I can hardly get the words out without choking, which seems to make Cameron mad because his mouth goes tight.
“If you’re breaking up with me, there’s no need to prolong the agony. Just do what you came here to do.”
My body goes rigid. “Breaking up is the last thing I want.” Even though I know that’s likely what will happen tonight.
The admission seems to lessen the tension in his shoulders, and he finally moves away from the door. “Okay? Then what’s with the ‘we need to talk’ and ‘you’re such a great guy’ speech?”
“Me stalling, I guess.”
“Jan . . . there’s nothing you can’t tell me.” He takes my hand and leads us to the love seat. We sit hip to hip, our warmth and closeness another dichotomy to the chasm I’m about to open.
I clear my throat. “You know how I told you that I hate crowds and big churches, which was why I chose to attend a small church by the ranch?”
He nods.
“Well, I lied.” I bite my lip and add my other hand to our joined ones. “I made up that church because I didn’t want you to know the real reason for my not attending Grace Community.” The air turns stale, but I force the truth out. “Cameron, I don’t come here, or go to any church for that matter, because . . . I’m not a Christian.”
His shock feels like electricity as his hands slip from mine. “What are you talking about?”
“I don’t believe in God,” I say with more certainty this time, “or in any religious deity.” Cameron stares at me, his jaw slack, and now that it’s out there, my excuses follow in a rush. “To me, faith isn’t a disqualifier in a relationship. It didn’t matter that you believed and I didn’t. Only that we were happy together.”
His eyes widen as he shifts away from me. “Not a disqualifier?” He stands, his face flushed. “But you work at a church. You read the Bible to Mrs. Cox nearly every day. Jan, you told me not to sell out from Christian music.”
“And you shouldn’t.” I can feel his shock, can see the confusion across his face, and try again to help him make sense of what I’m saying. “Cameron, I respect your faith; it’s honorable. I just don’t think everyone has to share in it.”
His mouth hangs open as he places both hands on top of his head. “You’re actually serious?” The hands drop a second later and he stumbles back a step. “I’ve asked you to pray for me. I’ve shared my deepest fears and insecurities with you. And all this time you, what, pretended to care, pretended to pray? You just sat there and let me think I had a partner through all of this?” Hurt wraps around every word, as if this fact alone is the greatest betrayal.
“You do have a partner.” I press my hand to my chest in a plea. “I’m still me, Cameron.”
But that comment only seems to make him angry. “And who exactly is that? Because this information means that the girl I fell for does not exist!” His voice shakes, and he takes a deep breath before continuing. “You knew I was looking for a serious relationship. How could you think that didn’t include my faith? I’ve dedicated my life to the church.”
“I guess I thought we could get past it.” I can’t bear the disdain on his face and turn away. Even though I knew this reaction was a real possibility, it doesn’t make living through it any easier.
“Does Pastor Thomas know? Eric? Ralph?”
I shake my head. “No. No one here does. Well, except you now.” I hadn’t even thought of that potential outcome—Cameron getting angry enough to get me fired. I probably deserve at least that much. “I understand if you feel the need to tell them.”
“You understand.” He snorts. “Well, that’s generous of you.”
We continue to stare at each other in silence until the absence of noise feels deafening to me. I don’t know whether to stay or leave or even if pleading will make a difference.
I decide to do the latter and carefully approach him. “I know I should have told you sooner, and I know I’m not what you expected or even someone you would have considered. Honestly, you’re not like anyone I ever expected to be with, either. But somehow, we fit. And really, apart from this one small difference, we’re great together.”
“Small difference?” He stares at me, his breathing heavy. “Don’t you understand? Being with you now goes against every conviction I have about relationships. It breaks every promise I ever made to my parents, to God . . . to myself. This isn’t a small difference, Jan. It’s a deal breaker.”
His words are a knife through my heart. One I completely deserve because I’m the one who lied. I close my eyes; I can’t look at Cameron anymore. He’s right. It is a deal breaker. I knew it that first day, and yet I foolishly let myself fall into another impossible scenario.
