by C. A. Harms
“I appreciate it, Stanford.” Pushing up out of the chair, I push the check forward. “If you could apply this to my mother’s account, I will find out exactly who you should be reimbursing for the payment you received in the mail.”
I refuse to allow him to say anything as I spin on my heel and walk out. As I reach the lobby, I do something that I have not done in months: I walk out of the nursing home without taking the time to visit with my mother first. I’m not in the right state of mind, and besides, I have something to handle.
***
I know I should wait. I know going straight to her house is the wrong thing to do, but I don’t always do the right thing.
I park my truck and jump out, leaving the keys in the ignition. The entire drive from the nursing home was more of a blur.
I don’t get to even knock on her door before she is pulling it open and practically skipping down the steps. “Hey you.” Janelle throws her arms around my neck and hugs me tight, only I don’t reciprocate. My body vibrates with irritation.
A man with wounded pride is a man with no control.
“Did you ask them to do it?”
Janelle pulls back enough to look me in the eyes yet keeps her arms around my neck. She says nothing, just simply looks over my face as if to analyze my emotions.
“I can take care of myself, and I can take care of my mother.” My hands tremble from the adrenaline coursing through me. “I’ve done it all these years without any help, without anybody pitying me, and I sure as hell am not gonna start accepting charity now.”
“What are you talking about?”
“We are not a charity case, Janelle.” Lifting my hands up, I grab ahold of her forearms and carefully pull them away from my body. Stepping back, I place some distance between us, and instantly I see the hurt in her eyes. That look alone has me rethinking my tactics because I love this girl. I don’t want to hurt her, but I also can’t change who I am to make her happy. She has to know that this is wrong.
I can’t be that guy.
I will never be that guy.
“You’ve lived a charmed life.” Her eyes narrow. “To you, this means nothing, but to me it’s like a slap to the face. I don’t want you taking care of me, and I sure as hell don’t want your family taking care of me, either. I can do this on my own.”
“What are you talking about, Shane?” Janelle throws her hands up in the air in frustration. “Please tell me why in the hell you’ve shown up at my house being a complete ass, because I haven’t a clue what I did wrong.”
“The money, Janelle.” My voice rises louder than I meant to. “I don’t want your family’s money.”
She shakes her head, playing stupid.
“You can tell your parents that Evergreen will be refunding the entire six months back to them.” I take a few steps back, and she follows me.
“Wait.” She reaches out for me, I shrug away, and again the look of heartbreak fills her eyes.
“I never asked for a handout, Janelle.” Holding my hands out before me, I hope that she understands I need her to give me space. “And I never will. My mother is my responsibility, not yours, and sure as hell not your father’s.”
With that, I walk away, refusing to look back when she calls out my name.
I can’t do this; I need space. I need time.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Janelle
“Sweetheart, you know that if you’d come to me and asked, I would have helped.”
“Are you saying you didn’t?” My heart aches, like it is being torn from my chest. Watching Shane walk away, get into his truck, and drive off without glancing in my direction was torture.
“I didn’t.” My father confirms what I already know. If anyone knows the pride of a man, it is my father. He didn’t come from money; his family fought hard to send both him and my uncle through medical school. There were no rich parents, no sports scholarships to help with expenses. Just two men struggling each day to prove they were worth it.
“Do I need to speak with Shane?”
I appreciate my father more than I can ever explain. He would do anything to ensure the happiness of me and of my sisters. But I have to handle this.
“Thanks, Dad, but I’ve got it.”
“You let me know if you need me?” He should already know that I will.
I let him go with the promise to call him tomorrow and try to call Shane’s phone for what feels like the hundredth time since I watched him drive off. Ringing once, it then sends me to voicemail, and frustration rises within me.
Three hours, that’s how long I wait, and still no Shane. I take a shower, clean my living room, and organize my movie cabinet, yet Shane still is not home.
Throwing on a pair of jeans and a shirt, pulling my hair up into a ponytail, I grab my keys and decide that I am tired of waiting.
First I check Evergreen, the place I am sure I will find him, only to come up empty. I consider going inside to see if Martha is around but decide against it. There is no need to bring her into this mess.
Next I check the dealership, hoping that maybe he’s there burning off steam, but again there is no sign of him. The gym parking lot is empty, so that leaves only one final place he might be.
Sure enough, his truck sits in the parking lot of Mulligans. I could spot his blue Toyota Tundra standing above all the smaller cars, and instantly I am whipping into the parking lot.
Hurrying to gather my keys, I head toward the front entrance with purpose.
The bar is full, drunk people laughing and dancing as I weave my way through the crowd. Looking toward the bar, I search for him and find he isn’t one of the bartenders on duty. I scan the tables, starting to feel defeated, when I see a familiar face in the crowd. Slate, with his hat flipped backwards, stands at the end of the bar holding a beer in his hand. When he spots me, I half expect him to walk in my direction, only he places his hand on the bar at his side and leans over.
