Page 31 of I’m Not Yours

I ignored a heavy weight, a trunk of lead, on my heart. “No.”

He studied me for a few seconds. “Okay.”

“That’s it, then.” I squashed down a terrible rush of disappointment.

He was going to give up that quick? Not surprising for a man.

Slightest bit of resistance and they back off.

No, you’re not worth the work or the worry, they’ll find some other two-legged female to pursue. Darn, I do not think much of most men.

“No,” he chuckled. “I’ll ask you again. Probably tomorrow. Maybe you’ll be in a better mood and more open to a survivor’s luncheon?”

“I doubt it.” My voice was snappish, but I smiled, then covered my smile with my napkin. He wasn’t giving up! He was rebooting, so to speak.

“Maybe I’ll sing to you.”

I laughed at the image. “Maybe I’ll sing back.”

“Maybe I’ll play my guitar under your window.”

“I’d still say no.” But I wanted to say yes.

“Don’t press me, I’ll do it. That’s a beautiful shirt, by the way.”

“Thank you.”

He peered closer at it. “It’s . . . can I use the word ‘elegant’ without you thinking I’m one of those men who’s into fashion?”

“You sure can.” I eyed his “guy clothes.” This was a man who dressed in an outdoorsy, bring-on-the-fishing-and-hunting kind of style.

“It’s all lace, isn’t it? The whole thing, same with the shirt under neath it. Very feminine.”

I wanted to yell, “I made it!” But I was too shy for that. Instead, I felt myself growing hot again. I would probably melt by the end of this lunch.

“Stylish. Maybe you’ll wear it again when you give in and go out with me. There’s this great restaurant down the road, ocean view, candles, excellent steak . . .”

“No.” Yes.

“And stuffed baked potatoes that are incredible.”

“No.” Yes.

“And a seven-layer chocolate cake that is the best I’ve ever had.”

I hesitated. Yummy! “No.”

“No and no and no,” he sighed. “Break my heart, June, break my heart. The cake is mouthwatering, and I have to say I’m a bit of an expert on cake because I eat it all the time.”

My mouth was already watering, and it wasn’t for the cake.

I drove home from Marlene’s, after insisting and arguing with Reece to let me treat him to lunch, which he refused.

Reece followed me down the road, his truck following my truck.

That’s how we’d gone to the hospital, too.

I figured that someone who had saved my life, got a kick out of my nomadic childhood, and had eyes that made my heart kick-start into heaven was probably safe.

If he and that sexy smile had asked me to climb into a parked spaceship bound for Pluto, I probably would have said yes.

But there was no invitation to Pluto; instead, Reece said, “I know we just met and I know you don’t want to be in a truck with a man you don’t know . . .”

With you I do! Bring on the spaceship!

“So I’ll follow you to the hospital. It makes me nervous having you drive alone, but I’ll be right behind you and it’s only a ten minute drive. If you feel the slightest bit sick, pull over, okay?”

I’d nodded on automatic. I would have liked being in a tight spaceship with him.

And that’s what we’d done. When we left Marlene’s, I said, “You don’t have to follow me home, Reece. I’m sure you’re busy.”

“Not busy at all.”

“But I’m fine.”

“I know.” He smiled. “You’re more than fine.”

I smiled like a drunken, love-struck fool, though I’d had nothing to drink.

So, we drove down the highway, through the town and shops filled with kooky souvenirs, ceramic lighthouses, fake shells, and taffy, the ocean sparkling on our left.

We entered the residential area where I live and drove past my neighbors’ houses, down around a curve, and up the hill to the end of the street.

I turned into my driveway and watched his truck in my rearview mirror.

Reece turned into the driveway next door to mine.

I assumed he was pulling around. I climbed out of my old, rumbly truck and waved at him as he got out of his new, black truck.

“Thanks again for pulling me out of the ocean. I would not have wanted a shark to eat me for a snack. It would have been painful. For me,” I clarified ridiculously. “Not for the shark.”

He laughed; oh, the man was a laughing sort. Was I that amusing?

“I didn’t think it would be painful for the shark. I think he’d find you quite tasty.”

I turned to enter my little blue cottage, the cottage I so didn’t want to lose, and instead of backing up, he headed for the front door of the home next door.

The home was two stories and the quintessential beach house, with shutters and shingles, the view of the ocean from the floor-to-ceiling windows incredible. Inside, it was modern with wood floors, an open floor plan, and two fireplaces.

“What . . .” I called. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going into my house.” He smiled. My heart flittered. “I’ve rented it for eight weeks.”

