Page 64 of The Spite Date (Small Town Sisterhood #1)

WHEN A MAN CAN’T STOP LOVING A WOMAN

Simon

“Has he moved all day?” Lana asks one of the boys two days after the last time I saw Bea.

“He put on sunscreen every thirty minutes and drank two beers,” Charlie reports.

I had a temporary above-ground pool installed while waiting for the in-ground pool that was hidden beneath decades of leaf decay to be properly cleaned, filled, and balanced—even my money wasn’t enough to fix it immediately when I decided the hell with it, that I wanted a pool—and my children have been enjoying the novelty while I’ve been enjoying the privacy that comes with not leaving the house.

“I also served you lunch,” I say without opening my eyes.

Opening my eyes hurts too much.

There’s sunshine and blue sky and happy children and complete uselessness because there is not also a Bea.

“He told us where to find the boxed macaroni and cheese to fix ourselves,” Eddie says.

“You know how to operate the stove,” Lana muses.

“But it’s summer vacation.”

“And you’ve made friends and had a blast at that summer program your dad found for you, and I know for a fact he’s cooked for you or taken you out to eat practically every other meal this summer.”

“Not breakfast,” Charlie says. “I had to pour my own milk on my own cereal every day .”

It’s a joke that should make me laugh.

Instead, I stare despondently at the back of my eyelids and wish I could simply sleep until it no longer hurts.

Until what no longer hurts, you ask?

Everything.

My heart hurts. My sinuses hurt. My head hurts. My skin hurts. My feet hurt. My legs hurt. My arms and hands and fingers hurt.

Everything hurts.

“This is new,” Lana says, much closer now. “Are you going to actually make it through this, or are you just going to lobster away at the pool?”

I could ask if she’s making a joke about me getting sunburned, or about lobsters mating for life, but I don’t have the energy.

So I simply grunt something.

“Mom’s meds are working better,” Lana says. “She’s being transferred from the hospital to the memory care unit at Shady Acres tonight. It’s finally about to be done.”

I peel my eyelids open to look at her. Time to pretend to be human. “And how are you with that?”

Her shoulders sag. “Sad, but relieved, and then sad, and then depressed, and then relieved, and then guilty, then sad, then relieved, then sad. I should’ve forced her into the memory unit weeks ago, but when you know that she’ll never see her own home again after that decision… it’s just fucking hard.”

I stare at her far longer than I should have to in order to form a coherent thought. “Emotions are terrible bastards.”

“Emotions are what make life worth living.”

I grunt again and close my eyes. “We’ve an easy routine here. Take your time with resting and recuperating before the boys invade your house once more. They’ll be with you full time for a spell again soon enough.”

“You gonna recover well enough to head out to California on schedule?”

“I shall do what must be done.”

“I saw Daphne today.”

I simultaneously tighten every muscle in my body in preparation for hearing an onslaught of my worst traits while bracing my heart against any news that might give me the slightest bit of hope that Bea would consider taking me back.

She left things rather open-ended on Monday afternoon.

I don’t know is a far cry from Never speak to me again, you backstabbing twat , but it’s an equally far cry from I miss you, I forgive you, I want you back .

And with every second that ticks by without a word from her, I fear it means the former rather than the latter.

“She started a protest over the source of the meat at JC Fig last night,” Lana says. “Jake had to close the restaurant because of the number of calls he got demanding to know where he got off participating in the inhumane treatment of animals.”

The news doesn’t make my body loosen.

“He apparently showed up at the burger bus on Monday and told Bea he’d take her back again. She attacked him with ketchup and told him she’ll destroy him and his family if they don’t leave her alone.”

I squeeze my beer can so hard that it crushes in on itself.

There was still a half beer left, so now I’m coated in fizzy, beer-scented liquid.

“And Logan’s apparently harassing her—hanging out near the bus every other day to chase away her customers—so Daphne put in a complaint to the police chief.”

If I could crush my beer can again, I would.

