by Ella James
“Delphina” my ass. He never called her that!
“If that’s the case,” I tell him, “why don’t you just get the tenderloin? Dephina asked for pork chops. She has a recipe for pork chops. She’s not in good health, Gabe. She wants a damn pork chop. Give me that pork chop.”
He lifts his head a little, like a giraffe going for a leaf, and pointedly examines my buggy. “What will I get?”
“Are you kidding me?”
He makes an “o” of his lips, giving a slight shake of his head—impersonating someone reasonable. “I was going to eat this tonight.”
“You don’t even like pork chops!”
His blue eyes meet mine. He blinks. “I do now.”
“This is totally ridiculous.”
“Maybe you should try the Piggly Wiggly,” he says lightly. “I’m sure they have more.”
I used to work there in high school, before I worked at Robards’ Drugs. Gabe knows how much I hate that place.
And anyway— “I can’t. I only have a bike in town! My car is still in transit from Chicago. I can’t ride that far. So maybe you should.” My face is blazing red now. I can feel it.
“Would Brenda really mind if you cook something else for her?”
Now purple. I inhale deeply, struggling to find my equilibrium. “I’m not cooking,” I grit. “She is.”
He shrugs. “You’re a good enough cook, if I recall. I’ve gotten better, too. I’ve got a pretty good tenderloin recipe I could send you.”
What. On. Earth. Is. Wrong. With. Him.
In the last twelve years, Mr. Big Bestseller must have lost his fucking mind.
“I don’t want your recipe!” My tone is shrill. I swallow, and then aim for calm and tolerant. And fair. “I saw that first, and I was grabbing it when you snatched it away. If you like the idea of going somewhere else, you should take your car and go. And let me have that. For my mother.”
He rubs his stubbled jaw, looking contemplative. “Nahhh. But if you want some, just come knockin’. I’ll save one for you.”
He walks off, and my head spins.
What the HELL was that?
Gabe
Am I an asshole?
In the past, I would have said “no” with some degree of confidence. But as I drop my bag of groceries into my bike pack under the store’s front awning, I have to consider that the answer might have changed during the past few months.
They say misery loves company. I think I get it now. That back there with Marley—taunting her, I admit—that shit was the best part of my day. My week. My month. That shit was the rainbow in a fucking black and white film.
The outrage on her face… Goddamn. I fucking loved her angry, bright red face. When I turned to walk away, she looked mad enough to spit bullets. All over a fucking pack of pork chops. As I zip my bag, I press my lips together—to suppress a wicked chuckle.
Asshole.
I’m not sure I even mind it. Why not be an asshole? Nice guys come in last—another adage I’m starting to believe. I’ve played it nice my whole damn life, or fucking tried. Why not seek out entertainment now?
Marley moving in above me? Maybe she’s the sugar in this shit sandwich. She left me, so what the fuck do I owe her?
A wave of pain and bitterness swells in my chest, so big and tight, I stand there staring at the sheet of rain that’s pouring off the awning, unable to get my breath, and think I might fucking pass out.
With shaking hands, I dig in my pocket for one of those stupid pills—that shit my therapist in Tribeca recommended as a “low-risk” anti-anxiety med. I pop it in my mouth, then look around. In my current, brainless state, all I can manage is to step into the rain and lift my head up. I swallow a gulp of nasty rainwater and wonder what the fuck is wrong with me.
Idiot.
For more reasons than one. Ever since I moved back, I forget to check my fucking weather app. I check it now, just for shits and giggles, while I wait for the deluge to let up.
The second the app pops up, I remember why I’ve been avoiding it.
‘Ruff, ruff! Meow! Hey, kid! Cover up your head! It’s raining cats and dogs!’
I shut my eyes for just a moment—while they sting. Then I press my fingertip to the symbol, and I magic it away.
Deleted.
Gone.
I grit my teeth and inhale deeply, praying that the dagger in my chest will ease up—maybe—one day.
Fuck.
Serves you right, I tell myself as I rub a palm over my hair, then duck my head and step into the driving rain.
