by Lauren Layne
He dragged a hand over his face, looking as exhausted as she felt. “What would it have mattered? He’d have forgotten in thirty seconds anyway.”
“Yeah, but I would have remembered, Oliver. I would have remembered.”
She reached out to take the flowers, but he held them away from her. Naomi gave him a look. “Really?”
“I was engaged,” he said out of nowhere. “Did you know that?”
Her hands dropped slowly, and she adjusted her purse on her shoulder. “I did not.”
Oliver gave a jerky nod. “A few years ago. We put off the wedding planning when my mom got sick. We talked about trying to do it faster, so Mom could be there, but my mom refused. Said she’d rather miss our wedding than die knowing we’d rushed it. So we waited. Bridget held my hand through the funeral. Waited the appropriate amount of time before diving into wedding planning. Then Dad started showing symptoms . . .”
Naomi swallowed, not at all liking where this was going. And not liking this fiancée one bit.
“We took turns caring for him, and I thought, okay, this sucks, but we’re in it together. But the worse he got, the more reluctant she became to set a date or even discuss wedding details. By the time we got his diagnosis and it became clear this wasn’t a short-term problem, she was just sort of . . . done. Said she loved me, but that this wasn’t what she’d signed up for, that it was just too much.”
Oliver shrugged as though it wasn’t a big deal, but the way he wouldn’t meet her eyes told her it was. Of course it was. What sort of person agrees to marry someone and then bails when the going gets tough?
“Why are you telling me this?” she asked softly.
This time he did meet her eyes. “I told myself then that if and when I got involved with someone again, it had to be someone who understood that Walter and I were a package deal. Someone who wouldn’t bail when things got difficult.”
Well . . . crap.
“And I bailed,” she said softly.
He lifted a shoulder. “I don’t blame you. But he’s not going to be better, Naomi. That stuff he said to you on Monday? Not even close to the worst I’ve heard him say. Not about you, just . . . in general. He wasn’t a nice man before, and now that he’s confused, he’s . . . difficult. I am sorry for what he said, but I also can’t help it. He can’t help it. I understand completely if you want no part of it—you barely know us, but . . . I can’t—”
“Be with someone who can’t handle your dad?”
He nodded jerkily. “But I am grateful for what you’ve done for Dad these last couple weeks. And for me. It’s been a long time since I’ve had someone to come home to who didn’t throw hard-boiled eggs at me. Someone to just talk about my day with . . .”
He broke off and gave a quick shake of his head. “Anyway. Here are your flowers.” He handed them back. He nodded, then turned back toward his own apartment.
Naomi chewed her lip, weighing the wisdom of what she was about to do.
“Hey, Oliver.”
He paused just before entering his apartment.
“Do you want to come in? If you don’t have to relieve Janice quite yet? I could make us a drink. Coffee? Tea?”
He narrowed his eyes slightly, clearly trying to figure her out.
“I liked talking to someone about my day, too,” she admitted, surprised at how vulnerable the admission made her feel. And how true it was.
He hesitated. “I don’t know if—”
“As friends,” she said quickly. “I understand you’re not looking for . . . more. At least not with me. But you still need friends, right?”
He studied her a long moment, then gave her a smile that melted her insides. “Yeah. Okay. Let me change clothes real quick, and I’ll be right there.”
Naomi nodded, then went into her apartment, setting the flowers on the counter, resuming her humming of the Spice Girls song as she gently pulled the arrangement out of the cardboard delivery box.
Her pausing hummed when the box fell away to reveal the base of the bouquet. Not a vase, as she’d thought.
A mug.
As expected, the card had slipped to the bottom of the box, and though she already knew who the flowers were from, the message had her smiling all the same.
It’s no Dom Pérignon, but this is a nice use for a mug, too.
—Ollie
The flowers were so much better than expensive champagne.
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 3
I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” Claire said, staring into the full-length mirror in her bedroom, glaring at her reflection. “I thought my blind-date days were behind me.”
