by Fiona Quinn
She followed him to the den, where Rowan sat on the couch, resting the pea bags on each knee, another on his shoulder.
“This is how it would always be isn’t it ? You get called away. I get the last of what’s in your fridge.” She gestured toward the kitchen.
Well, at least that explained the empty fridge.
“I ate everything in your freezer too.”
Rowan nodded. From the tiredness and just a touch of bile in her voice, he’d bet that she’d come to the same conclusion as he had when he was standing by his mailbox.
Only, she had decided the time was ripe.
This smelled like a break up.
Rowan let his gaze slip back toward the kitchen, now regretting that he hadn’t poured himself that scotch.
“I let your plants die.”
He nodded.
“I’m keeping your cat.”
So here we go.
“This is the way you live your life, and this is the relationship you expect me to have. It seems awfully convenient for you.”
“Convenient?” Rowan tipped his head. “That’s probably a term I wouldn’t attach to any part of my life.”
“All right,” she slurs, “but for clarity’s sake. I’ve tried this for a few years now. Your job doesn’t lend itself well to long-term relationships…to having a family.”
She stood next to the table under the window.
Rowan noticed the thick metal candle stick holder beside her hand. Not that he expected her to pick it up and wail on him with it, but his job taught him to check for weapons of opportunity and emotions that might make someone want to use them.
“You told me you wanted kids.” She flipped her hair out of her face. The move she made when she was pissed and trying to hold it together.
“I do.”
“But you won’t make changes—take another job, for example, in order to have that?” Her mouth had drawn into a pucker, like she was locking back the words she really wanted to say to him.
“My job is important to creating a safe world for my future children.”
“So you say. But maybe you could apply your importance in a way that would lend itself to a stronger commitment. Marriage, those children…”
Rowan didn’t know what to say. Yes, he wanted that—a strong marriage, children, a happy homelife to balance the shitshow he trudged through day in and day out.
“I thought you would—I’ve always thought you would—change your assignment, change your department, change something. But now I’m realizing that change would require something else.”
He shifted the peas to the other shoulder.
“Someone else.” She gave a strange plastic smile that was more like a grimace. “I’m not her. She’s not me. I’m not the one.”
Rowan just sat there. She was right. She simply wasn’t the one. That was it in a nutshell. It was so clear, now that she’d spelled it out. No blame or shame, just the wrong size.
“Yeah, I thought so.” Her finger traced around the top of her half-filled glass that she’d set on the table. “So I’m going to make this simple. Like I said, I’ve taken custody of the cat. He likes me better than you anyway and always has. And he’s used to living at my place. I’ve gone through your things and taken everything of mine back to my apartment. I thought it was for the sake of ease, now I realize that I knew this was it.” She lifted her glass to her lips and drained it down.
Rowan wondered how much she’d drunk and if he should let her on the road. Liquored up and emotional was a dangerous driving combination.
“Call it a gut feeling. I packed up some things of yours I liked too. If you want to arm wrestle for them back, I’m up for it.” She lifted her chin to a pugnacious tilt. She wanted a fight.
Rowan said nothing. He absolutely did not want that fight. Not to keep her and not to let her go. He gave her a shake of his head and a shrug, feeling the muscles in his neck scream at the move. He worked to keep the wince off his face, lest she interpret it as a verbal blow that landed. That would just egg this on.
“You probably won’t miss those things anyway. You’re hardly ever around. Okay then.” Jodie reached into her pocket and slammed something metallic onto the table. “Here’s your key. I know you’ll just change the locks in the morning anyway. You just sit there with your bags of peas. I’ll see myself out.”
“Jodie—"
She stopped mid-stride, and braced.
He felt her fill with hope as if she had thought this ultimatum might bring her a different outcome. That he’d beg her to stay and promise her that he’d change.
He realized the tone of his voice might have given her that impression.
That hadn’t been his intention.
The thickness had to do with fatigue and physical pain, not emotion. While he should probably feel bereft in this moment, he was surprised that all he felt was…a kind of a relief. The pop of air when a top finally comes off the jar, the vacuum seal broken.
“Jodie,” he tried again. “I wish you every happiness.”
When she slammed the door behind her, it shook the whole house.
Chapter Six
Avery
Thursday Night
Falls Church, Virginia
Lola called just as Avery shut the door behind Father Pat. Lola had a knack for timing. “Well? Everything back under control?”
“Is it ever?” Avery picked up the gallon of water Father Pat had left on her coffee table and walked toward the kitchen. “I gave mom a sedative while she was saying the rosary with Father Pat. I think he was grateful.”
“Yeah? Why do you say that?”
“He left the holy water as a parting gift.” Avery looked around to find some place to store the jug. “Hey, do you know if you need to refrigerate water after it’s been blessed?”
“I would. I mean it might be strong enough to cast out demons, and all, but I don’t think it’ll kill bacteria.”
Avery opened the fridge and put the container at the back, behind the orange juice and salad dressing. She reached for the bottle of wine sitting on the counter. “Thank you for today. You know I love you and all you do. I’m racking up quite a debt. If I ever have kids, I’ll owe you my first born.”