The shock of getting soaked clears my head out, so when I reach my bike, I’m feeling clear enough to drive. I pull my helmet on and start off slow out of the lot. I’m shivering in my t-shirt before I reach the first red light—the one by the catfish statue.
Fucking Southern winters. So wet and gray and—
Movement to my left catches my eye, and I look under the old hotel awning just in time to see someone on a bicycle wipe out.
Fucking shit, man. That was brutal.
The light turns green, but I don’t let off the brake. My stomach clenches as I watch the biker struggle to her feet, then stoop back down in the shadow of the hotel’s balcony…
A horn honks, and I go on through the yellow light. I drive past the hotel, then make a U-turn in front of the Azalea Mart, pointing myself toward the Fate Hotel, now on my right. There’s a vacant parallel spot not too far from where I saw the woman, and before I’ve taken time to think, I’m walking on the sidewalk toward…yeah, that’s Marley.
She’s now on her hands and knees in a puddle of what might be milk, gathering groceries that went flying underneath the hotel’s awning. From my angle, she’s just a shadow, sporting a red hue from a nearby traffic light.
The closer I get to her, the heavier I feel. Heavier still when I realize that I know that bike. She’s riding a bicycle I bought her: bright, light blue, with hot pink handlebar grips. And, apparently now, a little basket on the front.
As I near her, she looks up. When she notices I’m me, she freezes with her hand stretched toward a yogurt packet.
“Hey…” I sink down to my knee beside her, even as I wonder what the fuck I’m doing. “You okay?” Fuck, my voice sounds rusty.
“Just fine, hero. You can be on your way now.”
I look at the sidewalk around her, wet from rain and milk, and strewn with groceries. Two of her plastic grocery bags look shredded by their impact with the cement.
After a second’s hesitation, my conscience—or the ghost of it—kicks in. I pull my leather bike pack off and hold it out. “Why don’t you use this? You can wear it and—”
“No thank you.” Her face, striped with sopping strands of hair, looks tight and angry.
“C’mon. I’m sorry I—”
“I said no thanks.” Her face lifts, showing me hard brown eyes and a hard jaw. “Thank you for stopping, you can go now.”
But her voice sounds shaky. I might have found my calling as an asshole recently, but I’m not leaving her amidst a bunch of broken groceries in the fucking rain.
I look around, and start to gather dish soap, cheese—
“Stop! Put that down!”
I blink at Mar, and heat moves through me.
“Fine.” I set the items down beside her and stand, assessing her from up above. Finding neither blood nor bruises, I step back.
But I can’t seem to make my feet move. Fuck. I take my backpack off. Keeping my gaze averted, I lean down and set it out in front of her. “In case you need an extra bag.”
I move fast, and when she calls my name, I keep on moving.
4
Marley
What a stupid, stupid morning. I’ve barely been here twenty-four hours, and already, I’m dreaming of my loft back in Chicago. My cozy, queen-sized bed; the heated, cement floors; the pigeons that would greet me and my coffee on the balcony that overlooked the riverwalk.
Fuck me.
Damn
it.
I stick my hand under the kitchen faucet, letting the water sting my scraped-up hand, then pumping soap into my burning palm. I squeeze my eyes shut.
Gabe and his stupid fucking pork chops.
What on God’s green earth is wrong with him? What’s wrong with me?
He gave me his leather backpack, too. God. I want to scream—or cry. I suck back deep breaths.
All around me, on the floor, are my ruined groceries. The ones that busted open, leaked, or otherwise were damaged. The ones I’ll have to throw away before I head back to my mom’s.
The doorbell rings. I jump a mile, then laugh my tension out and whirl toward my door. Through the lacy curtain, I see red: Kat’s favorite color. Shit—it’s Kat. For lunch. My eyes fly to the oven clock. I’m late for lunch. Of course I am.
Shaking off my stinging hand, I stride toward the door. The moment I open it, my best friend launches herself at me.
“Oh my God,” she squeals, as perfume fills my nose.
“You smell amazing.”
