Changing Gears

by Roseanne Beck

  Lauren

  THANK GOD I HAVE SO much work to do. Nothing quite like throwing yourself into Excel spreadsheets to take the sting out of epic failure.

  Epic personal failure.

  I’m still trying to avoid the epic financial failure part of the equation. Hopefully that will be easier now that we won the City bike program. Or kind of won. At least theoretically.

  And at least Kylie’s still so busy being pissed off at Spence and the whole co-winner thing that she really hasn’t had time to harp on me about Jake. Which is great, because I’m doing enough of that on my own. I mean, what good is being smart if you’re just gonna go out and lose your head around the first hot guy who makes you feel special? How dumb is that?

  I rub my eyes, trying to corral my thoughts. Come on. How are we gonna make ends meet? Think, Lauren. Think. And not about how much I miss Jake.

  Because despite the hurt, I do miss him.

  I miss his laugh and his easy-going manner and how comfortable he makes me feel.

  Made me feel.

  Argh! Focus!

  And not on that gooey sensation I get when I think about him in bed with hot fudge sauce...

  I’ll probably never be able to eat another brownie sundae ever again.

  Dammit!

  Effectively pissed at the thought that he’s ruined my favorite dessert, I throw myself back into the task at hand.

  Or try to, anyway. There are just so many freaking variables.

  Who’s gonna do which parts of the bike program? Will we split the money fifty-fifty, or is it gonna be some kind of ratio? If it’s a ratio, will it be stable or will it vary month to month?

  And what about when Jake leaves? I know he’s staying around here for another couple of weeks, but will Uncle Pete be at full strength by then? Are we gonna have to hire someone else? Or can Kylie and I manage to limp along for a while?

  And exactly how many more months can we manage to limp along financially? What the heck’s gonna happen when that balloon payment comes due? Will the bank refinance us if we can’t scrape it together? And what are we gonna do if we can’t?

  The weight of expectations sits heavy on my shoulders. And my neck.

  An hour later, I have a full-blown headache and no more idea of what to do or where we stand than when I sat down at my kitchen table.

  After popping a couple ibuprofen and chugging some water, I sit back down. If I’m not making any headway with finances right now, at least I can be productive in other ways. Or try to, anyway.

  I click to the shop’s website, intent on updating the schedule of events, but find myself typing Jake’s name into the search engine instead. After all, customers will have questions, right? They’ll probably want to know why he left. What he’s doing. He really didn’t tell us anything about his job offer. Maybe there’s something online.

  Right. The fact that you miss his panty-dropping smile and gorgeous eyes has nothing to do with it.

  Finding nothing on the typical trade sites, I log into social media, ignoring the voices inside my head. Because, yeah, I know this is pathetic and an epically bad idea, but what the hell else am I supposed to do? Desperate times call for desperate measures, right?

  Oh, crap. When the hell did I delve into desperate territory? I’ve never been in desperate territory before.

  This is bad.

  My eyes widen, and my gut drops.

  Shit. This is really bad.

  Because there, on the screen, is a picture of Jake cozying up to a gorgeous brunette. The tag shows it’s from a local pick-up bar I know Megan likes to frequent, and if the timestamp is correct, it’s from just a few days ago.

  My gut drops. He’s moved on already?

  I am such a stupid idiot. A naïve, stupid idiot.

  Of course he’s moved on already. Because obviously you didn’t mean as much to him as he did to you.

  Oh, my God, I feel sick.

  I need some fresh air. And a change of scenery. And somewhere I can’t connect to the internet and continue to torture myself.

  OKAY. SO THREE OUT of four.

  The arboretum is an internet connection-less change of scenery with nothing but fresh air. Unfortunately, it’s full of torture.

  Because of course my mind rubberbands back to that night on the bench over there. Curled up against him. Feeling safe. Secure.

  Feeling right.

  I rub my chest. Great. Now I feel sick and like someone’s stabbed me in the chest.

