Beach Reads Box Set

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

“I’ll walk.”

  Edith shakes her head sternly. “I won’t have my yoga teacher end up being coyote food.”

  Meredith pauses, as if really contemplating the choice between a car ride with me and being picked apart by a pack of wild canines. For her, it’s a tough call.

  Fortunately, she has enough sense to agree, but Tucker isn’t happy about it. When I walk over with her to say goodbye, his eyes are focused on me accusingly.

  “You really want to leave? Don’t you want to stay for the cake and bouquet? I thought girls loved that stuff.”

  She offers a weak smile. “Thank you, but I’m tired. I’ve had a long week and it’s finally caught up with me.”

  “Are you sure you want to go with him?” His eyes slice to me. “I could take you.”

  “She’s sure.”

  The ride home is tense and silent. Meredith is stewing in the passenger seat, arms crossed, gaze out the window. I can’t leave things the way they are. I know she’s still upset with me and I want her to get it out, to shout at me like she wanted to back on the dance floor.

  I turn off the main road, down a street that leads to the old quarry. On either side of the dirt road, cornstalks jut toward the sky. There’s nothing but night beyond my headlights. We’re alone.

  I put the truck in park, cut the engine, and turn toward to Meredith.

  “I get it, you feel cheated—you want a fight,” I say calmly. “Okay then, let’s fight.”

  23

  Meredith

  We’re parked on a dirt road in the middle of a cornfield, and I have no clue where we are or how to get back to the ranch from here. I should have been paying attention while we were driving, but I was too busy stewing. It’s pitch black outside. If I got out and tried to walk, I’d end up marching blindly into the comically large open mouth of a mountain lion.

  “You want a fight. Okay then, let’s fight.”

  That’s what he says to me.

  I turn to him just as he kills the engine and turns to face me on the bucket seat.

  “I don’t want to fight.”

  I don’t have the energy. I’m so tired, so defeated. I can’t keep putting on a brave face for the world. I’ve used up all my confidence, burned through all my false bravado. I almost cried on the dance floor, and I’m dangerously close to actually doing so now. Once I start, I don’t think I’ll be able to stem the flow of tears.

  “How about we talk then?”

  I shake my head and turn to the cornfield.

  “Take me home please.”

  We sit there for a few more minutes, but then he sighs and restarts the truck, turning back for the main road.

  When we pull up to the farmhouse, I jump out before he’s even put the truck in park and bee-line straight for the shack. I don’t thank him for the ride, and I definitely don’t stick around to listen to any more of his apologies. I’m so sick of people, of the back and forth, of the emotional rollercoaster. Maybe I should go live on a private island somewhere, just me and a bunch of wild swimming pigs. That sounds fucking great.

  I change out of my dress and kick off my heels. I tug on one of Jack’s t-shirts—the one I didn’t return with all the others a few days back—and then stare at my bed. It’s still early. I’m too wired to go to sleep. I want a stiff drink—a big one, something bigger than a shot but smaller than a swimming pool. I step toward my window and check the farmhouse. Jack’s bedroom light is on, but it’s dark downstairs. I could probably make it to the liquor cabinet and back without him even knowing.

  I know from cleaning it that it’s well stocked. I hesitate, really not into the idea of having another confrontation with him, but my need for alcohol wins out. I’m special agent Tom Cruise weaving in and out of red lasers as I tiptoe across the lawn and tug open the back door. Alfred is there, tail wagging, excited by my impromptu visit.

  “Shhhh,” I hiss, petting him behind his ear before he starts barking or something. “Go away—can’t you sense that I’m fighting with your human? Stop hitting the wall with your tail! You’re making too much noise.”

  I pause and listen for Jack, hear footsteps upstairs, and know I’m in the clear. I dash toward the liquor cabinet, grab whatever my hand lands on first, and then sprint back outside.

  Alfred follows after me, acting as my accomplice, and together, we hightail it back to the shack. Once we’re inside, I slam the door closed and press my back against it. Mission: Possible, apparently.