She laughs. “Taylor Swift scent, baby!” She pulls away, so she can look at me, giving me a close-up view of me her freckled nose, perfect white teeth, and crystal blue eyes.
“Marley,” she cries, as I say, “Kitty! You look great!”
“Not as good as you do! What did you do to your skin? Is it the prenatals?”
I wave her into my kitchen/living area, running my eyes over my best friend’s killer ensemble: ass-hugging jeans, a flowy blouse, and low-top boots. Her light brown hair is long, her lips plum pink, just like they’ve been since seventh grade.
She shakes her booty as I check her out. I can’t help laughing.
“Really, though, your skin tone—” Her eyes pop open wider. “Oh my God! Is that blood?”
I look down at my hand, which I find dripping.
“What happened?” she gasps, at the same time I say, “It’s been a shit day.”
Kat fusses over me like a doting grandma as I explain I crashed my bike. “You still have that same old clunker bike? You need to get a new one,” she says as she rifles through my First Aid kit.
I inhale deeply.
“This, I think?” She holds a giant Nemo Band-Aid up for my approval.
“OH MY GOD, I’ve gotta tell you something!”
Kat’s face twists in alarm.
“GABE LIVES HERE!”
Her face goes stark with shock. “You— Gabe? Like, that Gabe?”
“Yes! He’s living DOWNSTAIRS,” I hiss. “Right this second! He moved back!”
“HE WHAT?!” Her mouth is open. “He— I thought he lived in New York somewhere.”
I laugh, because I have to, or I’ll cry. And then I tell her the whole story.
“Oh my God, I just can’t even, Mar! I cannot even. How’d this happen? How is someone like him here, and I had no idea? How’s he not overrun by fans?”
“If you forgot to tell me, I was going to punch you in the tit.”
“Oh, hell no,” she says, grabbing for my hand so she can put the Band-Aid on it. “I’d have told you, sister. You’d be living with me in the serial killer basement. We would renovate that sucker. I did not know. How did I not know?” She shakes her head. “Are you sure he lives here? Maybe he’s just doing repairs?”
“Of course I’m sure! He told me he was, remember?”
She chews her lip. “Well, fucking shit. I wonder how Mr. Big Shot Author kept this on the down low.”
I shake my head, as Kat smooths the Band-Aid on my hand. “I’d have wrecked my bike, too,” she says.
As it turns out, our traitorous friend Lainey knew Gabe was in town. While Kat’s job as a historic preservationist puts her in old buildings making restoration notes alone, Lainey is the middle school’s psychologist. Which means she works closely with the principal—Victor—who so happens to be one of Gabe’s old friends.
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell us!” Kat’s a screecher.
“Shhhh!” I tug on the curtain around our booth at Comida. “Someone will hear you, big mouth.”
Lainey shrugs, doing that fish thing she does with her mouth when she’s anxious. “Why would I?” she asks, a tad defensively. “I didn’t know he was going to be Mar’s freaking roommate.”
“What did Victor say?” Kat demands, her cleavage smiling as she leans against the table.
Lainey lifts her shoulders. “Nothing much. Just that he was back here for a little while.”
“Oh—so he’ll be leaving.” Kat looks relieved.
“I don’t know for sure or anything.”
“Lainey! You suck.”
Lainey laughs, her curls bobbing. “Y’all—” she holds her hands up— “I didn’t know. I’m innocent.”
I wave. “Oh, who cares. Let’s move on.”
Kat gives me bullshit-busting side-eye, but I stick to my guns. “I was a little thrown off when he accosted me on the sidewalk, but now I’m over it. I’ll just avoid him,” I say in a low voice. “No big deal.”
For the rest of our lunch, I steer the conversation to the three of us. Lainey’s crazy middle schoolers. Her hubs’ severed finger, sewn back on the other day after he cut it off fixing the lawn mower. Kat’s latest squeeze, a civil rights lawyer from Montgomery.
“He has a major rope fetish,” she confides.
“Oh la-la…”
After lunch, Kat drives me home and tries to walk me up to my door. I laugh. “Kat! C’mon. I live here. I can do this.”