  Come on, Lauren! Get a grip! You didn’t even know him that long! You dated Derek for an entire year of college and didn’t even feel this crappy when he broke up with you. And that was the year Dr. Martin was adjusting your birth control pills and you were a hormonal mess!

  Huh. Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe my hormones are all out of whack and that’s what’s causing my freak-out. Yeah. Maybe it’s some kind of weird early menopause thing. Not that I really look forward to hot flashes, but at least then I don’t have to give up my favorite dessert. Or find a new relaxation spot.

  Because if not, the arboretum might be off-limits for me, too.

  Crap.

  I PULL UP IN FRONT of Aunt Sheila’s house armed with a couple bottles of wine. I’m not sure who needs it more at this point—me or her.

  “Hey,” I say, when she holds the door open for me. “Thanks for letting me come over.”

  “Phfft. You know you’re welcome anytime. Especially when you bring presents.” She takes the bottles and envelops me in a hug. Her eyebrows draw together as she pulls back and studies me. “What’s going on? You sounded kind of odd on the phone. And don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re not looking so good, either. Are you sick?”

  “Huh? No. I’m fine.” Physically, anyway. Mentally and emotionally, however...

  I rub my chest again, forcing a swallow past the tangle of emotions lodged in my throat. Come on, Lauren. Keep it together. “How are you guys?”

  “We’re fine.” Aunt Sheila gives me another once-over, then let’s go and opens the wine. “Especially now that Pete’s doing therapy. Gets him out of the house and out of my hair. I don’t know who’ll be happier for him to get back to the shop—me or him.”

  I try to crack a smile, but it must be as weak as it feels, because Aunt Sheila gets that intense look again. “Alright. Out with it. What’s going on?” she asks.

  “Nothing. I’m fine.” Inhaling, I let out a controlled exhale, trying to keep my emotions in check.

  “Bullshit.” Aunt Sheila purses her lips, her eyes narrowed. “I know you. And I know how much you like to keep things bottled up inside. And I also know about what’s going on with the shop right now and with Jake taking a new job. So, unless I’m mistaken, and we both know that doesn’t happen all that often—” she says with a wink “—you’ve got some serious unloading to do.”

  I tamp down the surge of emotions once again, but it’s no use. The pressure builds behind my eyes, and before I know it, the tears are leaking out as quickly as my words. “I just feel so overwhelmed right now. There’s the shop, with its finances and not knowing how this is all gonna work out, and I don’t wanna let anyone down by not being able to figure this out, and Jake’s already moved on, and I can’t eat brownie sundaes or go to the arboretum anymore, and I think I may be in menopause.”

  Aunt Sheila presses her lips together, her expression a mixture of empathy and amusement. “Oh, honey. How long has all that been stewing in there?” She circles my head with a finger.

  I shrug.

  She gives me another long look, then nods. “How about you take a couple of breaths, take a few sips of wine, and then we’ll sift through this piece by piece.”

  HALF AN HOUR LATER, my chest doesn’t feel quite so tight, and my brain doesn’t feel quite so clogged. I huff a laugh. “And here I thought I was doing such a good job of holding things together.”

  Aunt Sheila gives me a hard look. “Holding things together and holding things in are two very diffe
rent concepts.”

  I sigh. “I know.”

  “No one can read your mind, you know.”

  I heave another sigh. “I know.”

  “And I seriously doubt you’re going through menopause.”

  I grimace. “Yeah. I know.”

  “So...” Aunt Sheila swirls the remaining wine around her glass. “Now that I’ve gotten through that skull of yours that no one knows what the future holds and that we are all in this together—” she gives me a pointed look “—lets tackle the Jake issue.”

  “Must we?”

  She raises an eyebrow.

  “Ugh. Fine.” I fortify myself with a swallow of wine. “In a nutshell? He’s hot, I’m an idiot, he’s moved on, and I can’t ever eat brownie sundaes again. Oh. And I have a tattoo.”

  “What?”

