Page 66 of Now to Forever (Life on the Ledge Duet #2)

Forty-Seven

“Heard you had quite a weekend, honey,” Wanda says with a wide smile, falling into step behind me as I head toward my office. “Heard you almost castrated Cal right in front of everyone at Liberty Tap.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I mutter, tossing my purse on the floor then sliding into the chair behind my desk. Wanda’s wearing fifty shades and patterns of brown, looking like some kind of sexy safari guide. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen so much brown.”

She pops a shoulder. “Thanksgiving’s next week. I’m channeling my inner Pilgrim.”

Her inner Pilgrim would make a real Pilgrim stroke out.

“Festive.”

“Tell me what happened with Cal already?” Her voice is high-pitched and giddy. “How’d you know it was him?”

“I’m not talking about this.”

“Oh phooey.” She sticks her tongue out at me. “Bet Ford thought it was hot as hell his woman was out there goin’ all Xena, Warrior Princess.”

I move the mouse of the computer and start clicking through my emails, not looking at her. “Ford and I are over.”

She gasps and takes the empty seat across from my desk. Uninvited. “Because of Cal?”

I fold my hands on my desk and look at her. “Because of me. Anything else?”

“You’re grumpy.”

“Anything else?”

A door opens and closes down the hall and footsteps follow.

“The Dondinator has arrived,” Dondi says with a gappy grin as he steps into my office. “And he is here to serve the woman who took down his beloved’s previous captor.” He takes a deep bow, one hand holding a piece of paper over his chest, the other sweeping dramatically into the air above him.

Fuck me.

“Dondi,” I mutter, starting to thumb through a stack of papers.

“Don’t mind her, honey buns. She’s grumpy,” Wanda says.

I roll my eyes.

“Anything on the schedule I should know about?”

Dondi shakes his head, dropping the paper he’s holding on my desk before crossing his arms over his chest and leaning in the doorway .

“Sellecks are champing at the bit to buy this place again, but otherwise, it’s all copacetic and a piece of respectfully handled corpse cake.”

The Sellecks’ timing might finally be right so I can start weighing my options and figure out what to do next.

I unfold the paper from Dondi. “What’s this?”

He shrugs. “It was taped to the door.”

S ome of the world’s best people

O verdo it on the swear words but

R eally know how to make a convict’s kid

R eally know she’s loved

Y et sometimes kids are idiots. I’m sorry.

I read it. Twice. Wren . I chew my lip and fold the paper back up. The words linger and bounce into each other, rattling my brain. She wrote a poem. Apologizing. After I acted like a Tasmanian devil.

Sometime last night as I stared at the point of the roof from bed, I decided to sell the house.

Archie wanted me to have it to make my life better; selling it would do that.

I told myself it wouldn’t change the fact he’s my grandfather.

If anything, the money from the sale would make me feel more connected to him.

More grateful for the fresh start. For the space to breathe—away from Ford and Wren—and figure out what comes next.

If I didn’t move to the desert, I thought about going back to the crematorium apartment.

Then I remembered Wanda and Dondi were bumping uglies in my bed every night, and I hated that visual almost as much as I hated the thought of kicking Wanda out.

It was nearly two a.m. when I decided I’d figure it out later. All I knew, I was listing it, then I was going to call Lydia and tell her.

But now, Wren’s note is an annoying relief that makes me doubt every late-night declaration I made to myself just hours ago.

“Wanda,” I start, pressing the crease of the paper. “What do you want to do with your life?”

Her eyes narrow. “Like marriage?”

Dondi straightens.

“Like career. What’s your—your passion? Where do you see yourself in ten years?”

She looks at me like I’m crazy.

“Here, honey. I loved the salon, but”—she gestures to my office—“you’re the best boss I’ve ever had in my few short years on this planet.

” She pauses to purse her lips. “And these clients don’t complain.

And, Scotty . . .” She hesitates, eyes widening slightly.

“You’ve done something beautiful here. Took what happened to your brother and made it good.

Made it . . . worth it. Gave me and Dondi a chance when nobody else would.

See people nobody else wants to look at.

” She swallows. “You change lives and let someone like me be part of it. Why would I ever want anything else?”

My gaze stays on her and I sit with what she’s said.

Took what happened to your brother and made it good.

