by Morgan Young
I’m driving home when the world’s saddest song comes on. “I can’t make you love me…. if you—”
“Nope,” I say out loud, and click to another station.
“All by myse—”
“Seriously?” I ask. I click through two more stations, all set to the “die alone” playlist, apparently. I turn off the radio, and blow my hair away from my face.
I pull up to Miller’s Garage, and take my usual parking spot in front of the office door. At the sound of my muffler, Frankie walks out into the driveway. He’s wearing his light blue Miller’s jumpsuit, wiping his hands on a dirty rag. He stuffs it in his pocket, and puts his hands on his hips as he waits for me to get out of my car.
Frankie isn’t much taller than I am, the sort of thing you don’t notice in ninth grade. In fact, I had never kissed a guy over six foot until after I was divorced. Zoey likes to refer to it as my Napoleon phase.
But Frankie is adorable. He’s pale blond with light blue eyes, dimples in both cheeks. He used to smoke, but quit after high school. Now he chews gum and always smells like cinnamon. I used to daydream about what our kids would look like—curly blond hair? Dimples? I still think they would have been the cutest trees a school play had ever seen, but it wasn’t meant to be.
Now Frankie was going to have babies with someone else.
I open the car door, and Frankie tilts his head, looking sorry for me. “I went by the apartment,” he says. “I even brought you a latte.”
I sigh heavily, and I can’t help it, I’m miserable. Frankie holds out his arms and I walk straight to him and hug him.
“I’m sorry about the way I told you, kid,” he says affectionately. “I should have gotten you drunk first.”
I laugh, my cheek to his. “Yeah, right,” I murmur. “When has that ever ended in a good decision?”
Frankie pulls back, and looks me over. His pity turns to suspicion pretty quickly, and he takes a step back. “You hooked up last night,” he says.
My lips part, and I try to hold on to some dignity. I hated that all of my friends could read my every sin. “It was a friend of a friend,” I admit.
“Nice guy?” Frankie asks.
I smile. “Not sure. Probably not.”
To this he frowns. “Well, if he’s not, I’ll beat his ass.” Frankie loops his arm in mine, and leads me toward the office.
Frankie will fight if I want him to. He’s a hot head, like me. But after seeing Ryerson mostly naked, I can’t imagine my ex-husband would have a chance at winning. I’ve had to jump in too many bar fights to count. I hope Ray is prepared to take out her earrings.
“Where’s Ray?” I ask as I go to stand behind the counter, opening the drawer to count the money.
“Her place. She’s, uh…” He lowers his eyes, and kicks at the ground. “She’s packing.”
“Packing? For wh—?” I stop. “Frankie, is she moving in?” I ask.
He shrugs. I’m annoyed that he didn’t tell me that part; I’m pissed at him, if I’m honest. I wanted a little more warning, a little more time to adjust. Now, suddenly, it’s no longer Cheyenne and Frankie. It’s Frankie and Rayanna. I slam the drawer closed.
“Kid,” Frankie says, leaning on the counter. “If you have a problem with her, we can—”
A horn beeps from the front of the garage, and Frankie tells me to hold that thought. I wasn’t the one talking, so I sneer at him, and turn around to arrange the rows of motor oil.
“What can I do for you, bud?” Frankie calls out, the same friendliness in his tone he shows all of his customers.
“I typically know my way around engines,” a voice said. “But I’m running late, and damn if I can’t find the source of that rattling.”
My heart stops. No way. I peek around the door. No fucking way.
Ryerson Banks stands next to a truck, the back of it packed with buckets of paint and drywall boards. He’s wearing sunglasses, and a fresh white T-shirt. Damn. Those arms.
I duck back around the door, my hand on my chest. I can’t let him see me. Oh, no. I’m wearing yesterday’s clothes. If I could just slip inside the back room, maybe I could—”
“Cheyenne,” Frankie calls, sounding distracted. “Can you bring out some papers for us, please?”
I close my eyes.
“Cheyenne?” Ryerson repeats, curious.