  “Yep.” I stand up and turn around, lifting up the back of my shirt.

  “Oh. Wow. That’s—”

  “Asinine? Un-Lauren-like? Proof that I’m a moron?”

  “I was going to say beautiful.”

  “Oh. Yeah. That, too.” I pull my shirt down and collapse back into my seat. “I got it that weekend you guys helped at the shop.” The best weekend of my sad, pathetic life.

  “What happened between you two?”

  “I don’t know. One minute I’m yelling at Kylie, the next, he’s talking about leaving because he got a job offer.” I run my finger around the bottom of my wine glass. “And there may have been a bit in between there where Kylie accused him of using us and I said we were using him.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you try to talk to him about it?”

  “No. Because that’s when he told us he was leaving. And then he walked out. And I didn’t follow him.”

  “Don’t you think you should talk to him about it?”

  “Maybe. But what good would it do? He’s already moved on.” I fill her in on what I found online. “Plus, it’s not fair to him. If he wants to go, he should go. I know how hard it was for him to give up racing. If he has the chance to still be part of that world, he should.”

  “Well, that’s very magnanimous of you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Stupid, but magnanimous.” She shakes her head. “You know what? It’s not even magnanimous. It’s just stupid. And a cop out.”

  “What? You did just hear the part about him moving on, right?”

  “Maybe the picture means he moved on. Maybe it’s just a picture of him with a fan. Who knows? What I do know is that I love your tattoo.”

  “Uh, thanks?” Not quite where I thought this was going...

  “And I hope you keep doing that.”

  “What? Getting more tattoos?”

  “No. Getting out of your comfort zone. Spreading your wings. Learning to fly.” She gives me another long look. “You know what else I see in that tattoo?”

  I shake my head.

  “Someone who’s fighting to be free. Fighting for what she wants.”

  The fist around my throat tightens.

  I agree with her. That’s what I see, too.

  The question is, what do I really want?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Jake

  REECE WANDERS INTO the living room and climbs onto the sofa next to me, settling against my hip. “Whatcha doin’?”

  “Making a list.”

  “For Santa?”

  “No. Not that kind of list.”

  “Oh. Are you gonna be around when Santa comes this year?”

  “I’m not sure I’ll be here then.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I might have a new job, and I might have to travel.”

  “But why? I thought you were gonna stay here. Don’t you like it here? I like having you here.” He cocks his head and studies me with wide, earnest eyes.

  As expected, the knife twists in my chest.

  Shit.

  I rub my sternum, trying to ease the ache.

  “Uncle Jake, are you okay?” His forehead furrows. “Does your chest hurt?”

  “Yeah, buddy. But it’s fine.” Or it will be, once I man up and tell them I’m leaving.

  Reece hops off the couch and scurries out of the room. “Mo-om! Uncle Jake’s having chest pains!”

  Crap. “Reece! It’s not—”

  “Not what?” Tracy enters the room and crosses it in quick strides, Reece on her heels. Concern etches her features. “What kind of chest pains? Are you short of breath? Do I need to call an ambulance?”

  “What? No. It’s not that kind of chest pain.”

  “Are you sure? How about leg pain? Swelling?”

  I roll my eyes. “It’s not a DVT or a pulmonary embolism.”

  “What’s a pullomary emmalism?” Reece asks.

  “A very serious issue that the doctor told us to be aware of,” Tracy replies.

  “I swear to you, this is not a blood clot.” I hold my hand up in oath. “It’s more like that pain you get when you have to tell someone something but you really don’t wanna tell ‘em.”

  Tracy continues to give me the stink eye as she sinks down onto the other side of the sofa and pulls Reece into her lap. “Hmm... Would we happen to be the people you don’t wanna tell?”

  “Yep.” I take a deep breath, steeling myself. “So, I kinda got a job offer.”

  “Oh! That’s great!” The excitement in Tracy’s eyes gradually dims. “Ah. But it’s not around here, is it?”

