The Man I Can't Have

by Williams, Shanora

  As I collect my lunch box and tools, I hear one of the patio doors open and roll my eyes.

  “Mr. Ward? May I have a word?” I hear Gabby ask meekly. I glance over my shoulder. Most of my men are gone. Only Rob remains, but as soon as he picks up his bag, he walks around the house and tosses a wave goodbye at me.

  Only person left is me.

  With a sigh, I turn to face Gabby. It’s then I notice the plate of cookies in her hands. She gives me an innocent smile as I walk closer. “I, uh, I made these for you. I had to call my mom for the recipe. I even went to the store to get vanilla extract and baking soda.”

  I glance down at the plate. Chocolate chip.

  “Thanks, but I’ll have to pass,” I mutter, hiking the strap of my bag on my shoulder.

  “Oh, come on, Marcel! It took me two hours to make and bake these! Take them with you, eat them at home.”

  “I’m not goin’ straight home.”

  “Well I can wrap them in foil and put them in a container.”

  “No. Busy tonight.”

  “Oh.” She seems disappointed. “What is it? A guy’s night out kind of thing? Work related?” She puts on a smile, trying to lighten the mood. It’s too fucking late for that.

  “How is that your business, Gabby?” I wasn’t kidding about what I said earlier—this is business and nothing more. No more accepting lemonade and cookies and shit.

  She frowns, shifting on her feet nervously. “I’m just asking.”

  I sigh and turn, walking toward the path that’ll lead me around the house.

  “Wait—Marcel! Are you really not going to take these? I made them just for you.”

  I swing around. She’s still standing in the same spot, watching me. “You ever think that maybe makin’ shit and givin’ it to people isn’t the way to solve your problems? Nothin’ is ever solved that way.”

  “W-what do you mean?”

  “Not once have you apologized, Gabby—not that I’m expectin’ you to. I could give a shit about an apology. They don’t mean anything to me. But my thing is, if you’re feelin’ like you have to do all of this just to talk to me—bakin’ cookies and shit—well, clearly you aren’t pleased with what you said, which warrants an apology from most people.” I narrow my eyes at her as she looks at me absently. “But I’ve known since the day I met you that you aren’t like most people, and, frankly, it isn’t my job to figure you out or want to know what kind of person you really are, whether that’s a happy woman who loves her husband, or a bored wife who is playing a charade and pretending this is the life she wants, just to get by. I’m only here to clock in, do my job as the landscape guy, and go home, so let me do that.”

  She opens her mouth, but it clamps shut instantly. Her eyes are glistening, but she blinks right away, getting rid of the sheen in her eyes.

  I look her over once more before walking away, and I don’t bother looking back, even though I feel her watching me go—even though I’m tempted to see the look on her face one last time.

  It shouldn’t bother her. She’s got a good life. Most housewives brush it off, rant about it with their friends, and chase it away with a glass of wine.

  But Gabby is complicated as fuck, blurring the lines between business and being personable, and I don’t like it.

  The best thing I can do is keep my distance before I end up in the same position I was in eight years ago: jobless because of a rumor about me and a rich man’s wife.

  SIXTEEN

  Gabby

  “He did not say that!” Teagan yells into the phone.

  I pull the phone back a little, wincing as her shrillness seeps through the receiver. “He really did,” I say, then bite into a cookie. “Now I feel like shit, and I’m eating these cookies to make myself feel better.”

  “Girl, if I was there, I’d eat them with you. I can’t believe your gardener said that!”

  “T, he’s a landscape architect,” I correct her. “I think that’s why he got so offended. Because I called him the landscape guy, like it was a bad thing or something. I’m sure he makes great money and makes a great living. The stuff he does isn’t cheap.”

  Teagan laughs. “Yeah, but he knows it’s an occupation that’s severely underrated, and men have so much pride when it comes to their careers. He has to work for people that make great money, so hearing it from the wife of a man who makes great money is like rubbing salt in a wound. Not only that, but if he gives Kyle dirty looks, you know it has to bother him. And you said you guys are friends?”