“I can’t believe I’m sitting on the bed where you did it with my ex-boyfriend,” Naomi said, giving a little bounce on the light blue duvet.
Claire gave her a look in the mirror. “Seriously?”
“Oh, come on,” Naomi said. “How can we not joke about it? He wasn’t even good, was he?”
“Naomi!”
“What! He wasn’t! Unless it was just me . . .”
Claire reached out and grabbed a mascara wand off the dresser, stepping closer to the mirror to add another coat, before muttering, “It wasn’t just you.”
“Yes! Knew it,” Naomi said, flopping back on the bed. “Come to think of it, I don’t know why I stuck with him so long. He just seemed like the right kind of guy, you know? Nice. Pulled out chairs. Educated. Polite.”
“Yes, I’m aware. I married him,” Claire said, applying the mascara lightly along her bottom lashes.
“Right.”
Claire turned toward Naomi. “If I do this, will you tell me what’s going on with Oliver? I’m between TV shows, I need a couple to ’ship, and I’ve decided you guys are it.”
“Well, sorry, babe, you’ll have to find someone else. There’s nothing to tell.”
“But he kissed you. Twice.”
“Yes, and we agreed that it was better if we were just friends.”
Claire lifted her eyebrows.
“Okay fine . . . I freaked out after his dad called me ‘the help,’ and I had this moment of horror that we were turning into our parents, and I was going to end up on the streets like my mom . . .”
“Whoa, honey,” Claire said, coming to the bed and sitting beside her. “What?”
“I know.” Naomi pressed her fingers to her temples. “It was a real B-list movie moment, let me tell you. I took a step back, figuring I’d get my act together. But in the meantime, he realized he didn’t want someone like his fiancée—”
“Oliver’s engaged?”
“Ex-fiancée. She ditched him when she learned just how rough things were going to get with Walter, and now he’s, like, protecting himself, and his dad probably. And I get it, because Alzheimer’s is the worst, and—”
“Okay, slow down,” Claire said, pressing a hand to Naomi’s knee. “Let’s just back up a minute. What do you want?”
“I don’t know,” Naomi said on a sigh, pulling her legs up onto the bed and resting her elbows on her denim-clad knees. “I don’t know anymore.”
“Well, what did you want at the start of all this?”
“Don’t you have a date to go on?” Naomi asked grumpily.
“I’ve got time for this,” Claire said, glancing at the watch Naomi had given her a few weeks earlier. “Why did you move into the building?”
“Because I promised my mom I’d make the Cunninghams face what they did to us.”
“And have you?”
Naomi wrinkled her nose. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because Walter isn’t well enough to understand any of that. And Oliver . . .”
“And Oliver?” Claire nudged patiently when Naomi broke off.
“He’s not the same,” Naomi said, fiddling with an errant string on Claire’s duvet. “He’s not like I remember.”
“Of course not,” Claire said, in a zero-BS tone. “He was ten, Naomi. Most little boys are awful at ten. Girls, too. And no
disrespect to your mother, but I don’t know that it worked in your best interest to be poisoning your ears about the Cunninghams all these years. Yes, his dad did an awful thing. Oliver, too. But it was twenty years ago. Maybe it’s time to let it go, even if your mom never could. Like you said, you’re not going to get what you want from Walter. And ask yourself what you’re going to get out of it if you continue to hold it over Oliver’s head.”
“So you don’t think I should tell him?”
“Oh, no. You should definitely tell him,” Claire said.
Naomi wrinkled her nose. “I had a feeling you were going to say that.”
“Because I’m very wise.”
“You are, but you’re also going to be late,” Naomi said, reaching out and twisting Claire’s watch toward her so she could see the time.
“What are we thinking for lipstick? Neutral? Bright?”
Claire shrugged indifferently. “You picked the guy. What do you think?”