  I glance down at my bounty. I managed to nab a bottle of Jack Daniels. Fitting. I pour myself a bit and barf a little in my mouth when I take my first sip.

  “It’s so bad,” I tell Alfred, trying to keep the rest of it down.

  He looks at me with sad, questioning eyes as if to say, Hmm, and I thought you weren’t a little bitch.

  I nod. “You’re right. Here goes nothing.”

  I drink my glass in one long swallow then sit down on the floor and pet Alfred.

  I continue like this for a while, so long that I lose track of time and space and the number of times I’ve forced myself to swallow more disgusting brown liquor.

  What I do know is alcohol is great and Alfred is soooooo soft. My fingers feel tingly. I forget I have any problems. I know nothing beyond this tiny shack and this adorable golden retriever licking my toes. I’m lying on the rug, spread out like a snow angel.

  “I’m considering moving to Mexico,” I tell Alfred. “I get that most people only flee to Mexico if they’ve committed a crime, but what’s so wrong with good ol’ fashioned fleeing? Do I godda robbabank or something to JUSTIFY running away from my problems?”

  He splays out beside me.

  “Of course, you can come with me if you want. I’ll just have to reteach you your commands in Spanish so we don’t stand out. Okey, hello is hola. Sit is siéntate. Stay is…I dunno, let’s go with…estée lauder.”

  A fist pounds on the shack’s door and makes me scream out in fright.

  “Relax,” Jack says from outside. “It’s me. The door was ajar back at the farmhouse, so I’m just making sure Alfred didn’t run off. Is he in there with you?”

  “Uhh…” I look over at the dog in question. He licks my foot. “No! But I have a very strong feeling he’s fine!”

  “He was in the house when I got home, but now I can’t find him.”

  Apparently excited to hear his owner’s voice, Alfred hops to his feet and pads over to the door, scratching it with his paw.

  “Alfred?” Jack asks, apparently hearing said scratching.

  I contemplate telling him it’s me, etching hatch marks into the wall like a prisoner counting my days.

  Alfred whines.

  I cover my eyes with my arm. “Ugh, fine. He’s in here.”

  The door opens and owner and dog are reunited once again. Whoop dee doo. I don’t have the energy to move off the ground…or open my eyes.

  “Meredith?”

  “’Swat they call me.”

  “Are you drunk?”

  “What’s with the twenty questions?”

  “Did you polish off that entire bottle of Jack?”

  Depends on how much was in it when I started—I can’t remember.

  “Who’s can say, really, in this day and age?”

  “Why are you on the floor?”

  “Be-cause it’s comfortable and my twin bed isn’t big enough for me and Alfred.”

  He steps into the shack and toes the glass of liquor away from my hand.

  I still have my arm thrown over my eyes, but I hear what he’s doing. “Hey, I was going to drink that.”

  “I think you’ve had enough.”

  “There you go again, with the I thinks. I think this about Meredith, I think that about Meredith. Well guess what? I don’t need Jack to tell me when I’ve had too much…JACK! Pffffff. Now please leave.”

  “Not until I’m sure you won’t get sick. I can’t remember how much liquor was left in that bottle.”

  “Okay, but can you close tha
t door? You’re letting all the freezy-freezy air out.”

  He obliges then I hear him take off his shoes and sit down on my bed. Meanwhile, I’m lying in the shape of a chalk outline from a homicide, legs splayed on the floor.

  “I didn’t realize you were a drinker,” he says gently.

  “I’m not. I hated every sip. Alfred peer pressured me.”

  “Well watch out around him, he’s also a big fan of tattoos.”

  “Ha ha, funny man. Now, please be quiet. I was in the middle of wallowing and I’m not finished. You can stay, but you have to stop asking me questions.”

