Page 24 of When I Should’ve Stayed (Red Bridge #2)
Josie
For the past week, I’ve done my best to put the encounter with Clay at the bar behind me and focus on being the best support system I can be for my sister.
I want her to know she’s loved and protected, and that as much as we butt heads, I’ll do everything in my power to help her separate herself from her life with our mother and her ex-fiancé in New York.
She’s trying hard too. At CAFFEINE, she does her best, though, I will admit, she is almost comically bad at barista-ing. And at home, she’s conscious of her actions and considerate with my time and energy.
But I think what she’s trying hardest of all to do is pretend none of her problems are actually happening, and man, can I relate to that one.
I’ve asked her about Thomas and Eleanor and all the things that really happened in New York, and she’s asked me about Clay—after that night in his bar, the fact that there’s something between us is undeniable. We’ve both declined to answer.
Some traits, it would seem, truly are hereditary.
I pull into a spot in front of my old haunt of employment, Harold’s diner on Main, and turn the key to shut off the engine on my SUV. Norah’s doing an interview to find something she’s slightly better at than barista-ing, and even though I hesitated at first, I’m letting her use the old Civic.
It’s not doing anyone any good sitting there, and maybe if I start to think of it as hers, I won’t think about everything it used to be anymore and I won’t think about what happened one of the last times I drove it.
I grab my purse from the front passenger seat and climb out, hustling inside and heading straight to the table I saw Eileen Martin sitting at through the window.
She’s been pursuing this meeting for months, and even though there’s a history with her I’d rather not tap into, running some coupons for CAFFEINE in the paper really would be a good thing.
“Hey, Eileen. Sorry I’m a little late.”
“Oh, no trouble at all, hun,” she hums. “Not like I have things to do or places to be.”
I don’t bother hiding it as I roll my eyes. “Oh, don’t worry, Eileen. I know how busy you are.”
Everyone does. She’s the textbook definition of a busybody.
She smiles, and the crow’s-feet wrinkles around her eyes crinkle deeper. “I guess you saw the article about your sister and that Bennett Bishop, then? Good, wasn’t it?”
“A little overdramatized if you ask me.”
Eileen scoffs, sipping from her coffee cup. “Drama sells, girl.”
I scowl. “You said there was a gang of vagabonds led by a dark, cloaked leader, and that Bennett single-handedly stopped their criminal ways with his hands. And that Norah was their former muse and captive. I appreciate your not using their full names, but c’mon, Eileen, you have to admit you were pushing it. ”
“I like a stacked deck.” She shrugs and runs her fingers over the pearl necklace she always pairs with a cardigan. “Plus, Sheriff Peeler buys me dinner sometimes if I make him look like he’s got superpowers or somethin’.”
I laugh despite her bullshit. That definitely sounds like something the old goat Pete would do.
“All right, well. Let’s talk coupons so you can get back to…making shit up, I guess.”
Eileen’s mouth curves up, unashamed. “I can run them in the Sunday paper twice, but I don’t recommend it.”
My eyebrows draw together. “I’m confused. I…thought this meeting was about putting coupons in the paper? And the paper runs on Sunday? Why wouldn’t you recommend running them twice?”
She waves a hand in front of her face. “Yeah, but the advertising section is crap. No one even reads it anyway.”
“Eileen.” I glare at her. “You begged me for this meeting.”
“I want an exclusive,” she announces and meets my current stare head on. “Heard lots of talk about you and Clay last Tuesday in the bar. Lots of tension .”
Instantly annoyed, I grab my purse from the booth and scoot out.
Eileen’s voice is far more smug and far less pleading than it should be as she tries to stop me.
“Oh, relax, Josie. Whatever went down between the two of you happened years ago. The least you can do is settle it all in everyone’s minds.
Even the government declassifies information after so many years. ”
“Leave me alone,” I order, turning back only to point in her face. She’s chastened a little, but if I know Eileen, when she’s driven to get the story, nothing will stop her.
A silence falls over the diner as I storm out and run to my Acadia, jumping in and slamming the door behind me. I pause briefly and then grab on to the steering wheel, letting out a scream of frustration.
What the fuck! What the fuck! What. The. Fuck.
When I notice half the town and Eileen herself are still watching me through the window, I gather myself enough to turn the key, shift to reverse, and back out of the spot. I pull the shifter into drive and take off, my emotions running away from me like they’re attached to a freight train.