  “We chat when he’s around. He’s a nice guy, talks about real-life stuff.”

  “Sounds like he got a little too attached to chatting it up with his client,” she replies sarcastically. “You sure they’re harmless chats?”

  “Harmless—T, what are you trying to say?”

  “Well, you’re not an ugly chick, Gabby! You’re beautiful, but you underestimate yourself way too much. There’s a reason Kyle locked it down with you, and it’s probably the same reason that designer is interested, too.”

  I sigh, finishing my cookie. “No, it’s really just casual chats,” I respond, mouth full. “But he doesn’t like Kyle. Like at all. He’s made that clear.”

  “That makes two of us then,” she mumbles lowly.

  “Heard that.”

  “You were supposed to. Look, he’s right about not mixing business with friendship, Gabby. But you also have every right to defend yourself and your husband if he’s being disrespectful. Doesn’t matter how much I dislike Kyle sometimes, he’s still your guy, and I respect that enough to keep most of my shit-talk to myself.”

  I laugh. “You’re insane.” My phone beeps and I pull it from my ear to check the screen. “Wow. Speaking of the devil, Kyle’s calling.”

  “Well, that’s my cue. I’m heading back to work anyway. Had to grab some lunch for this night shift. Call me if you need me. Love you, bye!”

  “Love ya!” When she ends the call, I switch over to answer Kyle. “Hey, babe.”

  “Hey, what’s going on? His voice is calm, and somehow it instantly relaxes me. I sink into the couch.

  “Nothing. Munching on cookies I baked.”

  “Oh, really?” he chuckles. “What’s the occasion?”

  “Nothing. I just felt like making them. Called my mom for the recipe.” God, I hate lying to him. But it’s more of a white lie than anything. I refuse to tell my husband I made cookies for Marcel out of sheer guilt. I shouldn’t even be in a position with Marcel where I feel guilty for saying anything about him to my husband. It should be strictly business between us, so why isn’t it? When did it become this?

  “Your mom’s cookies are pretty great. Wish I could share some with you.”

  “Don’t worry. You’re not missing anything. They’re not as soft as hers.” I get off the couch and pick up the plate of cookies, carrying it to the kitchen and placing it on counter before I end up eating them all. “What are you up to?”

  “Just got back from the last meeting of the night. It went well. I’m about to eat my salmon with broccoli and do some work before going to bed. I am unbelievably exhausted.”

  “I bet.”

  “What all did you do today?”

  “I started a sculpture of a dahlia,” I inform him.

  “A dahlia? That’s interesting.”

  “Yeah, I’m working on getting the detail right. Also have to figure out what color I want it to be. It has to be the right color, you know? I want it to be an amazing 3-D dahlia that’s hard to look past if someone sees it.”

  He laughs uncertainly, like he has no idea what I’m talking about, but wants to support the idea. “Yeah, babe. I get it,” he says, even though he totally doesn’t.

  I walk back to the couch, but before I can sit, there’s a knock at my door. Frowning, I look toward it. There’s a small window at the top of our door and sidelight windows on either side. All I see are sprouts of dark hair behind the window at the top of it.

  “Did you get
anything else done today?” Kyle asks as I get up and head for the door. I look out of one of the sidelight windows, and when I see Marcel, my frown grows even deeper.

  “What the hell?” I whisper away from the phone.

  “Gabs? What’s wrong?”

  “Uh—nothing. Yeah, I went out earlier for some vanilla extract and baking soda for the cookies. I’ll probably go out tomorrow for more groceries.”

  “Good. And you ate today?”

  “I did.” I look out of the window again. Marcel is still standing there with a white T-shirt on and jeans, his hands buried in his front pockets. He’s looking at the details of our porch, waiting for me to answer. When his eyes shift over to the window I’m looking out of, I hold up an open hand and mouth the words, “What do you want?”

  He points to the door. “Open the door and I can tell you.”

  I sigh and back away.

  “Well, are you gonna tell me what you ate?” Kyle asks, bringing me back to our conversation.

  “Huh?”