  The bed creaks, and maybe he’s getting comfortable where I sleep. Maybe he’s stinking up my blankets with his sexy scent. I’ll have to run the linen through the wash twice tomorrow morning, or I could just leave his scent there…maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. I push the rogue thought aside and try to get back to what I was thinking about before he so rudely interrupted me. Oh, right, Mexico. Mexico…I can’t remember why I was thinking about Mexico. I groan, fling my arm away, and sit up, eyes blinking open as I try to find my balance.

  Jack’s sitting on the bed, just as I imagined, except he’s not in his suit anymore. Like me, he changed when we got home. Sweatpants and a t-shirt—how adorable of him.

  “Have you been here long enough to confirm I’m not going to get sick?”

  The very edge of his sexy mouth tips up like the smirking emoji. “No.”

  I glance away. “Right.”

  “Why were you drinking?”

  “You.”

  I sigh and lie back on the rug. My head is spinning.

  “Are you okay?”

  I hold up both thumbs. “Peachy.”

  “Why did I drive you to drink?”

  “Because you hurt my feelings on Thursday.”

  “I’m sorry for that, Meredith.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard that before. I know the routine. It goes like this: make me fall for you, be mean to me, say you’re sorry, and then repeat. It’s the same thing Andrew used to do.”

  “He was mean to you?”

  “I don’t want to talk about this.”

  “How was he mean to you?”

  There’s a long silence as I stare up at the ceiling.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” I enunciate the words like they each make up their own sentence.

  “How about we trade off?” he goads. “A secret for a secret?”

  “I know all your secrets.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Edith told me about your parents’ accident. She told me how you changed. It’s why I know you’re not as mean as you pretend to be.”

  “You told me on Thursday I’m the meanest person you’ve ever met.”

  “It might still be the truth, but I just wanted to make you feel bad for hurting me.”

  “See? You just went first. That’s a secret.”

  That wasn’t so bad, I guess.

  “Tell me one of yours.”

  With my gaze on the ceiling, it’s like I’m lounging on a therapist’s couch. It almost feels like he’s not really there, like we aren’t really talking at all.

  “All right. I actually like your cooking,” he admits.

  I smile then wipe it away quickly before he sees it. “That doesn’t count. Everyone likes my cooking. I want a real one.”

  “Okay fine. You want to go deep?” He thinks for a second, and then he sighs. “The way I figure, there’s only a handful of people who really give a shit about you in this life. I’m not talking about friends you see at Super Bowl parties. I’m talking about people who would take a bullet for you. There just aren’t that many, for a lot of people.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “I used to have three people like that, and the day my parents died, I lost two of them. Now it’s just me and Edith.”

  I turn my head so my gaze catches his. He’s staring down at me from his perch on the bed. I think he’s been watching me this whole time, studying me with indecipherable emotion in his eyes. It’s that gaze that makes the truth tumble out of my mouth.

  “You want to know something even sadder?” I swallow and look away, back to the safety of the ceiling. “I don’t think I have anyone.”

  “What about your parents? Helen?”

  “Sure, on paper, they’re my family, but I’m not close with them. I hardly even know them anymore.”

  When he speaks again, there’s remorse in his voice. It’s so heavy and sad it breaks my heart.

  “In my office, when I said you didn’t have any family or friends here—”

  “Yeah, that hit the mark.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  I wipe away the tear slipping down my cheek and shake my head.

  “This game fucking sucks.”

  “It’s my turn.”

  “Fine. Make it something juicy.”

  “I was jealous you went to the wedding with Tucker.”

  That is juicy.

  “How jealous?”

  When he doesn’t answer, I turn to find he’s still studying me, except now his gaze is on his t-shirt, my pajama top of choice. I wonder if he’s annoyed I didn’t give it back with all the others.

  I sit up and turn to face him, sitting cross-legged on the rug.

  “If it helps, every single woman at the wedding was infatuated with you, except maybe Leanna. You might have been putting out some major fuck off vibes, but had you smiled at any one of them, you would have had her falling in love with you on the spot.”

  He tilts his head to the side. “I smiled at you and as I recall, you nearly ditched me on the dance floor.”