As many times as I’ve heard a version of that, I’ve never once let myself believe it, but the look on Wanda’s face tells me I should.

Tells me it’s true. Zeb’s death was ugly and lonely; what we do here is anything but.

I clear my throat. “Dondi?”

He glances at Wanda, lovestruck look on his face as he opens his mouth.

“ Not about Wanda.”

“Well, no offense, Scotty,” he says slightly guarded. “I love driving the Ice Pop, but I want to open a float shop someday.”

“A float shop?”

“A float shop.” He grins, gap-toothed and proud. “See, it’s a shop—on the lake—on pontoons”—he raises his eyebrows—“where you can get anything that floats. Tubes, kayaks, boats.” He snaps his fingers then sweeps his hands through the air, repeating in a theatrical voice, “Float Shop.”

Of course.

“Interesting. You been saving?”

“Have three thousand.” He chuckles. “Need about twenty more.”

I tap my fingers on the desk, brain buzzing like a radio tuned in to every station at once.

Whatever I do or don’t do with the house, I’m done.

I feel it. This job has been good, but I don’t love it.

I’m sick of death. Sick of constantly being reminded of everything that’s gone wrong.

Everything that was and wasn’t meant to be swallowing me up only to spit me back out.

Wanda would keep doing what I’ve done here. Honoring death in the most unexpected of ways. After hearing what she’s just said, I wouldn’t even have to ask .

I tap my fingers on the desk.

Snap the rubber band around my wrist.

Shift in my chair.

And shock us all when I finally say, “Let’s call the Sellecks.”

“You lost?”

Wren’s familiar blue-eyed gaze meets mine as I climb the steps of the porch.

“Depends. This Monday Night RAW?”

I give her a flat look as I unlock the door. “Days away from me and you’re already less funny.”

She follows me inside and sheds her coat, Molly running straight to her. We stand in a tense silence, both of us waiting for the other to speak.

Finally, she does. “I should have listened about Becca.”

I chew my lip. Ford’s conditioned her to apologize freely, I’ll give him that.

“Well. I probably shouldn’t have told Becca that her mom was a dick eater,” I admit.

She snorts a laugh but says nothing, petting Molly on the head.

“Your dad put you up to this?”

“No.” She scoffs. “Why?”

“I broke up with him twice and he’s not listening. ”

She scuffs the toe of her tennis shoe on the rug. “You break up because of me?”

I take my heels off with an ahh! and rub my toes. “I broke up with him,” I explain, “because I think he’s been sleeping around with the sparrows.”

“Rigghtt,” she drawls with a roll of her eyes.

“He tell you I had a baby?”

“Yep.”

“And what do you think about that?”

She drags her fingers across the back of the purple velvet chair in the living room.

“I think you would have been a great mom but maybe not then.”

Another loaded silence follows. That is such a Ford thing to say, and I hate it as much as the rash this whole conversation is giving me.

I fold my arms over my chest. “I guess your shitty poetry makes us friends again?”

She shrugs one shoulder. “Depends.”

I lift my chin.

“You done using me for free child labor?”

“You barely did enough to earn your paycheck.”

We almost smile before dropping onto the couch and propping our feet on the coffee table, Molly curling in between us.

“And Luke?” I ask, scrubbing the dog between the ears. “He okay with dating a convict’s kid with ties to Ledger’s Most Wanted? ”

She grins, wide, Ford’s big blue eyes bright as the midday sun on her delicate face, hurting my heart. “He thinks it’s badass.”

I snort a laugh. “I knew keeping me around had its perks.”

Another silence.

She looks around the house.

“You still selling after Thanksgiving?”

“Why do you care?”

“I don’t.”

I squint at her. “I don’t know what I’m doing.

But—” A noise outside pulls me from the couch; Ford backs down the driveway in his truck.

It’s irritating and impacts the speed of my pulse.

“My annoying neighbors are making the decision easy.” I swing the door open. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Ford’s nose is red from the cold; he’s wearing gym clothes and a misplaced grin. “Tending my flock.”

From the porch, I scowl. “Are you deaf? I told you we’re done.”

He pours seed into a feeder before strolling over to me. “And I said we aren’t. Guess we’re at an impasse.” He kisses me—long enough to make me feel like melted wax but fast enough I forget to slap him.