“You’re right. You deserve better.” I turn away and grab my purse, determined to keep it together until I get to the car. Yet, despite all my willpower, a tear slips out, rolls down my cheek and onto my shirt. I hate crying. I especially hate crying in front of other people. And now I’ve done it twice in the span of an hour. “I really am sorry, Cameron. I didn’t set out to lie to you. I was going to tell you, but when you hugged me and made me feel so special and respected, I just couldn’t. After that, it snowballed and I found myself in this cycle of deception. One I couldn’t break without ruining the best part of my life . . . you.”
When I turn, his eyes are on me and wet with unshed tears. It’s too much. This whole thing is too much. I dip my head and rush by him, desperate to flee this sick feeling in my stomach. I’m halfway through the door when I hear him speak.
“Jan.” He doesn’t move, and somehow that makes it more wrenching. “I need time to process this.”
“Of course,” I choke out. “Whatever you need.”
We don’t say goodbye, although the moment feels very much like one. Instead, I walk away and leave him standing there, his back to me, knowing I did the right thing . . . for once.
thirty
There’s a wedding tonight . . . of course. After all, Valentine’s Day is supposed to be the most romantic day of the year. B&L can probably be seen from space with all the lights on display. They wrap the trees, cover retaining walls, and even hang in strings over the stone wedding altar.
I watch from a safe distance as the couple hold hands and vow to love each other. At least a hundred guests fill the chairs on either side of the aisle, and four attendants each stand by the bride and groom.
Despite my inner pity fest, I do feel happy for them. The weather couldn’t be more perfect. Nearly seventy degrees—a miracle this time of year. Good thing, too, because the bridesmaids are barely covered in their matching blue short-sleeved, knee-length dresses. It’s the most casual wedding I’ve seen out here. The girls are all wearing cowboy boots, even the bride. The men are in jeans, boots, crisp white shirts, and leather vests. Only the groom is wearing a tie.
It’s kind of nice, though. Definitely more my style than some of the others.
Outside the barn, the band is getting set up for the reception, which promises to be a wild one. The patio has been transformed with two open bars and a temporary dance floor made out of tongue-and-groove wood flooring. The guitarist quietly tunes his instrument, and I move as far as I can from the commotion. I want to hear the officiator’s voice, and moreover, being around a musician right now is not exactly on my wish list.
The groom kisses his bride, signifying the end of the ceremony. I’m disappointed because it means I can no longer hide in the shadows. The group will come this way soon, and I’ll be exiled back to my cabin, where nothing but loneliness awaits.
Cameron has remained silent all day, and while it’s killed me to do so, so have I. He asked for time, a small request considering the situation. At least the tears have stopped. In fact, I’m not sure my body has the ability to cry any more than I already have.
The newly married couple lock arms and begin their retreat down the stone walkway. Two more groomsmen do the same, each escorting a bridesmaid. The third groomsman offers his elbow,
and I startle at the resemblance to Dillon. It’s uncanny. Same dark hair, same build, same . . . I press my hand to my mouth, unsuccessfully holding in a giggle. It’s not a doppelganger at all. Dillon Kyle is a member of the wedding party. On Valentine’s Day. Okay, maybe I do appreciate irony when it’s not mine.
Curiosity wars with my good sense and wins. I stay in my spot by the trees, watching the entire wedding party finish their march. The officiator invites everyone to the reception, and right on cue the barn doors swing open to reveal multiple tables covered in white linens and carefully chosen centerpieces.
Casual as the attire may be, this wedding is not cheap. Dozens of white roses dot the room, each arrangement stuffed until overflowing. The dinnerware is china with multiple silver utensils, and each table has both champagne and white wine open and ready for consumption.
This isn’t the type of party one crashes, especially not in an oversized T-shirt, leggings, and fuzzy boots. And yet I can’t seem to retreat. Who are these people, and how is Dillon, Mr. Unsocial himself, one of them?
“I never figured you for the stalking type.”
