Page 12 of Now to Forever (Life on the Ledge Duet #2)

Seven

“Tell me about what you do, Scotty,” Dean says with an eager expression from the booth across from me.

I force a smile. “I burn bodies.”

He laughs, the light reflecting off the lenses of his rectangular glasses as he swipes his hand across the grey-streaked swoosh of hair across his forehead.

And while June’s physical description of Dean wasn’t that far off—he’s attractive enough—he’s also a math teacher.

And the team he coaches? Something called Mathletes.

He’s wearing a sweater-vest, has a scholarly-looking goatee, and sips sherry out of some little wineglass I didn’t know Ledger had access to.

Other than being human, we have absolutely nothing in common.

“That’s right. Camp told me. Fascinating.

How many bodies you burn in a week? Just an estimate? ”

Right. Dean also loves estimates. He asked me to estimate the number of people in Liberty Tap when we arrived and the number of cups that could fit on a tray. I, on the other hand, would rather eat a rhinoceros testicle than talk about estimates. “Five hundred.”

“Really?” he asks, stilling his sherry midair as his stormy-grey eyes widen behind his glasses. “Five hundred?”

“No.” I take a long sip of my whiskey. “I was trying to be funny. Maybe five. Maybe ten. Sometimes less, sometimes more.” I feel the slightest bit guilty for being so short, so I force myself to fill the dull void.

“The retort”—he blinks at the word—“what most people call a cremator—can do around three a day. Some people cremate their loved ones to have a ceremony later, those we do anytime, but a lot of families that come to us like to be there, and we make it a ceremony—kind of like a funeral—that’s what we’re known for.

Send-offs, I call them. Anyway, those take longer.

It depends, I guess, on who we have that week and what they need from us. That’s my estimate.”

“Variance.” He grins, raising his glass toward me. “Keeps things exciting.”

“Sure.” I take another sip of my drink. “So how did you get into . . . math?”

He swallows his sherry with a loud Ah! and sets his glass on the table. “I’ve always been a numbers guy. My parents will tell you my first word was a number—can you believe that? Counted blocks and cars and it just never stopped.” He gives me a look that conveys how amazing he thinks this is.

I press my lips in a tight smile, eyes scanning the crowd of the restaurant. Looking for a magical portal I can jump into to get the hell out of here. “I bet.”

“Let me guess.” He props his elbows on the table, smirk slanting across his face. “You were burning leaves in the backyard as a kid?”

“They didn’t like outdoor fires at the trailer park,” I tell him, watching the door of the restaurant and wondering how long it would take Dean to notice if I went to the restroom and never came back.

“Oh,” Dean says, seemingly stumped by this answer.

My eyes ping around the room, desperation clawing at my chest as the familiar restaurant suddenly makes me claustrophobic.

The door opens and my head turns as if pulled by a string.

Ford walks in . . . with Anna. His eyes meet mine and hold, and it feels tangible.

Like an actual rope forms between us that I could grip onto and pull myself toward him on.

Anna gestures to the bar and he turns back to her, cutting our tie and walking with his hand on the small of her back.

He’s in jeans and a T-shirt, she’s wearing an oversized cream-colored cardigan over a floor-length, casual, striped dress.

Her blonde highlighted hair bounces as she laughs at something he says then they slide into two open stools.

She’s disgustingly perfect, and I feel personally victimized by how good they look together.

The whole scene makes my throat barricade itself closed and refuse to let oxygen enter my lungs.

All the while, oblivious Dean continues.

Something about estimating the number of house fires caused by leaf burning.

“Let’s sit at the bar,” I blurt, already sliding out of the booth.

“The drinks will come faster.” He looks at the bar as if he’s considering the logistics of this decision as I smooth my dress.

It’s black and fitted and was chosen before I knew Dean was a mathlete.

Along with the stilettos. And the expensive lingerie.

“And the number of drinks I have is directly proportional to the probability of me putting out.”

I pulled that line out of my ass and it does what I need it to.

He chokes on his sherry and his face goes red. “Wow. Okay. Bar it is.”

No longer in control of my body, I beeline it to the bar, taking the stool next to Ford, pushing the one next to me out for Dean with the toe of my shoe.

“Scotty,” Ford says, amused smile on his face when I look at him. “Didn’t know you were here.”

“I could say the same.” I raise my eyebrows. “Anna.”

She smiles, but it’s not friendly. More like she’s hoping I have a stroke.

“Who’s your friend?” Ford asks.

Dean sits on the stool next to me and adjusts his glasses before extending a hand toward Ford. “Dean Simmons. New math teacher at Ledger High.”

Ford introduces himself and they shake hands across me. “This is Anna.”

Dean waves and she smiles. “My son is in your class. Miles McIntire?”

“Ah!” Dean says, excited look on his face. “He’s an algebraic wizard!”

She smiles, proud and wide like a doting mother. “He just loves your class! ”

They fall into conversation across Ford and I, animated as they careen toward one another.

Ford and I both lean back in our seats to give them space to talk. I sip my whiskey and look at him.

“So.”

“So.” His lips twitch as he gestures toward Dean with his chin, leaning in slightly and using a low voice to ask, “A math teacher, huh?”

I fight a smile. “Seems to get Anna all hot and bothered.”

He chuckles and sucks a piece of ice from his glass, chewing it with a lazy smile. “I remember math homework getting you all hot and bothered.”

His blue eyes are hot; he’s flirting.

“That wasn’t the math, Golden Boy.”

“I know.”

In the background, the sounds of Ben making drinks, hums of laughter and conversation from nearby tables, and even the math-motivated conversation happening across us seem to silence. As if an invisible volume knob lowered everything but our conversation.