I round the square and turn right and then left and then back again without a clue where I’m going. I don’t stop for anything, instead holding my foot to the gas like it’s linked to the pace of my heart.
I’ve lapped town ten times when I finally rock to a stop and shift into park. I sink my head into my hands and cry for a minute, letting the tears flow and the memories overwhelm me. I hate it here so much, in this purgatory. I can’t move on, but I can’t go back.
Sliding my face from my hands, I look up and through the windshield, and I am horrified to find that the culmination is in a place I should have avoided at all costs. The Red Bridge water tower that sits just outside of town.
I worry my lip with my teeth, considering for a minute, and then shut off the ignition and climb out before I can think too much of it.
I’m older than I was the last time I climbed this massive ladder, but as soon as I start, my mind and body go numb, and I move through the motions without trouble.
When I get to the top, I sit down and stick my legs through the railing at the edge, staring down at the town I love. It’s amazing how it can feel like my greatest freedom and my biggest prison all at once.
I’m not made for the fast-paced, crowded feel of New York; I’m made for the sweet, tight-knit community of Red Bridge. Unfortunately, I’m not the only one. Clay belongs here too. Years ago, I suppose, that used to be a good thing.
And this water tower used to be my place until I shared it with him.
It used to be a place I’d come to breathe. To find peace. To find space. But now, it’s just a place that holds all the memories I want so badly to flee.
I look down toward the town, wondering how in the hell I got here. Wondering how, at one point in my life, I felt like everything was perfect. How did it all go so wrong?
My breath catches as I see Clay’s truck crossing the stupid, now-yellow bridge that Mayor Wallace painted last year, despite no one in the town wanting it.
Clay’s heading out of Red Bridge, probably on some errand for the bar, and I continue holding my breath until he’s past the gravel road that leads to this water tower.
And I’m just about to exhale when I see his brake lights flash red, rocking the truck to a stop, and then the white lights on his tailgate brighten as he starts to reverse.
Shit.
His truck doesn’t start driving forward until it reaches the very gravel road I drove down to get here.
I briefly consider if I’d be able to climb down quick enough to leave, but it’s only a millisecond before I rule out the notion as ridiculous.
Even if I climb down, he’ll be at the bottom.
I’m better off staying up here, where he’s afraid to come.
He hops out of his truck as I watch and comes to a stop right beside his hood, his hands on his hips and his gaze pointed up…at me.
I say nothing, instead leaning into the elevated breeze from being up this high and wait for him to make a move. He stays put for long moments—so long it feels like we’ll both be here until we die—but eventually, he moves, heading straight for the ladder and starting to climb.
I fill my lungs with intention, willing my heart to maintain its pace.
It’s several minutes before he gets to the top, but when he does, I can’t help but glance over at him.
His face is ashen, and his knuckles are positively white from intense pressure.
His fear of heights is still a very real thing.
He clears the landing and puts his back to the surface of the sphere, sliding down to sitting, just slightly to the left and behind me.
“You come up here a lot?” he asks, his voice disarming in a way I don’t expect. It’s pressure-less.
“No.” I shake my head, but I don’t turn around. “Haven’t been up here in years. Truth be told, I don’t even know what possessed me today.”
“How’s Norah?” he asks, and I look down at my feet that dangle off the ledge.
“She’s okay. In denial, but okay. Eleanor had her so fucking snowed it’s not even funny. Finding out everything’s been a lie has been a shock, I think.”
“I bet,” he says simply, but we can both feel the weight behind his words. It’s an ache he feels very personally. A longing to know why things went so wrong with us.
I’ll never be able to explain how much I appreciate that he doesn’t ask that right now.
“She’s settling in, though,” I add, desperate to make sure I don’t give him enough time to reconsider his approach. “I think once all the dust settles, it’ll all be good.”
“And you?” he asks, such genuine care in his voice, I have to fight the urge to cry.
“I’ll…” I swallow hard. “I’ll be all right.”
I can’t see him nod, but I can feel it in my soul. “You always are.”
I so, so desperately wish that were true.
“Well…” he says. “I guess I’ll leave you to it.”
I sit still, so still it feels like the wind might shatter me, as he climbs back down the ladder, gets into his truck, and drives away. I sit there and let the minutes tick by, so much so, I don’t even know how much time has passed, only clueing in when the sun starts to fade.
I’d wait forever if I thought it would work—if waiting could make the feeling of utter devastation fade.
The thing is…it never does.