I jump at the voice behind me and spin around so fast I stumble. Heart racing, it takes me at least thirty seconds to register the face of the man in front of me. “Mr. Kyle! You scared the daylights out of me.” I press my hand to my heart and work to still my frantic nerves.
“Sorry about that, kiddo. I figured you’d hear me coming.”
I might have if I hadn’t been completely absorbed with watching his son. I don’t say that, of course.
“What are you doing hiding in the shadows?” He raises his eyebrows, and I know he’s teasing me. The man spends way too much time with my uncle and has taken on a similar father-figure role with me.
“Watching the ceremony. I do that sometimes.” Though rarely do I stay for the whole thing. “What are you doing here?”
“The groom is my cousin’s boy.” He points to the group taking pictures. “Though I can’t say I envy him. It’s been quite an interesting couple of weeks.”
“Why’s that?”
“Well, let’s just say the bride is a mite spoiled, and I guess she and Nathan’s best friend had words.” He rubs his chin. “Anyway, there was a last-minute shake-up in the wedding party, and Dillon got called yesterday to fill in.”
The giggles come again. “Oh, I’m sure he loved that.”
“Thrilled beyond measure.” Mr. Kyle winks, but his smile fades soon after. “It’s good, though. He didn’t need to spend tonight by himself, especially considering . . . well, he just didn’t need to be alone.”
It doesn’t take a genius to surmise this must be Dillon’s first Valentine’s without his wife.
We both turn back to the wedding party that’s now dispersing. Dillon’s already halfway down the hill when I spot him again. His posture is rigid, his steps hurried. There’s so much about him that’s still a mystery to me. His past, his marriage, his faith that doesn’t seem to exist anymore.
“You should come in and hang out for a while,” his dad offers. “I guarantee the food is going to be worth staying for.”
I pry my eyes away from his son and the questions bombarding my mind. “No, that’s okay. I have dinner waiting for me at home.” A meal that’s likely freezer-burnt, yet it sounds better than a roomful of love-focused strangers. “In fact, I better go before everyone wonders who this crazy girl is behind the trees.”
“You sure?” Worry wrinkles his brow, and as touched as I am by his concern, I once again decline.
“Thank you, though.” I ease away, but Mr. Kyle continues to watch me. I know without asking that he’ll do so until I’m safely back down the hill. He and Dillon are the same that way. Always mindful, always the protector. “Have fun!” I call before making my final turn to leave. “Be sure to tell Dillon he needs to work on his fake smile.”
Mr. Kyle grins. “I will. Good night, Jan.”
“’Night, Mr. Kyle.”
I walk the path home, forcing myself not to look back. I can’t worry about Dillon’s broken heart—not when I haven’t even started to re-mend my own.
I’m nestled in my comfy pj’s, hair in a messy bun, and watching a movie when a banging starts at my door.
Cameron. Hope fills my chest, and I toss off my blanket. “Who is it?”
“Cupid,” says a surly voice. “Who do you think? Open up.”
My heart shrinks. Of course it would be Dillon and not Cameron.
“Stupid girl,” I grumble under my breath. This is the result of way too many romantic movies. I’m haunted now with images of Cameron on his knees, a bouquet of roses in his hands as he begs me to take him back.
I turn the lock and swing open the door. “Tired of your wedding duties already?”
Dillon dismisses my sarcasm and walks right in. “Get dressed. I need backup at this ridiculous event.” Up close, his wedding ensemble borders on absurd. The vest is easily a size too small, straining against his chest like it’s hanging on by a prayer. The shirtsleeves are an inch above his wrists and look as uncomfortable as I’m sure they feel. At least the jeans seem to fit, though they’re far snugger than his usual work attire.
“Wow, with an invitation like that, how could I refuse?” I shut the door. “Oh, wait, here’s how—no.”
He grabs a bottle of Mountain Dew from the fridge. A bottle I neither bought nor put in there, but Dillon has pretty much claimed this place as his own during the day. I could pretend I mind, but coming home to a stocked fridge and a clean kitchen is a nice trade-off.