That’s when I see him, Shane, crouched in the stool at his side.
Slowly and unsteadily, Shane swivels and takes me in. Then he does the worst possible thing: he turns his back to me.
Dismissing me.
Anger ignites in me, and I ambush my way through the swarm of bodies, no longer caring if I bring attention to myself. He has no right to treat me like this. I did nothing.
When I reach him, I stand at his side and watch as he lifts the shot glass to his lips and downs the drink. Making a hissing sound, I am sure triggered by the burn of the alcohol, I wait for him to acknowledge me. One last chance to lose the fucking attitude and be an adult.
Only he fails.
“Are you gonna talk to me?”
“Nope,” he slurs.
“You’re being childish.”
“No.” Shaking his head, he smiles. “I’m being drunk.”
“You sound like a fool.” Where is the guy I’ve spent months getting to know? The guy who is so loyal and dependable? I want that version of Shane, because this one is a douchebag.
Slate sees the tension boiling, and I am sure he picks up on my rising irritation because he steps around Shane and touches my arm. “He’s drinking off the anger.”
“He doesn’t have the right to be angry with me.”
“Entitled.” I hear Shane clearly, but I still ask him to repeat himself, only he doesn’t.
How is it possible to hate someone and love them at the same time?
“He just needs a little time,” Slate attempts again, only adding more fuel to the flame burning inside me. Maybe I should walk away, but damn it, my feet will not move.
“Time, my ass, he needs to be a man instead of a coward.”
Shane chuckles, and I know if he was sober he would have reacted differently.
“Can you please put the glass down and listen to me for a minute?” It is more of a demand, and I see the flash of arrogance in Shane when he finally looks over at me.
“You Pearsons are all the same.” Oh, so now we are back to
attacking my family, are we? “You think you run the show. Think that everyone should just sit back and allow you all to make the decisions.” The man staring at me is not the sweet one I fall asleep with at night, curled in his arms safely. This side of him is cold and distant. “This right here,” he shakes the glass at me, spilling the liquid over the top of the rim in the process, “it is my show. So you can go now.”
“You’re an arrogant prick.” The words hurt me to say because I hate this version of us. I hate feeling like he’s pulling away from me. Like with each passing second the distance between us grows wider and wider, like I am losing him.
“And you are a spoiled bitch.” I deserve it; after all, I did just call him a prick. But that fact doesn’t make the sting of his words hurt less.
I take in a deep, calming breath, realizing that this is actually getting us nowhere. Slate is right, he does need time, and frankly so do I.
Looking at Slate, who has been watching us both closely, I see the apologetic way he is looking at me. But it’s not him I want to get that look from. It’s Shane. “Tomorrow when he wakes up and can comprehend the magnitude of his choices and his words, can you do something for me?” Slate nods hesitantly. “Tell him that my parents didn’t pay for shit. So he managed to throw away something great for a childish inquisition. Ask him if he feels like it is all worth it, then tell him I said he can go fuck himself.”
The hurt inside of me almost cripples me as I leave the bar feeling like I’ve lost my best friend.
I don’t even get out of the parking lot before the tears begin to fall. As I get closer to home, I realize that it’s the last place I want to be.
Dialing Jackie’s number, I pray she is awake.
“Hello?” No detection of attitude means my prayer is answered.
“Can Bear and I spend the night?”
“What happened?” Her voice is now fully alert, and her motherly instincts kick in.
“I just don’t want to be alone, and I also don’t want to stay at my place.”
There is a long pause, the sounds of shuffling around, and then a door shutting in the background of the call. “I just unlocked the garage door. You know the code. I’ll have the wine ready.”
I nod, as if she can actually see me before I end the call and hurry inside to gather Bear and his things.
I will deal with the mess my life is tomorrow. Tonight, I would get sloppy drunk with my sister and talk about what an ass the man that holds my heart is.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Shane
“Do you feel like an asshole?”
I lift my forearm that rests over my eyes and squint against the morning sun. Looking around the room, I spot Slate sitting in the chair across from me holding a cup of coffee in his hand. Reaching out, I attempt to grab it, and he pulls it in closer to his chest.
“Is it your time of the month?” I grumble and crawl, or more like roll, off the couch and push myself up from the floor, feeling like this is a fine example as to why I do not drink heavily often. I feel like I got hit by a bus.
“I’m wondering the same thing about you.”
I ignore my grumpy friend and walk toward my kitchen to gather some much-needed coffee. I took the morning off, and now I am glad. It was originally meant to handle the demeaning donation that was made toward my mother’s care, but I could spare a little time for recovery after last night.
Too many shots, way too many.
Looking back over my shoulder, I see Slate watching me with a scowl on his face, and I chuckle. Instantly I stop and cringe as my head pounds in response.
“Serves you right.”
After pouring the cup, I lift it to my lips and take my first drink, welcoming the flavor. I know I need this, not only because I am hungover and feeling like ground meat, but because my best friend is having a crisis, it seems. A real drama queen moment that may need some nurturing.