Before Frankie can attempt to explain who I am to him, I grab up the sales paperwork and head outside. I can’t believe I’m going to have to see him. Wearing the same clothes I kissed him in. Standing next to my ex-husband. I pray for a meteor to strike me down, but first, Ryerson turns in my direction, and his mouth pulls into a half smile. His eyes are hidden behind his sunglasses, so I can’t see his true reaction.
I should say hi. Maybe even a “nice to see you again,” but instead, I quickly jab the pen and paper at Frankie, and turn on my heels.
“Hey,” Frankie says, reaching out to take my elbow. “Stay out here with me.”
He puts his arm around my back, sifting through the papers before looking sideways at me. He presses his lips into a smile, his dimples deepening.
“I’m sorry about earlier,” he says quietly. And I can see he feels truly bad. That’s the thing about Frankie: he would never ever hurt my feelings on purpose. I’d appreciate it a bit more if Ryerson wasn’t standing three feet in front of me.
“It’s fine, Frankie,” I say, putting my hand on his chest to push him back a step.
“I’ll make it up to you tonight,” he says, reaching to pinch my chin sweetly.
“Sounds like a good offer,” Ryerson interjects. Both Frankie and I look at him, and Frankie laughs.
“Cheyenne will give me hell if I don’t. Trust me.”
“I bet,” Ryerson says, and turns to look around the garage.
“Happy wife, happy life,” Frankie says, and winks at me. It had been a running joke with us for years, funnier after we were divorced. Not very funny in this moment.
I could correct him, but that would mean outing my wild night with Ryerson Banks. And although I don’t regret it, I don’t exactly want to broadcast it. If I could just keep it together for another second, I can get out of here without talking to him at all.
For his part, Ryerson only sucks at his teeth, not looking in my direction once. Frankie hands me the paperwork.
“Let’s take a look under the hood,” Frankie says to Ryerson, and goes over to pat him on the back. They start toward the truck when Ryerson pauses to look back at me, his eyes still shaded.
He doesn’t smile when he replies, “It was nice to meet you, Mrs. Miller.”
***
“Zoey,” I say, the second she answers. “I need your help.”
“What’s wrong?” she sounds a little sleepy, and I almost hang up because she probably just had an afternoon delight with her hot officer fiancé, but my life is in shambles.
“Ryerson was just here,” I say.
“That stalker!” she says, and the phone shifts. “How did he find you?”
“He wasn’t looking for me,” I say, twisting a rogue curl around my finger. “He was having trouble with his truck. Anyway, he was here and dumbass Frankie called me out into the stall.”
“Oh my gosh,” Zoey says, and actually laughs. “Ryerson was talking to Frankie? Gross!”
“Be quiet,” I say, darting my eyes around to make sure neither guy is within ear shot. They were still outside. “So Frankie made his little ‘happy wife, happy life’ comment, and nobody laughed.”
“So?” she asks. “You’re not actually his wife.”
“I didn’t correct him.”
“Uh… why not?”
“Because I didn’t want him to know that Ryerson and I were together last night. And I wasn’t really in a place to talk to Ryerson because I was shocked to see him. I was still in last night’s clothes.”
“You should have borrowed a dress from me,” Zoey says like that’s the real problem here.
“I wa
s almost done with my humiliation,” I continue, “when just as he walks out, Ryerson looks back and says, ‘Nice to meet you Mrs. Miller.’”
I exaggerate the ‘Mrs.’ a little more than Ryerson did to drive home the point. Zoey gasps.
“That was a solid move,” she says. “I would have done something very similar.”
“Zoey!”
“I’m just saying. Okay, so what do you need from me?”
“I need you to explain to him that I’m not married. I don’t want him to think that about me.”
“What do you care if you’re not going to pursue him?” she asks.
“I care because he thinks he hooked up with Mrs. Miller!”
“Fine,” Zoey says like I’m overreacting. “We’re having dinner with him later this week. I’ll casually mention your ex-husband, but I will not try to make you sound sexy. Ryerson doesn’t need the encouragement.”
“Thank you,” I say. “But feel free to call him before then so he doesn’t think I’m a horrible person.”
