by Julia London
She stopped in the middle of the aisle and stared at a display of deodorants. “Me too, Dad,” she said with more enthusiasm than she felt. She hated this about their relationship. She loved her father; she really did love him. But they were very different people, with very different views of the world, and she thought it was healthier for them both if they lived in different cities.
“I’ll call you with my plans,” her father said. “So please pick up when I call.”
“I will,” she said weakly.
“And call your mother,” he added. “She worries about you.”
Whitney glanced heavenward. “Okay, all right,” she promised. “Talk to you later?”
“I love you, Whitney.” He hung up.
A man passed in front of Whitney, and she stepped back, still staring at the display of deodorants. Her parents loved her, she had no question of that. She only wished they could be more supportive of what she wanted from life.
But what if they were right? What if this idea she had was as bad as they seemed to think? She thought about how much the rent would cost for that little café, how many cupcakes she’d have to sell every month. She thought about her inheritance which, while a sizable amount, could only carry her for a few months if she couldn’t cut it. She thought about the advertising and marketing, and having to hire people to help her run it. It was easy to imagine these things, but they all felt almost impossible to do.
It was sort of the same with Jack. It was easy to imagine that he was the perfect guy for her, but in reality, there was something a little off that was bothering her. Something didn’t make sense.
The thought occurred to her that maybe she was trying to fit round pegs into square holes all around her life. Maybe it was time to figure out what the round pegs were.
She turned toward the front of the store, wondering why she’d ever come in here, and walked outside, her thoughts as gloomy as the weather.
Thirteen
Jack had been inexcusably late to meet Whitney because he could not make himself leave his apartment. In spite of the techniques Dr. Pratt had taught him, his fear had begun to choke him when he thought about rounding the street corner at the light. It was simply a matter of not being able to see—or imagine—what was around the corner.
It was that kind of nonsensical thinking that made his condition so insidious—he knew the thoughts popping into his head were utter bullshit, and yet, his body wouldn’t believe him. His body didn’t trust him at all.
But Jack was determined to go for Whitney, and in the end, it had taken a mad dash for the open elevator with Buster at his side. He told himself if he didn’t make it, he wasn’t going. But if the doors stayed open…
By the time he made it to the café, they were finishing up, and Whitney was not happy, clearly, and had sent him home. So basically, what should have been a victory was really more of a disaster.
He was going to have to hand in his man card if he kept this up.
By the time he reached his apartment at a near sprint, he was convinced he’d blown it. He was obsessed with the idea that he had ruined the best thing that had happened to him in two years because he didn’t know how to do this anymore, couldn’t get past himself to be a decent boyfriend.
Frank was still behind the desk when Jack banged through the glass doors of his building with Buster in tow. “Back so soon, boss?” Frank asked jovially. He was probably wondering why Jack had chosen this day, of all days, to venture past the front door.
Good question, Frank.
“Ah…yeah. Just had a quick errand.” He flashed Frank a smile as he beelined for the elevator. He punched the button a few times in futility, fearful that he might actually have to talk to Frank and reveal what a pansy he was. But the elevator arrived quickly, and he and Buster were on it in a flash.
Once inside his apartment, Jack collapsed onto the couch, inexplicably exhausted. Buster crawled up onto the couch and stretched himself across Jack’s lap.
Even Buster thought he’d ruined everything.
Jack sighed. “Sorry, buddy.” He stroked his dog. Buster’s calming influence began to settle over him like a veil. He thought about the beta-blockers in his medicine cabinet. Maybe he needed to do it. It had gotten too easy to stay in, to have life delivered to him in an array of bags and boxes because America was such a great country.
Still, beta-blockers worried him. Look what happened to Peter! That could be him. He could become suicidal if he wasn’t careful.
But in the next moment, Jack was berating himself. He wasn’t Peter. He was imagining things now. It was almost as if the door to a vast array of anxiety disorders had been opened in Afghanistan.