  “Bingo. It’s with the tour. So, I’d still be able to stop by every now and then, but...”

  “Not here permanently. Got it.”

  “You’re leaving? But I thought you were gonna stay here and play dinosaurs and cars with me. You said so.” Reece’s lower lip trembles, and the ache returns.

  “I know. And I’m sorry, buddy.”

  Tracy ruffles Reece’s hair. “Uncle Jake has to do what’s right for Uncle Jake.” She gives me a hard look. “You are doing what’s right for you, right?”

  “Yes.” I stare at my list. “No. I don’t know.” I flop my head against the back of the couch.

  “What’s this?” She holds out her hand, and I give her the yellow legal pad.

  “A pro and con list.”

  Her eyebrows jump. “Since when do you make pro and con lists?”

  “Since I have no clue who I am or what I want to do or who I want to be when I grow up.”

  “I wanna be a dinosaur when I grow up,” Reece says.

  Tracy squeezes him. “We know. Hey. Why don’t you go play in your room? I think Uncle Jake and I need to have a chat.”

  “Okay.” He pops off her lap, pausing and looking at me. “Promise you won’t leave while I’m in my room.”

  “I promise.” I wait until Reece leaves, then blow out a breath. “Shit. That kid...”

  “Yeah. I know. If I wanted to play dirty, I could probably just sic him on you. Have him wear you down.”

  “Thanks for not playing dirty.”

  “Yet. I reserve the right to pull him out later if I need to.” She peruses the pro and con list again. “You suck at these, by the way.”

  “Gee. Thanks.”

  She holds it up. “I can’t tell if the pro side is pro leaving or pro going. Same with the con side.”

  I lean over and tap the paper. “The pro side is pro taking the job, and the con side is me staying.”

  “So, we’re a con?”

  “What? No. That’s not...” I hiss an exhale and rake my fingers through my hair. “Shit.”

  “And why is Lauren on both sides?”

  “What?” I lean over and look at the paper again. Son of a bitch. She is on both sides. Several times. “I don’t know. I just...” I let my head flop back against the couch again. “This sucks.”

  “What sucks?”

  “This. This whole planning and futuring and trying to figure out who the hell I really am.”

  “You mean adulting?”

  “Yeah.”
r />   “Join the club.”

  “Is it too late to get a refund on my membership?”

  “Yep.” She grins. “So why, exactly, is Lauren on both sides?”

  “Uh... Because we kind of broke up.”

  “Why? What’d you do?”

  “What do you mean? I didn’t do anything.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah.” I gnaw my lip. “Pretty sure. Okay, maybe like ninety percent sure.”

  Tracy rolls her eyes. “Alright. Walk me through it.”

  I walk her through the events at the shop.

  “And you just left?” she asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “Have you tried to talk to her?”

  “No.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Because she said things were moving too fast.”

  “Yeah. After you told her you were taking another job.”

  “So?”

  “So... She was probably surprised. And hurt. Kinda like how Reece and I are feeling right now.”

  “Yeah. Sorry about that. You know I appreciate everything you guys have done for me.”

  “I know. But we’re not talking about us right now. Back to you and Lauren.”

  “I told you. There is no me and Lauren.”

  “Whatever.” She waves my protest away like a bad smell. “How did it feel when she said she was using you?”

  “Like crap. Like she ripped my heart out.” I rub my chest, the ache blossoming once again. “I thought she was different, you know?”

  “Different, how?”

  “That she really liked me for me.” I shove my fingers through my hair. “I think she really messed me up. I went to a bar the other night and turned down a perfectly good woman. That never happens.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “Yeah, I know. I think Lauren broke me.”

  Tracy clamps her lips together. I can’t quite tell if she’s trying not to laugh or trying to keep her thoughts to herself.

  “What?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Come on. Let me have it.”

  “I’m not sure you want it.”

  I roll my eyes. “What good’s having a smart-ass therapist sister if she’s not gonna give me her professional opinion on what a pathetic loser I am?”