“Dinner’s on Thursday,” she sings out, and then kisses the receiver and hangs up.
***
“Frankie,” I say when he comes back into the office to give me the paperwork. He was able to fix Ryerson’s truck with a wrench and a couple of curse words, and the two shook hands and called it good. I stayed hidden in the office, although I saw Ryerson check the garage window before he drove off. “Frankie!” I call louder.
“What’s up?” he asks wide-eyed as he walks in. “You okay?”
I stare at him a moment, deciding whether or not to tell him about Ryerson. It’s not his business, although under normal circumstances, I would have told him, and we would’ve joked about it. But this time is different.
“I’m going home to change,” I say, grabbing my purse. “That cool?”
“You sure you’re okay?” he asks.
“I’m good. I just… I have to go.” I walk past him, and out to the Honda. I flip down the mirror, and groan when I see how terrible I look. I bet Ryerson rethought his evening after seeing me in the daylight.
I swipe my finger under my eyes, wiping away a bit of smeared mascara, and then speed toward my apartment. After I park in my assigned spot, I walk toward my building. No one is out. Most people are at work or school, but even if they were here, it’d be all kids and families, as if I’m the only single person left in the domestication apocalypse.
My apartment itself is cute, well-decorated with bright colors and fabrics. Salvaged antiques and a few new pieces. Zoey always said I had great taste. In high school, before I got married, I used to think I’d be an interior decorator. I have a knack for colors. For design.
Instead, I’m a receptionist in a car garage half-owned by my ex-husband. Life doesn’t always work out the way we plan.
I strip my clothes as I walk toward the shower, and when I’m under the hot water, I close my eyes and sigh heavily.
Chapter Six
Zoey’s been busy all week, and I barely get a chance to talk to her. She’s the head librarian of our little town, and sometimes duty calls. She’s currently planning a community garden with the arbor society, and every time I call, it’s all tomatoes and cucumbers and not a single sexual innuendo to make it fun.
On Thursday, Frankie and Rayanna are hanging out at the garage, all in love and shit, so I take off early. After I head home to change, I decide to go out and grab something to eat. I’m looking pretty cute, despite the heat, so I opt for pick-up at my favorite restaurant. Maybe a drink at the bar while I wait. Who knows, the man of my dreams might walk in and take me away from my mediocrity.
I roll my eyes, as I walk toward Le Che. I’ve never been negative, a trait I’ve always been very proud of. Even when going through my divorce, I had a great attitude. But now that I’m losing Zoey, losing Frankie, I realize I don’t have nearly enough friends. I need to expand my circle or I’m going to end up alone with fifty-five little dogs in my uber-safe apartment complex eating frosting out of the container with a spoon.
“Hello, beautiful,” the bartender says when I sit down.
“Hey, Barnes,” I tell him, flashing him a smile. He’s about sixty with a perfectly trimmed gray beard, Sean Connery in his older (but not super old) days. “Can I get a beer?”
“Coming up. You want a menu?” he asks.
“Please.” I set my bag on the barstool next to me, glad the restaurant isn’t too packed. It’s nice here, classy without the white tablecloths and over-attentive service. The food is rock solid, the drinks are strong if you’re into that sort of thing, and the clientele is eclectic.
Barnes sets the menu and a glass of beer in front of me, and I take a sip as I peruse the menu. Hm… lobster mac ‘n cheese or burger? It’s a tough call.
From my bag, I hear my phone buzz. I distractedly reach in and grab it, noticing Le Che has added oysters to the menu. I see from the caller ID that Zoey is calling.
“Hey, girl,” I say, putting the phone to my ear. “Are you knee-deep in soil right now?”
She laughs. “I’m knee deep in something. Turn around.”
I furrow my brow, and then glance over my shoulder. A few tables away, I find Zoey and Porter sitting at a table. I start to smile, until the other person turns toward me, straight-faced and gorgeous. Oh, shit. The dinner. They’re here with Ryerson.
“I can hear you gulp from here,” Zoey says. “Better come over. They spotted you before I did.”
I turn back around, and click off the phone. There is no possible way I can go over to that table. Right?