  “A friend of mine always used to say ‘if you can “huh,” you can hear.’ ” He does a corny chuckle. That silly saying. My dad said it to him once, and he’s been using it ever since. I’ve always been glad he considers my dad a friend, though.

  I force a laugh. “Oh, yeah. I had a Caesar salad for lunch and for dinner I ate a bowl of cereal before diving into the cookies.”

  “Cereal and cookies? You couldn’t find anything a little more nutritious, babe?”

  Kyle’s words go through one ear and right back out the other as Marcel rings the doorbell this time.

  “Is someone there?” he asks.

  “No, that’s the TV,” I lie, then I close my eyes helplessly.

  “Oh okay. Well, it seems like you’re pretty occupied, so I’m going to let you enjoy your night of TV and homemade cookies.”

  I’m so relieved. I walk to the sidelight window again. Marcel is glaring right through it. I hold one finger up rather impatiently, giving him a death stare, and then turn my back to the window.

  “Okay, babe. Call me whenever you’re free tomorrow.”

  “Sure will. I love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  When he hangs up, I step in front of the door and swing it open. “Why are you here?” I hiss at him.

  “One of my guys left his cellphone out back. I told him I’d come check, and I didn’t want you to think some random creep is walkin’ through your backyard.”

  “Oh. Well, go. It’s fine. You can check.”

  He nods and turns back around, walking down the stoop. I watch him walk around the house, and then I close and lock the front door, going back to my spot on the sofa.

  From where I’m seated, I see him pass by the windows, looking around the tables and wheelbarrows his crew left out there. He bends down to pick something up, and I watch him slide it into his back pocket. I assume it’s the phone. He then turns and walks past the windows again.

  I release a steady breath, waiting for him to ring the doorbell and make the announcement that he found the phone, but a minute passes and there is no knock or doorbell ringing. I get up to unlock and open the door again, taking a look outside.

  Marcel is standing by his truck in my driveway, talking on his cellphone. He looks my way when the door is open, brows dipping.

  “Everything okay?” I call.

  He holds up a finger, says something else into the phone, and then hangs up.

  “No,” he mutters, walking to the stoop again. “He claims he took his wedding band off too, when he was levelin’ the sand. Idiot, he is. He said he left it on the table back there. Mind if I check again?”

  “No, I don’t mind. Go ahead.”

  Marcel takes off again. I shut the door and walk to the kitchen, opening the patio door.

  “I apologize for stopping by so late, Mrs. Moore.” Marcel grunts as he looks beneath the table, using the flashlight of his phone. “My men don’t think straight sometimes.” I flip a light switch and the exterior floodlights turn on, giving more leeway. “Appreciate that.”

  “No problem.” I watch as he looks near the sand bags. “Do you need some help?”

  He shrugs. Nothing more. I fetch my house slippers and go back outside. I look near the wheelbarrow. Nothing. I use my phone to check between the stones they’ve laid. Nothing around there either.

  “I don’t know what he did with it. He normally puts it in his lunch box when he takes it off.” Marcel stands straight, running a hand over his head. I can’t help noticing the way his biceps flex and his shirt lifts at the hem, revealing a silver of his tanned skin and wisps of dark hair.

  “Well, it shouldn’t be too far, right?”

  “Who knows. I’ll just have him come early in the morning to look for it. I don’t have time for this tonight.”

  “Sheesh. What’s the hurry?” I ask in a mocking tone.

  He gives me a once over. “As I stated before, it’s none of your concern, Mrs. Moore.”

  “Oh, please with the Mrs. Moore thing! I know what you’re trying to do, and it’s not working.”

  He narrows his eyes at me, looking me hard in the eyes. “And what am I tryin’ to do exactly, Mrs. Moore?”

  “You’re trying to act like this is all business-like, but it isn’t. You can’t go from having conversations about life-stuff to this.”

  “This? Sorry, but I’m not so sure what this is,” he laughs dryly.

  “This—you know! Pretending I’m just the lady who lives here, and you’re the guy who’s fixing her yard!”