He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, trying not to think too much. Just as he was dozing off, his phone rang. Jack lurched awake; Buster hopped down. He dug frantically in his pocket for his phone, certain it was Whitney. “Hello, Whitney?”
“Sharon.”
“Oh,” he said. “Hi, Sharon.” He stood and started to pace.
“Hi. I have the, ah…the thing,” she said.
“You do? Can you get it to me?”
She grunted at that. “You can pick it up. I’ve done what I said I would do.”
“Okay.” Jack didn’t know how in the hell he would do that, but he’d figure something out. “At your office?”
“Are you crazy? No, at the library downtown. The big one. You know what I’m talking about?”
Jack winced. “I do.”
“I’ll be there tomorrow at two, on my lunch break. I’ll be outside the main entrance.”
“Okay,” he said. “Thanks so much, Sharon.”
“Yeah.” She clicked off.
Jack put down his phone and dragged his fingers through his hair. His phone rang again, and he picked it up absently, his thoughts racing around how he could possibly meet Sharon at the library. A public place where people streamed in and out all day. “Jack Carter,” he said.
“Jack.”
Noah. A smile instantly spread across Jack’s face. “Noah! Hey buddy, how the hell are you?”
“Okay,” he said, but then he made a strange sound. “Actually, not so good. Listen, I can’t talk long, but I thought you’d want to know that Lainey passed away yesterday.”
Jack’s heart broke away from its moorings and fell to his toes. He knew she was sick—he even knew it was terminal—but still. So soon? “Oh God,” he whispered, and sank down onto his couch. “My God. Noah…I am so sorry. Was she…was there pain?”
“I don’t think so,” Noah said. “She was heavily medicated.” He paused, and Jack could hear his labored breathing. “It sucks, man.” His voice cracked.
“Yeah, it sucks,” Jack agreed. He thought of that sweet girl with the long brown hair and clear brown eyes. Lainey hadn’t been his first love, but she’d definitely been a big love. More important, she’d been his friend. A real friend. She kept up a correspondence with him while he was in the Marines, even though she was working full-time and had a family of her own. She’d always had time for him and Noah. Lainey hadn’t known about his anxiety disorder, but if she had, Jack was certain she would have been on the phone with him as often as Dr. Pratt.
“Look, I can’t be at her funeral, but it’s set for Sunday.”
“Okay,” Jack said slowly.
“You can look it up online, the time and details,” Noah said. “I’ve got it written down here somewhere, but…”
“I’ll look it up.”
“It would mean a lot to me if you could go, Jack,” Noah said. “One of us ought to be there to say good-bye.”
“Sure.” Jack’s pulse surged. “Yeah, I…thanks for letting me know. Are you all right?”
“Me?” Noah sighed wearily. “I’m relieved, I think. It’s been hard on her.”
“I can’t imagine,” Jack muttered.
“Are you all right?” Noah asked. “Dude, no one has seen you.”
“No, I’m good. Just busy. Really bus
y,” Jack said.
“Yeah,” Noah said absently. “Okay, well…I’ve got some calls to make.”
“Take care, buddy.”
“You do the same.” Noah hung up.
Tears burned in the back of Jack’s eyes. It was hard to believe Lainey was really gone. He was going to make it to the funeral. He was going to be there for Lainey and Noah, and he wasn’t going to let this goddam disease or condition or whatever it was stop him.
* * *
Jack didn’t know how long he’d been sitting on his couch with his head between his hands, but when his buzzer sounded, but he was surprised that the light of day was fading. He dragged himself to the intercom. “Yeah, Frank?”
“Tristan,” came the response. “Wanted to let you know that Ms. Baldwin is on her way up.”
Whitney was here? “Thanks.” Jack wiped his face with his sleeve and quickly combed his hair with his fingers.
He opened the front door, and Buster put himself at the threshold. The elevator dinged, and his tail began to wag furiously. Jack tried to pull himself together as Whitney walked down the hall toward him.
“I’m sorry I came over without warning,” she said.