“No thank you, I’ve already reached my kid quota.” Lola laughed. “I think your mom’s a hoot. Life would be boring without her to jazz things up a bit. Was that pop the sound of you pulling a wine cork?”
“After the day I’ve had, I wish I had something stronger.” Avery let the Merlot glug into her glass until it brimmed. “Looks like I’m headed to New York, just me and George.”
A gasp came over the speaker. “No!”
Avery bent to slurp some wine, so she could lift the glass without spilling. “And better yet, guess who they positioned as the babysitter for Taylor Knapp and the newest dystopian garbage conspiracy thriller?”
“You?” Shock brightened Lola’s voice. “Put the wine away. Just go ahead and pour yourself a glass of the holy water. You can’t do that. Can you? I mean they can’t make you take on that assignment, can they?”
“Swear you will tell no one that I’m on that project. I was reminded of my NDA, and they’ll send me a million dollar invoice with my pink slip if I disclose anything at all.”
“Holy…what? I have to sit down. Are you serious right now? You aren’t pulling my leg?”
“George let me know that a job in this business is a precious commodity in this day and age.” Avery swirled her glass and sniffed the wine appreciatively.
“Oh no, he didn’t.”
“Yup. Since I’ve never read Knapp’s book, I put it on my agenda for tonight. I need to know exactly what I’m getting myself into.” Avery opened the cupboard and gazed at the supper possibilities. Cooking felt like more effort than she could muster at that moment. Even chewing seemed beyond her. She eyed the chocolate cake sitting on the counter.
“Lola!”
“You know your brother-in-law will tell you tha
t you’re going to hell. He’ll have prayer circles going around the clock.”
“Hush, I don’t want to talk about it. I’m going to focus on the cake you left. Actually, I’m going to hang up now to eat the entire thing for dinner. You’re the absolute best. Love you.”
“I love you, too. But Avery, I’m not kidding around here. This is serious. This project is dangerous. Fine that you told me. But do not tell anyone else. I’m really worried. I mean, the last editor ended up quitting his job and moving his family away. Don’t you remember all of that? Can’t you go up the hierarchy and say that this isn’t what you’re trained to do? You don’t know how to develop this kind of book?”
“Knapp is insisting on a woman. I’m the only one, other than the PAs and a couple of older women in HR, that has the right attributes.”
“Surely that’s illegal.”
“I can’t risk anything right now. I just need to put my head down, press forward, get this wrapped up. Then I’ll follow up with a good romance, where it is absolutely predictable, and there’s always a happily ever after.”
“There’s nothing happy about this. I’m so sorry.”
After cutting herself a sizeable hunk of cake, Avery gathered her wine glass and moved to the dining room. She set her dinner on the table by her laptop. She picked up her Kindle and searched Taylor Knapp to download a copy of his work. Pushing the ‘read now’ button made her jaw clench.
Manipulated.
Used.
Miserable.
Words strung together like pearls on a necklace, wrapping around her throat, and making her choke as she swallowed a sip of wine.
Avery put the Kindle to the side and hefted a forkful of cake. “Only Lola could make a cake this sinful,” she said to the empty room.
Her mother’s resonant snores rumbled their way down the stairs.
Avery scrolled through the happy chatter on her Facebook newsfeed. It was depressing to see all of those clever chin-up-and-carry-on quotations. Everyone was out having fun. Yummy food. Luscious looking cocktails. Fabulous vacations.
Avery clicked over to Twitter.
All she needed was a little distraction from reality.
A moment of respite.
Two new people now followed her on Twitter. One was a dentist in Idaho, one a life coach. She didn’t know either name and wondered why they’d follow her randomly. Maybe Twitter’s algorithms had suggested her for some reason or another. Avery didn’t understand how any of that worked.
She moved to ‘notifications’ where she saw she was tagged into a thread with some fellow writers. She scraped the last of the icing off her plate and looked toward the kitchen. Should she get another slice? She clicked in and read through the thread.
Scribbler: Sorry for the autocorrects, I’m on my phone. My computer crashed. Here’s your life lesson: Back your stuff up.
IndieBound: Oh no! You lost everything? The computer repair place can’t retrieve it?
Scribbler: It caught on fire. So I’m guessing no.
A_Very: Did you at least have a copy of your WIP?
DBennet: What’s a WIP?
A_Very: Work in progress.
Scribbler: Yeah, every night I email my work to myself. Poor man’s copyright.
A_Very: Well at least you have that. Sorry about the fire.
IndieBound: Mercury’s retrograde. The stars just weren’t aligned right.
Scribbler: Mercury. Good. I can live with that. It’ll pass. There was a little old lady throwing curses on the train this morning. I thought maybe some of the evil eye stuck to me. I’ve been wearing a garlic necklace ever since.
IndieBound: What did you do to deserve getting cursed?
A_Very: Garlic necklaces are for vampires not the evil eye.