“You rented that house.” I pointed at it dumbly. “That one. Right there. You rented that house?”

“Yes, I did. For eight weeks.”

“For eight weeks?”

“Fifty-six days, give or take.”

Oh, no. This was going to be a problem. “So I’m going to see you, then?”

“Yes. If you want to. I suppose you could always close your eyes when you saw me. Drive blindly down the street, run from my presence screaming, wear a bag over your head to hide, but neighbors do usually cast eyes on each other occasionally.”

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

“Damned you won’t be. I’m positive of that. Thanks for going to lunch, June.”

He turned to open his front door. I didn’t move.

The Greek god was living next door to me.

Oh, man. This was not gonna be good.

Or, maybe . . . it was going to be good.

Very good.

No, it wouldn’t be good. It couldn’t be good. When he knew the truth about my life, we’d be done.

And I had to tell him.

That I knew.

I’d met Grayson when I was working as an attorney.

I became an attorney because I wanted to fit in with The Establishment.

I wanted to be “normal.”

I didn’t want to be poor, I didn’t want to travel around in an old VW bus, I didn’t want handmade clothes, I didn’t want to live in communes or hippie colonies or on farms with no electricity or plumbing.

So, at eighteen, as a rebellious teenager who decided she wanted to live a “normal American life,” I attended a top-tier college on a full-ride scholarship.

The college was apparently impressed with how much we had traveled, my fluency in Spanish, and my SAT scores, which were near perfect, comparable to my brother’s and sisters’ scores, a reflection of our parents’ skills as educators.

I missed my family. I loved them. I cried every night for weeks.

But I was going to be Someone. I wasn’t going to be on the fringe of society anymore, I was going to be society. I wasn’t going to have long, messy hair and wear rainbow colors, or the tartans of our Scottish clan, and dance at midnight. I was going to be fashionable and mainstream.

In my quest to be Someone, I gave up sewing, a hobby that had brought me a sense of delight and accomplishment, and a camaraderie with my family.

I powered through college, powered through law school, graduating second in my class.

The valedictorian was Mindy Shadow horse, who lived on a reservation in between her stints at school.

She is now a state supreme court judge, the youngest ever in her state.

She is my best friend outside my family.

I was hired to work as an attorney under crushing student loans and soul-sucking stress. I worked seventy-plus hours a week for five years. I made a lot of money and paid off my student loans at the end of those years.

Grayson was a partner in a hard-charging law firm on the floor below me. We met in the elevator. I thought he was sleekly, cooly handsome and successful. He had plans, he had ambitions. We would not be traveling around in a VW bus. We dated for six fast months and got married.

I then had what I thought I wanted: Normalcy. I had all the outward stuff that said, “You fit in. You belong. You’ve arrived. You’re successful. You’re respectable. No VW bus for you.” I wanted to be normal.

Normal made me bury all my unhappiness until I couldn’t bury one more inch of it.

Normal stripped me of me.

Normal made me die internally, inch by inch.

It was not pretty.

“We have another order,” Leoni said from a chair near the computer. She pushed back her white-blond hair. Today she was wearing a proper, lace-collared pink dress, fifties style, and black knee-high boots.

“Good.” I took pins out of my mouth and readjusted the sequined wedding dress on my lap. This bride was an oceanographer and had ordered a jade green mermaid-style wedding gown with sequins swirling down the front and a flowing train that resembled sea waves. I loved how it was turning out.

“Bite me hard,” Estelle muttered. “As if we’re not all going to suffocate in piles of flounce at this studio already.”

I love being in my studio. I love hearing the ocean waves outside my French doors.

I love the three skylights that let the sun in and the pitter-patter sound of rain on the glass.

I love the two old rocking chairs and the matching crystal chandeliers I’d added blue and pink glass beads to.

I love sitting in my plushy red chair with a crazy quilt or working at the humongous table down the center of the room or at the numerous sewing machines.

There are four half-naked, naked, or fully dressed mannequins, and we have shelves and piles of lace, satin, velvet, and other sleek, silky materials used to make wedding, bridesmaids, and flower girls dresses, veils, and beribboned hats.

“It’s an odd order, though,” Leoni said, her brow furrowed.

“Even better.” I love odd orders. I am delighted to be in business with my odd orders. A bad day with odd orders is still far superior to a “good day” fighting with other strung-out attorneys in open court.

“It’s rather witchly.”

Witchly?

“Is she a Bridezilla sort?”

“I don’t think so.”