  “Those were different circumstances.”

  “Right.” He frowns, and it might be the alcohol, but I swear he’s looking at me with desire. Yeah, he definitely is—it’s the same look Alfred gives his food bowl.

  “My turn?” I say quickly, anxious to break up the tension starting to brew in this tiny shack. “Okay here’s mine: I’m really bummed I didn’t get to eat a piece of wedding cake. I really wanted a corner piece.”

  He smiles. “Cute. Now take your turn.”

  “That was my turn.”

  “I just told you I feel like I’m alone in this world.”

  “And I confessed I have an addiction to icing.”

  Seems equally as important to me.

  “Fine. Okay.” I sweep my hands though the air and turn away, eyes narrowed on my bathroom mirror. He wants honesty? He’s about to get it. “I think you’re handsome—h-o-t.”

  “How handsome?”

  I scold him with my stare, and he doesn’t even have the decency to hide his arrogance.

  Enough. I’ve had enough. I push to stand and yank the door open.

  “How about we change this into a game of truth or dare?” I quip. “I dare you to leave this shack right now.”

  “That’s a terrible dare.”

  “Fine, truth: did you mean all that stuff you said in your office? Do you really think so little of me?”

  “Meredith, I was wrong. I was angry, and jealous, and worried that you were too good to be true. I’m sorry.”

  I want to delve into every single word he just said, but I’m too drunk. I’ve already forgotten half of them.

  I nod. “Okay, fine. Let’s just forget about it.”

  “How was Andrew mean to you?”

  I pinch my eyes closed. I knew he’d bring that back up, knew he wouldn’t be able to leave well enough alone. I’ve learned the hard way that it’s better to keep my lips zipped about my marriage. The reasons are stacked one on top of another at this point: I’m embarrassed that I put myself in that situation in the first place. I’m ashamed I stayed as long as I did. I’m hesitant to call it abuse and to open up about the things Andrew used to say, because then I’d actually have to acknowledge that I was a victim. I don’t like that word. I don’t want to have to wear it like an albatross around my neck. I just want to move on.

  Those
are all good reasons, but there’s still one more: I have tried to open up about Andrew in the past, and it hasn’t gone well.

  Honestly, why do I care if Jack knows the truth about my marriage? Up until a few days ago, he wielded incorrect assumptions about me and my life as hurtful weapons. Maybe he’s realized the error of his ways now, but I’m still annoyed. I want to quote Clark Gable and say, Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn. I don’t give a damn what he thinks of me or my choices.

  Not anymore.

  “Meredith.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “How was he mean to you?”

  “I said I don’t want to talk about it!”

  I think I’m doing a good job of voicing my resistance to this topic, but he isn’t so easily swayed.

  “I’d like to know what he did to you.”

  Jesus Christ! He’s not going to drop it.

  I slam the door closed again and throw my hands up in defeat. “It was the way he spoke to me. It was the things he said to me…the things he called me.”

  There, he has his answer.

  “Like what?”

  “Does it matter?” I move to straighten a towel hanging near the shower. Then I go check on Alfred.

  “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but you should talk to someone about it.”

  “I have talked to someone,” I grumble, “and it didn’t go over well.”

  “Why didn’t it go well?”

  “Because it’s hard to explain! It makes no sense to other people. If I was living with an abusive monster, why didn’t I just leave? He wasn’t holding me captive, wasn’t threatening to kill me if I left. He was such a manipulative asshole, it took me years to realize what he was, what I’d become! It makes no sense. He’s this outgoing, happy person. To the world, Andrew Wilchester is perfect. No one wants to believe he has another side to him—just ask Helen.”

  “You told her about the abuse?”

  The way he says the word makes my skin crawl. I don’t like that label. I want to lay no claim to it.

  “I tried.”

  “And she didn’t want to hear it?”

  He sounds angry, but I’m careful with my next words. Helen helped me get this job; I don’t want to throw her under the bus.