Naomi tapped her fingers against her cheek as she thought it over. Her contribution to their trio’s dating pact was a perfectly nice broker she’d gone out with a time or two, and had zero chemistry with. He’d lost his wife several years ago in a car accident, so Naomi figured he’d be respectful of Claire’s need to take it slow.
“I still can’t believe I’m going out on a date this soon after losing my husband. People will think the worst of me.”
“People don’t have to know. And besides, your husband was a cheating snake. Regardless of what happened to him, he doesn’t deserve your loyalty,” Naomi said, climbing off the bed. She was about to go into Claire’s bathroom to assess the lipstick options.
Claire studied her hands, not looking up as she spoke. “Naomi. Do you think . . . do you think . . . am I silly?”
Naomi turned back. “You’re a lot of things, Claire, but not silly.”
“I don’t mean like . . . fluff. I mean silly for thinking that I get a redo. A second chance.”
“At marriage?” Naomi asked.
Claire hesitated, then nodded.
“Of course not. I don’t believe in soul mates. Or at least, I believe we each have lots of soul mates. You’ll find someone so much better for you than Brayden.”
Claire twisted her bracelet and didn’t meet Naomi’s eyes.
“What else?” Naomi nudged.
“What if I don’t want it?”
“Don’t want . . .”
“Any of it. Love. Relationships. Hell, I’m not even sure I miss sex. What if I’m thirty-four years old and done with that part of my life?”
“If you want to be, then you can be,” Naomi said, going to her friend and squeezing her hand. “But until you decide . . . maybe keep your options open?”
Claire lifted her head, gave a tentative smile. “Okay. I’ll try, if . . . you tell Oliver Cunningham who you really are.”
“Pass.”
“Fine. But you at least have to stop seeing Dylan, Naomi. Oliver deserves better.”
Naomi frowned. “What are you talking about? I haven’t seen him since that tepid date, and all of the TV stuff’s been handled over email.”
“But I saw him at your place. The other day when I texted, I was right by your building, asking if you were around and wanted to grab a cup of coffee. You said you were at your new office building, which sounds amazing by the way—”
“Yeah, yeah.” Naomi rolled her finger to move the conversation along. “About Dylan . . .”
“Right! Well, I’m pretty sure it was him. He was talking to an older guy. I thought at first maybe it was Oliver’s dad, but then my head exploded at the thought of one of your boyfriends chatting up the other boyfriend’s dad . . .”
Claire chirped on, oblivious to the slightly queasy feeling that had overtaken Naomi.
“Are you sure it was him?” she interrupted. “Dylan?”
“Well, now that you mentioned it, I sort of waved, and he didn’t wave back but just walked away. So maybe it wasn’t him.”
Or maybe he didn’t want anyone to know he was there.
Naomi reached for her phone. “Give me one sec, ’kay?”
With one arm wrapped around her stomach, the other holding her phone to her ear, Naomi wandered into Claire’s guest room as she waited for Dylan to pick up. She made it only about a foot into the room, it was so full of stuff. Naomi flinched when she realized it was Brayden’s stuff, heaped carelessly across the bed, thrown angrily into boxes.
She flinched again when a man who reminded her far too much of Brayden picked up the phone. “Naomi! Hi! I’ve got to say, I was pretty sure you’d decided to brush me off,” he said with a little laugh.
“Is that why you were at my apartment building?”
She didn’t bother asking if. Her gut told her that he had been there—and that it had been Walter he’d been talking to.
“Ah—” His nervous laughter gave him away. “I stopped by when I was in the neighborhood.”
Naomi rolled her eyes. “And just decided to chat up my neighbors?”
“Is that a crime?” His voice was defensive. A bit like a petulant teen who’d gotten caught smoking. Or in this case, gotten caught snooping.
She inhaled a long breath and then let it out slowly. “You figured it out.”
Dylan gave an irritated sigh. “That you currently live in the same building where your mom worked as a housekeeper? Yeah, our researchers figured that out about five minutes after that meeting with you and your Jersey Shore assistant.”