She looks skeptical. “There’s probably another house to rent somewhere in town.”
“Okay, so let me know if you know of one. In the meantime, fuck him. I’ve got this.”
“If you want the haunted basement, it’s all yours.”
I shake my head, and we trade air-kisses. Then I’m out, walking around the house’s back right corner, up the stairs, into my little flat without a single glimpse of Gabe. When I get into the kitchen, I clean up the mess I left, and then open the cabinet underneath the sink.
Gabe’s bag.
I need to leave it on the porch before I ride to Mom’s later.
Gabe
I’ve got my laptop and my notes upstairs. I moved my shit last night, after my impromptu plunge into the lake. There’s a bedroom on the second floor with green everything: walls, curtains, bedding, rugs. It’s got a nice view of the street below, and good afternoon light. I thought it might be easier to write here, in a spot where I can’t hear the floor creak every time she moves.
That’s what I’m doing—trying to write at a desk I hauled over beside a floor-to-ceiling window—when something on the sidewalk catches my eye, and I see Marley coming up the walk.
Her head is down, a curtain of long, dark hair obscuring her face as her curvy hips sway.
I stand so I can watch her as she walks up the front steps and disappears under the porch. I wait for her to knock or ring the bell, but soon, I see her back as she goes back down the walk, her dark hair swishing between her shoulder blades.
I can’t help the way my gaze caresses her curves. Mine. Except—they’re not. And isn’t that strange?
I watch as she swings a leg over her bike, puts her hands on the handlebars, and pedals off in the direction of her mom’s house.
Fuck, I’m getting hard…
An illicit image flickers through my mind: that bare, fat ass, and Marley’s long hair in my fist. I clench my teeth and blow my breath out. That’s the kind of shit I can’t be thinking.
I walk out of the green room and into the square of hallway that surrounds the stairs, which drop into the first-floor entry hall. In the area around the top of the stairs, there are several doors, leading to several areas. One of them is Marley’s quarters.
I stroll over to that door and wonder what my ex would think if she knew I’m on the other side. Fendall House is huge, and Mar’s apartment is only a portion of the upstairs. The rest of the house is mine: 1,100 square feet upstairs, and almost 3,300 square feet downsta
irs.
I walk downstairs and check the front porch, even though I know already what I’ll find. When I lift my bag, I feel something inside. It can’t be…
I unzip the bag and blink into its dark contours, and sure enough, I’m staring at the package of pork chops.
I can’t help a dry laugh.
Fucking Marley.
Soft on the outside, but when you push her buttons, woman is feistier than a cat in heat. She always has been.
I stash the pork chops in the freezer. I can barely cook—yeah, yeah, I lied—and even if I could, I don’t have the motivation. As I walk back to my workroom, I stop again at her door.
Don’t be a pathetic fuck.
I pad slowly to the green room, where I stare at my keyboard for half an hour, then fuck around on social media.
Nicely done, McKellan.
I check the rankings on my last release, and then just sit here as the orange, October sun slides down behind the trees, and I can feel cool air waft through the cracked window.
Finally, I give in and check my Google drive. I click a folder marked “From Hugh” and find today’s date. I forget to breathe as I comb through the snapshots. Half an hour later, I smack the Macbook shut and head downstairs.
5
Marley
I wake in a sea of…small, gold circles? I blink a few times, and the circles streaming down onto my bed make sense. Lace eyelet curtains cover the window punched into the wall directly in front of me. Morning sunlight streams through them, playing on my bedding—and on me.
I look around the room. So quiet. Still. This house is 150 years old, and it feels it. I inhale its musty, unfamiliar scent—a little baby powder-ish, with a bite of fresh cedar—and look up at the ceiling, indented in the middle, where a delicate, crystal chandelier hangs. This place has a strange vibe: both ornate and old, formal and homey. I’ve always loved antiques for just that reason.
I climb out of bed, rubbing my toes against the oriental rug’s short fibers before I reach for the remote on my nightstand, aim it at the TV I set atop an old washstand table, and navigate to my favorite morning show.