“Okay, Cinderella.” Swiveling around, I lean back against the counter, and I hold out my free hand in a move-along manner. “Who stole your glass slipper?”
“What’s disturbing is that you know which fucking princess goes with which scenario.” He arches a brow.
“Whitney.” Saying Janelle’s niece’s name reminds me of yesterday and the shitstorm that took place. Not just at Evergreen, but afterwards, and Janelle’s house too, and then at the bar. I pause for a minute, remembering a few snippets of my night, but not exact details of how they played out.
“Are you remembering now?” Slate’s question catches my attention, and I refocus on him. “Man, you are my best friend, and I have to take your side when we are out and there are other people around. Even when you’re wrong, I will still stand by you, but this, it’s fucked up.”
“Would you stop pussyfooting around and just speak English already?”
“Janelle.” Her name triggers an ache deep in my chest. “You remember her coming to see you last night?”
I say nothing, but I am sure the look on my face gives him the answer he’s looking for.
“Just in case you need a little clarification, she asked me to give you a message.” Slate takes a step closer, and I think I see sympathy in his eyes. “Tell him that my parents didn’t pay for shit. So he managed to throw away something great for a childish inquisition. Ask him if he feels like it is all worth it. Then tell him I said he can go fuck himself.”
Hanging my head, I suddenly feel sick.
“Like I said, I will always support you, but this, it’s messed up.”
I set my coffee cup down in the sink and practically run across the kitchen, through the living room, and out the front door. When I hear the door slam behind me, I am already off the porch and rounding the corner of the garage. I’m met with an empty driveway, and even though I already know she isn’t there, I have to try anyway. Knocking loudly on the door triggers nothing. No excessive barking from Bear, no give me a minute from Janelle as she does whatever she does before opening the door. There is just silence, and it fucking guts me.
Reaching around, checking for my phone, I panic when I can’t find it.
The unknown is killing me.
Where is she? What all did I say to her in my inebriated state?
Did I go too far, and will I ever be able to make it up to her? Could I ever make things right?
I turn around and go back to my house, a lot slower than I had run away from it. My chest feels heavy; my heart literally hurts. Just inside, Slate is sitting in the same chair I found him in when I first woke up. In his hand is a fresh cup of coffee. He doesn’t say anything, just watches me as I search around the couch for my phone. Finding it tucked in deep between the cushions, I sit down on the floor and lean back.
I don’t know why in the hell I thought I would find a message waiting there for me, but disappointment washes over me when I see a blank screen.
“You cleared the messages last night,” Slate interrupts my thoughts. “And all the missed calls that came, too.”
Immediately, I open up my message box, and I see her name on the top of the list. The last message saying, I’m worried. I swallow hard, attempting to rid the feeling of something lodged there, only it does nothing to clear it.
I tap on her name and know that what I am about to read will crush me, but I do it anyway.
Janelle: Please call me.
Janelle: It’s a mistake. I spoke with my father.
Janelle: They didn’t send the money.
Janelle: You are scaring me.
Janelle: It’s been over three hours and I have looked for you everywhere.
The last message is the one about being worried, and then they stop. The lump I felt earlier has nothing on the aching pressure I feel now.
Dialing her number, I lift the phone to my ear and listen to it ring, one after another, each only solidifying the fact that I fucked up. When her voicemail picks up, I lean forward and place my hand to my forehead, resting my elbow on my knee. My heart races, and just before the bee
p, I take in a deep breath.
“I’m sorry. I know that doesn’t make any of this better, but I need you to know. I don’t deserve it, I know I don’t, but please call me.” Closing my eyes tightly, I whisper please one last time before ending the call.
I feel like the walls are closing in around me. I can’t seem to breathe, like a crushing weight is weighing me down. This is it; this is the moment that I lose the girl I love.
It is suffocating me.
***
More than twenty-four hours have passed. A full fucking day of me pacing the space of my home, checking my phone every five minutes hoping she’s called, and being unable to concentrate on anything. I locked myself away in my office pretty much the entire day and waited until everyone else left before I did. I wasn’t up for socializing, and the last thing I needed was to deal with the public. That shit may have ended real bad; my patience was already thin.
This is just another one of those times in a long list of moments when I wish I could turn to my mother. Most likely she would have set my ass straight and told me what an ass I was being, but that is what I need.
Mindlessly, I drive toward the nursing home and park near the front entrance. I don’t take the time to chat with those I pass, feeling sorry for myself, though I know I don’t deserve it. I created the fucking mess I’m in.
I turn the corner and collide with someone before either of us have the chance to prepare, and we both stumble back. When I look up, my eyes lock on the one woman who makes my heart race and slow at the same time. Janelle is the best of both, the excitement and the calm my world needs to feel whole.
“What are you doing here?” The words aren’t my first instinct, but I’m sure she won’t want me to start off with apologies and begging for forgiveness. That would have her running for the doors and gone before I have the chance to blink.