“This is trespassing,” I argue.

“No,” he says. “This is me not letting you look away.”

I glare at him; Wren walks onto the porch.

“Hey, Dad.”

He grins. “Wrenny.” A gust of wind slices the air and he shivers, rubbing his hands together for warmth. “Cold out here. ”

“We should get a fire going in the woodstove,” Wren says, hugging herself. “Scotty hasn’t used it.”

“No thank you,” I say flatly.

“Let’s do it.” Ford cups his hands around his mouth and blows into them, a cloud from his breath floating around his face. “Get some sticks. Archie kept firewood behind the shed.”

“Hello!” I shout. “This is my house. I don’t want a damn fire. Or guests.”

They ignore me, marching around like fire-building ants collecting flammable debris.

“I don’t want a fire,” I repeat, softer, unmoving as I watch them.

Ford’s already inside with the door to the woodstove open, stacking sticks and balled-up newspaper before striking a match. Wren stacks logs on the floor and Molly sprawls out at their feet.

Traitor.

When a fire is glowing and dancing through the glass, they give each other a high five.

In the middle of my house. Without my permission.

And, damn them both, I love the sight of it.

The butterflies it sends fluttering through me and how perfect they look here in this ridiculously shaped house.

The fact that even though I had a public display of apeshit, here they are.

Writing me poems, building me fires, and feeding my birds.

The Sellecks made me an offer I couldn’t refuse, but I told them I wanted to think about it.

Wanted to make sure I could really live in a life doing something different.

Now, standing here, I see there’s nothing to think about.

I don’t want the crematorium. I don’t want the past. I might not even want to leave .

And yet, I say nothing. The words are not in my lexicon to tell them that if they’re willing to take a chance on me, I might be okay with staying with them.

“I have to get going,” Ford says, giving Wren a peck on the forehead. “Scotty, can you bring Wren to the gym?”

I frown.

“He’s introducing me to his minions after class today,” she fills in.

I stand there, legs like concrete, unable to process what he’s doing or the shift that’s happening in me as he does it.

He strolls over to me, tilts my chin. “Thanks. Love you.” There’s a smug smirk on his face when he pecks me on the lips.

Then he walks out the door, leaving my house and heart warmer than I’ll ever admit.

Damn him.

“You coming in?” Wren asks, as I follow her out of the Bronco.

“Your dad’s launching some kind of psychological warfare on me. Of course I’m coming in.”

The truth: I’m going in because I love him and looking at him even though I don’t know how to tell him.

The gravel crunches beneath our feet until we stop at the propped door.

“I’m proud of you for doing this. ”

“Secret’s out now.” She shrugs. “No point in not talking about it with other kids it might help.”

She opens the door to Fight Club, but my eyes catch on the For Sale sign still taped to the unoccupied side of the building.

“You go in, I’ll be right there.”

At the window, I cup my hands around my eyes and look inside.

It’s one big room, much like Fight Club, but it’s completely empty.

The ceilings are high, the floors are concrete, and there’s dust everywhere.

It’s nothing that could be anything. I linger a minute, imagining what it could be.

It reminds me of the A-frame, a potential diamond in the rough.

In the gym, Wren’s already with Ford, him introducing her to his sweaty group of boys on a mat between hitting bags. I watch them, smiling together, the boys doing the same. Wren mock punches Ford in the gut and he reacts dramatically, doubling over with a grin.

One man changing the lives of seven, over and over.

“Why you crying?” the meatball behind the counter asks.

“Because it smells like crusty balls in here,” I snap, thumbing moisture from my eyes.

He grunts as the phone rings, delivering a rough, “Fight Club.”

Across the gym, Ford’s eyes hook with mine. He lifts his chin; I mirror the movement. His gaze on mine holds like a Chinese finger trap: The more I fight it, the tighter it grabs.

Even with all the stress fractures on our lives and hearts and histories—even as insufferably destructive as I can be sometimes—maybe June was right. Maybe everyone was .

Jimmy, the kid whose sister died, laughs at something Ford says as he takes a gloved swing at him. Full-blown, no worries, laughing. Even with a dead sister.

Across the room, Ford mouths, I love you to me and it face-plants me into my universal truth: I want this. Him. Right now.

Forever.