  “Isn’t that exactly what this is?” His eyes narrow, head cocking sideways.

  “You’re being an asshole.”

  He scoffs. “Trust me, Gabby, I’ve been called worse.”

  He starts to turn, but for some reason my blood is boiling. “Why won’t you let it go? I’m sorry for what I said to you! I swear I didn’t mean it that way! I didn’t grow up with that mindset. All jobs are important—hell, my dad owns a docking and boat rental business!”

  He laughs at that. “You think that’s gonna save your ass? Layin’ facts on me about your dad’s work?”

  I shake my head. He’s impossible.

  “If you’re so proud of your daddy who rents out boats, then why on earth are you with a rich prick like your husband?”

  “You can’t control fate,” I mutter with a shrug.

  “Fate? Is that what people call it now? Rich guy comes into what most would assume is a college-oriented restaurant and sniffs on you, and you assume that’s fate? He knew what he was lookin’ for. Hell, I’m sure he wasn’t the first man to do it, either. You’re an attractive girl, probably got hit on all the time. What was it about him that made you consider it fate?”

  I challenge his glare, folding my arms. “Because, unlike you, he was being nice.”

  “Oh, please! That man doesn’t have one nice bone in his body!” He takes a step toward me. “See, I know men like him. They play the nice, wealthy guy who donates to a charity or two—not because he wants to, but because he has to. Why? Because he makes way too much money and doesn't know what to do with it. The world, and women like you, think he’s good, but deep down, you know he’s so full of shit.”

  “My God, Marcel!” I drop my arms. “What is it that you have against my husband? You met him once and assume he’s the antichrist!”

  “Okay…hold on. Back up a minute.” He throws both hands in the air, almost as a surrender. “Before I start havin’ you think I’m some crazy, over-the-top man, let me ask you this…”

  I brace myself for his question, standing taller.

  “Has your husband ever brought me up in a conversation with you? Maybe mentioned an email he sent to me recently?”

  I frown. “No. I handle all the emails with the landscaping.”

  “So you think.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that just like you don’t tell your husband every little thi
ng that goes on in your life, he doesn’t tell his wife every little thing either.”

  “Oh my gosh, stop running circles around me. What are you getting at?”

  Marcel inches closer, and this time his chest is almost bumping into mine. He’s breathing as evenly as possible through his nostrils, but I can tell by the fire in his eyes that he’s pissed about something, and I want to know what it is.

  “The night that I met your husband, I got a little email from him while we were packing up.”

  I blink quickly. “What did it say?”

  “He asked me not to show up today.”

  “What?” My heart skips a beat. “Why would he tell you to do that?”

  “He claimed that you aren’t very good at choosing the right companies for jobs like this. He stated that he wanted to look for other possibilities.” Marcel smirks. “I replied and told him that you signed a contract and that he could kindly fuck off.”

  I swallow thickly. “You’re lying.”

  “I’m so serious, little thing.”

  I take a step back. Between the bomb he just dropped and our proximity, I can hardly breathe. Why would Kyle do something like that behind my back? Does he really think I’m that incapable?

  “I held off on that cold, hard fact all day for your sake, Mrs. Moore. Even after you said that havin’ me, the landscape guy, around was the last thing on your mind, I kept it in…but I thought you should know why I’m not a fan of your husband.” He looks me over beneath hooded eyelids. “He has no respect for you. He treats you like a child, and it’s fucked up because I’ve gotten to know a little about you over the past few days—enough to realize you’re a smart woman. Naive sometimes? Yes. But you’re smart…and you deserve better than what he gives you.”

  My throat feels dry as I look him over. I study his eyes the most, the dark-blue flecks in his irises, then I look away, down at my feet. I don’t even know what to say to him. I almost wish he’d told me sooner.

  “Again, I apologize for interruptin’. See you in the mornin’, Gabby.” When he says my name, I swing my gaze up, but he’s already turning away. He walks off, peering over his shoulder once before disappearing around the corner. I walk back inside when I hear his engine come to life, then I slump down on the couch.