“It would probably make more of an impact if you called to complain about him too,” Lana muses. “And there are rumors floating around that Damon Camille is planning to sue Bea for false advertising.”

“Damon Camille? Which brother is that?”

“He’s Jake and Logan’s father. The ambulance chaser. Sues everyone for everything around here.”

Wonderful. “What is your point?”

“If you want to be her hero, you’re missing out on a lot of opportunities by sitting here feeling sorry for yourself instead of proving to her that you mean it when you say you’re sorry.”

The grand gestures.

I’ve written a script or two in my lifetime.

I’m familiar with the concept.

Clearly terrible with the execution though. Which every woman in my life should know by now.

“Perhaps this is my sorry montage,” I say dryly.

She ignores my comment. “Is it true that you didn’t remind Bea that she lied to you about the reason she wanted you to take her to the restaurant’s grand opening when you went to apologize the other day?”

I lift one eyelid just enough to verify that she’s watching me. “What of it?”

“Simon, do you understand how people fight?”

“Yes, I believe I had it demonstrated for me by my parents every day of my childhood. Thank you for the reminder that they called me, by the way.”

“Did you answer?”

“And let them have the joy of knowing I’m in such a state? Certainly not.”

She sighs.

“What?” I grumble.

“If I was dating someone and we both fucked up and then we had a fight about it, I’d absolutely throw it back in his face that he wasn’t innocent either.”

“And what should the point there be? To continue fighting? I don’t bloody care if she was wrong.

She apologized for it long ago, and that date was one of the best dates of my life.

Cheese-filled monstrosity of a menu and the broken doorknob and missing the conclusion of it for passing out drunk on her table and all.

So no, she has nothing to apologize for.

That lies solely on my shoulders. I’ve apologized.

She doesn’t know what she wants. And so I’m forced to the sidelines to show her that I respect her wishes even if I hate them. ”

“If you were still dating her right now, no questions, no hesitation on her part, what would you do for your next date?”

“I can’t bloody well force her to go on a date with me.”

I don’t need to open my eyes to know Lana’s glaring at me.

“You know I’m terrible at relationships,” I grumble.

“You know that’s a shitty excuse when you love someone.”

I wince.

She is not incorrect.

“Boys, anyone want chicken wings?” she calls. “I have a craving for something hot covered in ranch dressing.”

“Me! Me!” Eddie yells.

“Me too!” Charlie chimes in.

“You’re not invited,” Lana murmurs to me.

“I assumed as much,” I reply.

“That said…if you do pull your head out of your ass and want help, I have my own feelings to avoid.”

“Bye, Dad,” Eddie says. “I’d hug you, but you’re covered in beer.”

“We’ll bring you back some wings if Mum lets us,” Charlie adds. “But for real, you should shower first. It’s always better to be clean when you’re eating.”

“I have missed you two so much ,” Lana says.

Again, I don’t have to open my eyes to know what’s happening.

She’s hugging them fiercely, because she has far bigger problems than mine, none of hers self-inflicted.

As their voices fade, I slowly open my eyes.

What would I be doing with Bea right now if I hadn’t made the worst mistake of my life?

I’d be planning a surprise.

Truth be told, it’s already in motion.

I lift my head.

My brains slosh around inside my head, but I put my hand to my phone, lift it so that I may see the screen, and pull up my email.

I’ve a task that needs completing.

Imminently.

Regardless of the cost.

And then I shall decide if I want to continue with the rest of that plan.

Even though there’s no question.

Of course I’ll finish the plan.

It’s for Bea.

Whether she wants me or not. She should have this.

Because it will make her happy.

And isn’t that the point of feelings?

The point of life?

To find one’s happiness?

I don’t need a giant house. I don’t need a pool. I don’t need a huge career.

But I do want to know that I’ve left the people I care about in this world happier than the people who were supposed to care about me ever tried to make me.

Lana’s right.

It’s time I stop wallowing in my own sorrows and start doing something productive.