His tone was snide, and she closed her eyes, wondering how she could have been so blind. Still, she clung to hope . . .
“But you told them to back off. At that meeting . . .”
“Because I didn’t want your filtered version of what happened. I wanted what actually happened. Look, I know it sucks, but good TV happens in the messy stuff. Plus, you signed the contract.”
“Yeah?” she asked sweetly to mask the anger that was building at his betrayal. “And did you find what you were looking for?”
“No,” he admitted after a beat. “I couldn’t get into the building, and the only person who came out was this crackpot old man who didn’t know a person from a lamppost . . .”
Naomi’s gaze went white with rage.
“How do I get a new producer?” she asked, interrupting his petty rambling.
“What?”
“A new producer for Max. How do I get one?”
He gave an incredulous laugh. “You can’t be serious. What sort of self-righteous—”
“I don’t work or associate with people who stab me in the back. I’ll have my lawyer take care of it.” She hung up before he could say another word.
She closed her eyes and set a fist to her forehead, making a conscious effort to slow her breathing despite the sheer anger rolling through her.
“Everything okay?” Claire asked softly from the doorway.
Naomi dropped her hand and opened her eyes. “Actually? Yeah.”
Claire frowned. “You sounded upset. And pissed.”
“Oh, I am. But I also just had an epiphany.”
“Ooh, I love those! What kind?”
Naomi smiled. “The kind where you realize your story has a twist ending. And you had the wrong villain all along.”
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 3
Oliver was sitting on his couch, whisky in hand, college football on in the background, hunched over his coffee table as he searched for the puzzle piece that had been eluding him the entire quarter.
Normally he searched with ruthless determination for a rogue piece, refusing to quit until he found it. Instead, he flopped back into the couch cushions.
It was no use. He’d been trying to convince himself that he was enjoying having a night to himself. Trying to remember that he used to relish nights exactly like this one, with a drink, a puzzle, the game . . .
But what he really wanted was to be cozied up with the redhead next door.
Preferably naked.
H
is phone buzzed, and he picked it up, wincing when he saw it was a text from Janice saying that although Walter had finally gone down for bed, he’d been more difficult than usual.
Oliver told her to let him know if Walter got up again and wouldn’t settle, though he sent up a quick prayer that it wouldn’t come to that. He’d been on Walter duty last night, and it had been more exhausting than usual. Lately nothing seemed to please his dad, and he let his displeasure be known through increasingly violent means. Throwing, kicking, shoving . . .
Oliver pulled up the reminders on his phone, made a note to give Walter’s doctor a call on Monday to discuss the recent behavioral changes.
The game went to commercial, and Oliver was standing up for a whisky refill when there was a knock at the door. Not Walter or Janice. He knew both Walter’s pounds and Janice’s brisk taps.
This was more . . . tentative.
He opened the door and blinked, wondering if he’d conjured her up. “Naomi?”
She was wearing jeans and a tight-fitting black T-shirt, her hair pulled back into a ponytail, looking very much . . . well, girl next door. Literally.
“Come in,” he said, hoping his voice didn’t betray just how happy he was to see her. The last thing he wanted to do was scare her off when he was finally close to breaking through her walls.
She stepped inside and looked around. “You know, this is the first time I’ve been in here?”
“Is it? That can’t be.”
She nodded. “You’ve been in my place, but the rest of the time we’re always in Walter’s.”
“Ah. Well . . . eat your heart out.”
“It’s very . . .”
“Bachelor pad?”
“Well, it looks like you just moved in,” she said, looking at the bare walls, the minimal furniture.
He rubbed a hand over his neck, trying to see it through her eyes. It was depressingly barren. What was even more depressing was that he’d never really noticed. It was a place to eat and sleep in between work and Walter duties.
“I guess decorating’s not really my forte.”
She nodded in acknowledgment, wandering around. She paused when she looked down at the coffee table, at the puzzle, then shot him a bemused look. “Really?”