He was very glad that she had.
“My dad called. I went home, but I started thinking that maybe I…” She paused and peered at him. “What’s wrong?” She reached him, her blue eyes filled with concern. “Are you okay?”
He wasn’t okay. He felt himself quaking. “I got some bad news,” he said, his voice shaking too. “I lost a good friend.”
“Oh no,” she said. “Jack, I’m so sorry.”
She wrapped her arms around him and Jack sank into her, his arms wrapping around her waist. He bent his head and pressed his face into her neck. He needed her touch, her warmth. How had he allowed himself to isolate himself from so many people and so much of his life?
“Come on.” She took his hand in hers. “Tell me about it.” She led him to the couch, made him sit.
Jack told her a little about Lainey when they’d looked at the picture he had of him and the guys. Tonight, he spoke of her haltingly at first, as every word was a sharp reminder she was gone. How he’d always known her through one of his best friends, her cousin Noah. How when they’d entered high school, she was no longer the skinny girl who used to follow them around, but a beautiful, sweet, caring girl.
“Ah, Jack…this must be so hard for you.”
He gave her a rueful half smile. “Thanks, Whitney. It means a lot to me that you’re here.”
She suddenly kicked off her shoes and crawled onto his lap, straddling him. Her skirt flared out around them, and he could feel the flesh of her thighs against his jeans. “I’m really sorry,” she murmured, and kissed his face, the bridge of his nose.
Jack’s feelings began to flow away from grief and into desire. His hands found her hips. He was hard, his sorrow mutating into need for a woman’s touch, for comfort. He slipped his hand into her panties, into her damp warmth, and began to stroke her. Whitney was still kissing him, moving on him, panting into his ear. Jack stood with her, holding her legs wrapped around his waist, and walked her down the hall into his bedroom.
Whitney was so beautiful to him. His hunger for her smothered the memory of all that had happened today, his disappointment at not being the man Whitney desired, or the boy Lainey had wanted. He craved nothing but the sensation of being with Whitney, of feeling a woman’s skin next to his, beneath his lips and fingers. He needed nothing more than to rock along on a wave of pleasure, until she fell apart beneath him and there was nothing left of him. He wanted to sink into that place where there was no anxiety, no fear—just this moment, this passionate, exhilarating, intimate moment.
When they were spent, they talked until the early morning hours about their first loves and lost loves. Jack didn’t know exactly when they drifted off, but he woke up early the next morning with her hair in the corner of his mouth and her leg draped across his. He turned his head, toward the window.
The top of Buster’s head and his eyes were the only thing visible at the edge of his bed, but Jack could hear the sound of his tail against the carpet. “I got you, buddy,” Jack muttered sleepily, and scratched Buster’s ears before he disentangled himself from Whitney.
He was preparing Buster’s breakfast when Whitney appeared, her hair sexily disheveled around her face, the imprint of the quilt on his bed pressed into one cheek. She pushed her hair back, then looked at the clock. “Oh my God!” she suddenly exclaimed. “What am I doing? I have an appointment with a bistro on University and Seventh! I need to go home and bake some cupcakes!” She whirled around and ran for his bedroom.
Jack followed her. He leaned his shoulder against the doorframe and watched her feverishly gather her things. “You’ll come tonight?”
“I will,” she said as she pulled on her skirt.
“Hey,” Jack said, and ignored the tiny swell of nausea in his belly. “Do me a favor?”
“Of course!” she said, but she wasn’t looking at him. She was searching through her bag for something.
“Would you mind picking up something for me?”
She laughed. She tied her hair into a knot at her nape. “Is it for me? What is it? Tickets to a play? Flowers? No, wait…new muffin tins.”
Jack smiled. “A woman who has some papers for me. I need them for this deadline, but I can’t get out today. I’ve got to see about getting to Eagle’s Ridge for Lainey’s funeral this weekend.”
“Oh.” Her bright smile faded a little. “Papers, you said?”
“She’s, ah…she’s supposed to meet me at the central library at two.”
