he has because I checked him out on Social—he’s afraid of losing you.

He wants you, or maybe the white picket fence thing, so much that each piece of the puzzle feels like he’s building a foundation.

So, without marriage, he can’t get the whole picture. ”

“But things do crumble.”

“Not when they’re built right.”

Silence fills my body as things start to make sense.

“Holy shit, Jamie. You might be right.”

“Funny that you doubt me at all,” she says, making a face. “Now, the other part of this is probably the fact that he’s a billionaire stud who has never been told no a day in his life.”

I snort.

“So your boy doesn’t know how to compromise. He’s acting like a brat. You did the right thing putting your foot down.”

I hum, lifting my chin.

“But,” she says, pointing a perfectly manicured nail my way, “you have to compromise, too. If you want this to work, that is.”

“How? Marriage is my triggering event. I. Don’t. Want. To. Get. Married.”

“But you are fine with committing to him?”

I nod.

“Then figure out a way to do that.”

“I can’t. I can’t give him what he wants.”

“Bet you can.” She winks. “You might have to think a minute, but you’ll find a solution.”

She gets up and heads into the back, leaving me alone.

How does she think I can give him what he wants if it’s something I can’t do? I groan. I can’t compromise on that. I can’t half marry him. There’s no other way of committing to him …

I stop pacing. My heartbeat quickens.

Oh my God. There is a way.

My palms sweat as I think things over. It’s a crazy idea.

But is it?

The longer I contemplate it, the more it makes sense. The more I like it. The more I really want to make it happen.

I put a hand on my stomach and exhale.

“Did you figure it out yet?” Jamie asks.

I look at her over my shoulder as she enters the room. She stops in the doorway and takes me in, then nods.

“Yeah. You figured it out.” She grins.

“He has a birthday party tomorrow,” I say. “Maybe I write him a little note and give it to him there?”

“You don’t want to go back over there tonight?”

I shake my head. As much as I do want to, I shouldn’t. We need some time apart—if for no other reason than to ensure we know what we want.

“You don’t happen to have some pretty stationery, do you?” I ask.

“Actually, yes. A customer left some out here a few weeks ago and never came back to get it. It’s in the top desk drawer.”

I nearly jog to her office and yank open the drawer. There lies a cream-colored notepad with faint white and gray swirls in the background. It reminds me of his countertops.

I sit down and pull the pad out, along with the pen that goes with it. Then I stare at the paper and try to figure out how to say what’s on my mind.

After a deep breath, I start writing …