Yup, another piece of cake was just what the doctor ordered. And another glass of wine. Avery thanked goodness for her high metabolism and a trainer who kicked her butt, or this slice of cake would probably induce more guilt than it was worth.
Avery leaned the wedge of chocolaty decadence onto her plate, sending Lola a silent bless you!
When she sat back in her place at the head of the table, she saw @Row_man was online.
Row_man: For future reference, what do I use in such a circumstance as evil-eye curses if not garlic?
Avery clicked on Row_man’s icon and wondered, once again, if the photo was actually his photo or a stock photo he’d bought on one of those websites. In this icon, he had a yummy kind of face that was part movie lead man, part nice guy at the office.
His hair was just long enough to wrap her fingers in, messy—like he’d just been having fun in bed.
But mostly, Avery liked his eyes. They were kind and intelligent with maybe a shadow of sadness behind them. Avery wondered what could have happened that seemed to haunt him.
This image was definitely worthy of using as main character fodder.
And if Avery hadn’t taken a hiatus from her own writing, she might just make him into a romance hero.
He’d laugh if she told him that.
Avery stared at his Twitter handle, Row_man, and wondered what his real name was. Something that conjured manly capabilities coupled with a warm genuine heart. Tristan, maybe. Or Brock.
She was objectifying the guy.
“It’s not like I’ll ever actually meet him,” Avery mumbled against the rim of her wine glass. “I can make believe all I want.”
In the photo, he looked remarkably like a younger Gerard Butler during the time Butler was training for his movie 300. That was assuming this was really him in his banner image, sculling in front of the Jefferson Memorial at sunset.
Avery took a bite of cake and licked the icing from her lips. Nah. These were probably some online stock photos.
Of course, she didn’t mind imagining it was really him and his muscles truly looked like that.
Avery decided she’d much rather go to bed tonight with a romance novel, maybe even a romantic suspense and Row_man’s image in her mind, than read the Taylor Knapp book.
She could work remotely tomorrow and put skimming the first Knapp book on her agenda, hanging out in a coffee shop or the library. The farther she stayed from the office, the safer she’d be from surprises, like today.
The cure for evil eye if not garlic…maybe some of that holy water she had in her fridge.
Row_man had been a favorite on Twitter since she’d first joined a few years ago. She’d enjoyed the banter. He was funny. And insightful. He wrote, but unlike many people who followed her, he wasn’t looking for lubricant to slide into the publishing industry, not that she advertised where she worked. In her bio she’d just listed “Editor at a major publishing house.”
He wrote for himself, and didn’t have any desire to publish. He said it was a way to pass the time waiting in airports. A way to process through things that he was up against in his job. He’d never said what his job was. She’d never asked. She liked to keep Twitter folks securely in the virtual world. But Avery got the sense, from the excerpts of his surprisingly well-written pieces that he’d sent to her over his ShareItApp, that he was ex-military and now did something for the government and having to do with security.
Riding high on the intoxicating effects of her wine and a wave of dopamine from the chocolate cake, Avery clicked on the action bar beside his name and selected Direct Messages.
A_Very: So, tell me the truth. Is that your picture in your icon and banner?
Row_man: Sadly so.
He could be lying to her.
A_Very: It’s a very handsome picture.
Avery blushed hotly as she hit the enter key, but was oddly empowered at the same time. In the real world, she’d never say such a thing to someone she wasn’t dating.
Row_man: Well, thank you. I wish I knew what you looked like—unless of course you’re actually a cartoon, in which case, I apologize.
She smiled, feeling flirty. “Why didn’t I try this before?” she asked her empty plate, then pushe
d it to the side.
A_Very: I’ll trade you. My selfie with a clock for your selfie with a clock.
Okay, that was taking things too far. This is what happened when you lived in the fictional world. You tended to think in terms of plot points and story arcs. That kind of remark would be the thing Avery would put in a margin for an author to contemplate. Not an actual thing someone would do. In a book-world, the character would never give up something for nothing. And if she wanted to see what he really looked like, she’d have to do the same. Books don’t work like the real-world. Ach! What if he said yes? She smoothed both hands over her hair and bit at her lips to bring out their color. Did she have time to run upstairs for a quick freshen-up?
Row_man: I’ll show you mine if you show me yours? That sounds like the exact indecent proposal I got when I was in grammar school.
A_Very: What happened?
Row_man: I became very aware girls and boys have different plumbing systems, and I got paddled. Well worth it, though. I’d love to see what you look like. But let’s hold off on the exchange for now. I was in a car accident Tuesday night, and I’m a little banged up.
A_Very: What?
A_Very: I’m so sorry! Are you okay?
A_Very: What happened?!?!
Avery clutched her hand around her neck, wondering why she felt so panicked. Especially now that he’d declined to show her in real-time what he looked like. He was just some anonymous guy. Or gal.
She shouldn’t feel this concerned.
And that concerned her.
It was ridiculous, in fact, to conjure any emotion for someone who might well be making up some story, so that Avery wouldn’t discover that he was an eighty-five-year-old toothless grandfather who relieved his boredom by playing on that new-fangled Internet thingy.