“Besides, I’m not on the guest list.”
“Believe me, the least they owe me is a plus-one. I’ve already been propositioned twice by Erika’s obnoxious friends. One even tried to feed me at dinner.” He shakes his head like he wants to dislodge the memory. “I didn’t even want to go to this thing, let alone be in it.” Bottle to his mouth, he chugs a third of the soda and sets the drink back on the counter. The cuff links strain against his skin, red marks already forming where the sleeves end. Sheesh, how does he have any circulation?
Leaving my station by the door, I join him at the counter. He flinches when I reach for his wrist, but I’m faster and tighten my grip. “Hold still. I’m trying to help you.” Though it takes two attempts, somehow I manage to turn the cuff link enough to slide through the first button hole. The second one is easy after that.
After I finish both sides, Dillon rolls each wrist. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. That’ll be twenty bucks. You can put the money on the counter.”
“I fixed your leaky faucet yesterday. Count us even.” He folds up one sleeve until it lies securely in the middle of his forearm and then pauses before starting the other one. “Why are you even home?”
“I live here.”
“You know what I mean. Why aren’t you out on a date tonight?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” Especially with Dillon. I return to my indented couch cushion and flop down.
“Okay, then you leave me no choice but to guess.” He follows me to the living room, sits on the armrest, and studies me. I want to take the blanket and wrap it around my head so he can’t see the remnants of a day full of tears. “Let’s see . . . you’re not mad, so he didn’t stand you up. You’re back in your heartbreak flannels and”—he leans forward—“you’ve been crying. A lot.”
How he’s figured me out so fast, I’ll never know, but once again Dillon has pegged the situation perfectly. “I really do hate you.”
He chuckles, yet it’s drowned out by the compassion in his eyes. “You finally told him, didn’t you?”
“Right again,” I mutter. “Now, if this interrogation is finished, I’d like to get back to my wallowing.”
“Not on my watch.” He’s off the couch before his sentence is over, and not only does my TV screen go black, but he manages to confiscate both remotes in the process. “I’m not letting you regress back to the unwashed hair and sob fests by th
e tree. Get dressed. Between the two of us, we’re going to make sure tonight doesn’t completely suck.”
“I really don’t want to,” I say, which comes out more like a plea.
“Neither do I, but sometimes you have to force life to go on, even when it feels impossible.”
His father’s words come back to me, and I realize that Dillon isn’t talking about me and my once-again failed relationship. Last year at this time, Dillon had a wife. In the scheme of things, his woes do kinda trump mine. “Fine.” I kick off my blanket and force myself to stand. “Give me two minutes.”
“Have you looked in the mirror? You’re going to need more than two minutes.”
I throw a pillow at him, but we’re both smiling now, so I guess he wins again.
How does he do it? I wonder all the way to my closet. How does he make every situation just a little bit better?
thirty-one
I emerge fifteen minutes later and know by Dillon’s reaction that I cleaned up better than he expected. As luck would have it, I was a regular at the country bar in my hometown and have all the clothes and skills needed for a night of dancing.
“Ready, cowboy?” I ask in my best Texas drawl. It gets me a chuckle and another sweep of his eyes.
“Lose the hat. It’s too much.”
“Really? I love this old thing.” I pull off my favorite accessory and shake out my hair. I still haven’t found a hair stylist, so it’s an impossible mane of waves right now. “Give me another minute, then. I need to do something with this hair.”
“It’s fine.” His voice cracks and he clears his throat. “You only needed to look acceptable. And now you do.”
“Ah, gee.” I fan myself. “You’re gonna make me blush.”
“Just . . . hurry up.”
I grab a small purse and stuff my keys, a tube of lip gloss, and my phone inside, but not without checking for any missed texts. Blank. Empty. Just like my love life.
Dillon guides me through the door, locking it from the inside before pulling it shut. He must have gotten rid of the vest while I was changing, and now with the rolled sleeves, open collar, and tight jeans he’s definitely a few notches above noticeable.
Love and a Little White Lie Page 20