“The library?”
“It’s kind of complicated. But the library is near University and Seventh,” he said. It was a few blocks, not terribly out of Whitney’s way. “I can text her and tell her you’re going to swing by. That is, if you wouldn’t mind. She’ll be waiting outside the main doors.”
Whitney’s expression was oddly dubious. “Ah…sure, I guess.”
His relief was so great, he laughed. “Thanks, Whitney.” He wrapped his arms around her, hugging her close.
“I mean…it’s going to take you all day to arrange getting to Eagle’s Ridge?” she said into his chest.
Jack tried to laugh that off, but it came out like a garbled cough. “It’s just work, you know, and…the arrangements.”
“Sure,” she said, but her voice sounded a little curt. She pushed out of his embrace to pick up her things. “I really have to get out of here. So, I’m meeting this lady at the library.”
Jack told her where to meet Sharon and then watched her leave in a flurry of shoes and bags and hurried kisses.
She wasn’t crazy about this favor, he could tell.
But he had another, bigger problem. Jack sighed and went back to his office. He sat at his computer and held his head in his hands a few minutes, worrying about how he would ever make it to Eagle’s Ridge.
Fourteen
Whitney arrived at the library, pulling her rolling cooler behind her. The woman was exactly where Jack said she would be—leaning up against the wall just outside the main doors. She looked a little older than Jack had said, but she wore nurse’s scrubs and had a black tote bag over one shoulder.
“Hi,” Whitney said as she reined her cooler to a halt. “Are you Sharon?”
The woman started. She eyed Whitney, and then the cooler. “What is that?”
Whitney looked down. “A cooler,” she said.
“For what?”
“For food,” Whitney said, confused. She bent over and opened the top of it, removed a cupcake from a box on top, and held it out to the lady. “Would you like one?”
Sharon stared at the cupcake that looked like the Cookie Monster eating a small chocolate chip cookie. They were delightful, if Whitney thought so herself. “I’m a baker,” she said, probably unnecessarily, because surely only bakers wheeled cupcakes around. “I make these. It’s chocolate—do you
like chocolate? I’m always amazed at the number of people who don’t like chocolate. Me, I eat it every day. You probably guessed that.” She gave a short bark of laughter then silently reprimanded herself for filling all the available air around them with chatter.
Apparently, Whitney would never know if this woman—Sharon, Jack had said—liked chocolate or not, because she withdrew a padded mailing envelope from her tote bag and thrust it at Whitney. “Here.” She turned away, striding off down the sidewalk as though the library were on fire.
Whitney stared after her, her mouth agape. “Thanks a lot.” She returned the masterful Cookie Monster cupcake to its box. She tossed the envelope into her tote and went on to meet with the manager at the bistro.
A few hours later, Whitney made it to Jack’s place with the ingredients for the cauliflower tetrazzini she’d made him order. She was not on top of her game—she was feeling nauseated from having eaten two Cookie Monsters in the space of two minutes in a momentary lapse into self-pity after her meeting at the bistro.
“Hey.” Jack greeted her at the door of his apartment. “What’s wrong?”
“Miserable day.” She accepted his embrace, pressing her forehead against his chest.
“Why?”
“Oh, nothing. I just visited with the cutest bistro in all of Seattle, and they loved my Cookie Monster cupcakes and the teacakes I made this morning—for the first time, mind you—but of course it all hinges on that stupid health department certificate,” she said. “I never thought finding a bakery location would be this hard.” She moved to pass him, but Jack caught her hand. “Maybe I should stop lining up work. I just assumed I’d be up and running by now, you know? Why are you holding my hand?”
“Wait here.” He disappeared into the living room while Whitney and Buster stood foot to paw. “Okay, come in,” he said.
Whitney walked into the living room and gasped with delight. There were flowers on every conceivable surface—the kitchen bar, the coffee table, the bookshelves—and the table had been set with real china and candles. “What is this?” A smile lit her face.