I say nothing, busying my mouth by taking another sip.

“He your sure thing tonight?” Ford asks so only I can hear him.

I don’t shy away from the challenge nor the sexy edge in his voice.

“If I say yes?”

He’s quiet but doesn’t look away. On the contrary, he leans closer, our arms fully touching, his mouth at my ear. “I’d tell you I’d rather he not be. ”

I clear my throat—an attempt to hide how his closeness makes my body start to throb—and take another sip. “And what would you rather me do?”

“Use one of your backups.”

“Ah.” I cock an eyebrow. “I get a second-rate sex toy, and you take her home for the real thing? Doesn’t sound very fair to me.”

Dean and Anna are talking about something that happened at school with the printing of report cards. Her eyes are wide; his hand not holding his sherry waves in outrage.

Ford brings his club soda up to his lips but doesn’t drink, just waits. We look at each other, my mind flying around like a tumbleweed in a windstorm. I couldn’t pinpoint one thought if there was a gun to my head.

“And if I’m not taking her home?”

“Aren’t you?”

“Tell me you don’t want me to.”

I give him a flat look.

“I mean it, Scotty,” he whispers. “Say the words, ‘don’t take her home,’ and I won’t.”

I can’t control the sharp breath I suck in nor the way my mouth opens.

He sees, pulling the glass away from his mouth and licking his lips.

And then I feel one thing stronger than the rest: longing.

Despite all the hurt and time apart, there’s still a physical pull I can’t deny; even all these years later, I want him so badly it makes my already tight dress nearly smother me.

“I don’t care who you fuck,” I say with a flippant tone and another sip .

“I think you do.”

“I don’t.”

He pins me with a stare I return.

“Maybe I do.”

I chuckle softly. “Do what?”

“Care.”

I straighten, the same fire flickering in his eyes that’s burning up my whole body. “About?”

He leans in until his mouth is at my ear, whispering, “Who you fu—”

“Anyone need a drink?” Ben asks, bending the moment right in half. Dean and Anna return to their respective spaces, and Ford shifts away from me, all contact lost. All the while, my heart pounds so hard in my chest my ribs might crack. What just happened?

I raise my glass instantly. “Yep.”

Ben winks then grabs the whiskey, pouring to his usual mark. I gesture for more, needing it to drown the memory of how Ford was just looking at me, and he nearly fills the glass to the top. I down it like a college kid on spring break in Myrtle Beach: in a single gulp, all eyes on me.

“So, Anna,” I say, putting my empty glass down with a too-loud thud as she takes a delicate sip of her white wine, “see this guy conned you into another date. He must be a better lay than he used to be.”

Beside me, Dean chokes. However, unlike last time when Anna was shocked to silence, she straightens, resting one hand on Ford’s thigh.

“I actually wouldn’t know because he stopped dating such easy women.

” She smiles like she’s been practicing that line in the bathroom mirror.

Cute. “We’re focusing on building a strong emotional foundation before letting anything physical distract us. ”

When I realize she’s serious, a loud laugh bubbles out of me. I laugh so hard I smack the bar with a loud thwack .

Dean clears his throat next to me. “What’s funny?”

A muscle pops on Ford’s jaw. Any want that was in his face earlier is being replaced by anger. Good.

“Sweetheart,” I say, leaning into Ford’s space. “That means he’s soft for you. Did he tell you he had me handcuffed and pinned to his car just days ago?” She flicks her eyes to him; he cuts his gaze to me.

“Scotty,” he growls, tension ticking at his neck.

I click my tongue. “And”—my eyes drop to the glass of wine she’s white-knuckle gripping—“I don’t mean to shit in your chardonnay, but when he pushed up against me, it was anything but emotional. Or soft. On the contrary, I thi—”

“You know what?” Anna stands, downing her wine and grabbing her purse. “I’m not doing this.” She looks at Ford. “Your psycho ex-girlfriend will not ruin this night. Ford, let’s go.”

I look at him, surprised to see a coldness in his eyes. Surprised I care. Wasn’t this what I was trying to do? He stands, pulls cash out of his wallet and tosses it on the bar, scowl on his face. “You happy now?”

Surprisingly, I am not .

“I—”

He doesn’t wait; he’s gone. Following Anna. “And I wasn’t his girlfriend!” I shout at their retreating backs, neither of them turning to look.

I look at Dean, who’s now standing too, slipping his wallet out of his khakis. “Where are you going? We just got here. I estimated this would last longer.”

He shakes his head, small smile on his face as he drops a few bills on the bar. “Do I need to answer that, Scotty?”

“ That ?” I ask, gesturing to the door with a disbelieving snort. “That was nothing. That was someone who was something before but isn’t now. And that woman is a wimp. She was begging for it! She should actually thank me for toughening her up!”

I laugh, but he doesn’t.

“It’s fine. You don’t need to explain. But I’m not sticking around for it.” He dips his chin. “It was nice meeting you.”

“Right,” I say softly, watching him leave.

I sit there, alone. It shouldn’t feel different than any other night, yet it absolutely does.

At the familiar crowded bar, my solitude feels like it’s been put under a microscope.

Magnified. I drink another drink with my chin lifted, imagining myself sitting at a dusty bar in the desert, wondering if a new solo stool surrounded by different strangers will feel any different.

Why I hated seeing Ford walk in here tonight as much as I couldn’t stay away from him.

Wondering why I haven’t felt this alone since the day I came off the trail and found him not there .

And with my final sip, I wonder if loneliness gives two shits about geography, and if me leaving will only ever lead to new places filled with the same kind of empty.