“Know what you want, sweetheart?” Barnes asks, swiping his white towel under my sweating drink glass.
I look up at him. “If I knew that, Barnes, I wouldn’t be such a mess.”
He sniffs a laugh, and I thank him for the drink and drop some bills on the bar. I take my beer, and head toward the table. I nervously flick my gaze to Ryerson, but he’s staring down at his Old Fashioned, running an orange slice around the rim. He’s probably not meaning to, but it looks erotic. I gulp again.
“Ah…” Porter says good-naturedly when I get to the table. “Cheyenne has decided to join us. Thought you and Barnes were running away together.” He smiles at all of us, but all of us shift uncomfortably in response. His smile fades.
I realize he must not know about Ryerson and I, and I’m suddenly so proud of my best friend for keeping this secret. It must have been torture. Or she was just really busy. Either way, I’ll thank her later.
“Sit down,” Zoey says abruptly, and motions to the empty seat next to Ryerson. I resist the urge to pull it around the table to the other side. Zoey watches us.
“Ry,” she says. “You remember Cheyenne from the barbecue, right?” She gives nothing away, and I’m wondering if my girl is secretly a double agent or something. She’s amazing.
Ryerson laughs softly, and picks up his drink. He turns to me, and being this close to him again sends a shiver down my entire body. His hair is combed smooth, his button-down shirt crisp. He smiles, and his gorgeous dark eyes narrow slightly.
“Of course,” he says. “Miss Cheyenne, how are you?” He holds out his free hand, and I dart a quick look at Zoey before I take it. Again, it’s more palm sliding against palm than a shake, and I kind of love the intimacy of it.
“I’m… good. How are you?”
“Starving,” he responds easily, and turns back to his menu. “By the way,” he adds, not looking at me. “Your husband seems like a nice guy. Didn’t even charge me for fixing my truck.”
“You met Frankie?” Porter asks. “A little scrappy, but I like him.” He sips from his drink, and everyone falls quiet again.
I’m embarrassed, and before I can explain the situation, Zoey sets down her beer with a clank and rolls her eyes.
“He’s not her husband,” she announces, and Ryerson lifts his head. “He’s her ex-husband. They’re just on really good terms. Yes, it’s weird and sweet.” She looks across the table at m
e, and smiles softly. “Besides,” she adds. “Frankie Miller’s getting married.”
I smile back. Me, Zoey, and Frankie have known each other a long time. Him moving on is like part of our childhood moving on.
“He sure is,” I say, nodding. “And she’s moving in today.” Zoey crinkles her nose, but then shrugs. We both know Frankie deserves to be happy, and Ray is pretty cool as far as replacement wives go.
“I’m… sorry for the Mrs. Miller crack then,” Ryerson says, looking sideways at me. His lips hold a teasing smile, and I feel my skin warm in return. He runs his eyes over my body, before picking up his drink. “And you’re gorgeous in that dress,” he says against his glass.
“I think we should order,” Zoey says, holding up her hand to signal the server. She and Porter exchange a pointed look, but I don’t care about their judgment right now.
There is a brush on my bare thigh, and I glance down and see Ryerson’s hand resting on my chair. His pinky glides against my skin, testing. Teasing. My heart starts to speed up.
The server comes over, and we order. Ryerson’s hand leaves, and then returns to rest on my thigh under the table. It’s secret, naughty. And all I want in the world right now is for it to glide up a little higher.
“So this community garden,” Zoey says during dinner, turning to Porter. “Do you think you could get some of the guys to come down? I could use the muscle.”
Porter takes a sip of his beer, putting off answering. Ryerson turns to me, watching the side of my face as his hand slides up, touching the hem of my dress. I look at him, my lips slightly parted.
“Tell me about yourself,” he says. I think he wants to see if I can talk while he’s arousing me. He’s playing with me.
“You first,” I say, making him laugh. We both smile at each other, and his hand slips under my dress, his fingers brushing over my panties. The heat of his touch sends shockwaves through my body. But I betray nothing more than a small flutter of breath, not even as he circles my clit. I reach to pick up my glass, grateful for the cool sip of beer.
