Bent Not Broken (A Cedar Creek #1)

by Julia Goda

  Keep them close and untouchable, hidden deep inside me.

  So out of necessity I went and created my new normal. And I didn’t care if I conformed to the standard, to the common, or the usual.

  I did what I needed to do to survive.

  On the outside, I lived the normal life of a single woman. I was running my own business, a business that I loved. I had friends, few, but enough to not feel too lonely, enough to go have a drink with, laugh, have a gab, vent to after a terrible day. I had a sex life, took lovers, and enjoyed myself doing it.

  But all this I did following a strict routine with even stricter rules.

  The number one rule being, don’t develop deep emotions. Those were locked up tight.

  I built walls around my heart.

  Walls so high and thick that nobody would ever be able to penetrate them again.

  They weren’t walls out of concrete. No. They were walls of steel.

  Indestructible steel, which would keep people from getting too close ever again. To protect me from getting hurt and risking the loss of these last pieces of myself, without which I would be nothing.

  Without which I might as well be dead.

  I was content with my new normal.

  It was predictable.

  It was safe.

  It made me happy.

  Or did it?

  Chapter Twelve

  Sundays

  Ivey

  When my doorbell rang at 9:02 the next morning, I was so shaky that I almost dropped the bowl of fresh fruit before I made it to the table. Yes, I had made the decision last night to give this thing between Cal and I a chance, but making the decision and actually following through with it was a different story.

  I was nervous.

  Extremely nervous.

  My hands were sweaty and my stomach thought it was on a roller coaster. Holding on to the counter, I had to take a deep breath. Relax. It’ll be okay. Tommy was coming as well and I liked Tommy. He could be our buffer. Focus on him and things would be all right.

  Although my body was not reassured by my little pep talk—as proven by my shaky legs—I made my way to the front door to let the boys in. It was rude to make people wait.

  I opened the door with a smile on my face—that hopefully didn’t give away my nervousness—and saw both Bennetts standing on my front porch, smiling back at me, boy Bennett in front, man Bennett behind him.

  “Hey, Ivey! Cool house!” Tommy greeted me enthusiastically.

  My head tipped down to him, “Thanks, honey. I’m glad you like it.” Tommy interpreted this as invitation to come in and shuffled past me into the hall and through it towards to kitchen. I took a step back to make more room for him, my head turning with him as he walked past me. At the feel of a big, warm hand cupping my cheek gently, I turned my head back until my eyes were on Cal standing right there, his wide chest only inches away from mine. His lips brushed my forehead, where he murmured, “Mornin’, baby.”

  My insides melted and my stomach settled as I leaned into him.

  “Morning,” I whispered before I leaned back to look up at him. He smiled down at me, and when I returned his smile, his hand at my cheek gave me a light squeeze as his eyes tipped down to my mouth. They came back up to meet mine, and I saw them change from gentle to something else.

  Something warm.

  I couldn't quite put my finger on what that change meant, but I knew I liked it. It looked like he was relieved, and maybe proud?

  “You good?” he asked. I was. Freaking the hell out, but good. He didn’t need to know that, so all I said was, “Yeah, I’m good,” through my smile.

  “Good,” he murmured and gave my forehead another brush of his lips before he let go of my cheek, grabbed my hand, laced his fingers through mine, turned, and led me through the hallway into the kitchen.

  Seeing as I was a casual person who liked to be comfortable and assumed Cal was not much into decorum either, I had set the table for the three of us in the kitchen. I had a formal dining room, but I’d never used it for its original purpose. Right now it was covered in papers and catalogues and such. The table in there was nice and big and the lighting was great with its windows facing Southeast and the sunshine pouring in, making it a comfortable place to do my paperwork.

  I followed the same principle of being comfortable with my clothing. Even when I had business meetings, I kept it casual. I was glad the book business in itself was more or less casual. When I went to book conventions to scope out new reading material, hardly anyone was dressed up. The most I’d seen was business casual, but even that was too fancy for me.

  I wore jeans. Or sweats. Or pajama pants. But those were not always socially acceptable, so I usually stuck to jeans, which I was wearing right now. I had chosen a grey t-shirt with Johnny Cash across my chest and I Walk the line written on the back—which right now you couldn’t see since it was covered by my long, blond and, yes you guessed right, wild hair—to go with my faded jeans. I loved this shirt. It was one of my favourites. Seeing as I needed to feel as comfortable as possible this morning in an effort to calm my nerves, that was what I had picked. I had paired it with a white long sleeved thermal underneath, as fall had come upon us during the last week and it was a bit chilly. No socks. Those I tried to avoid wearing whenever I could get away with it. They made me feel constricted and limited. Weird, I know. But if I had to wear socks let’s say in my boots—I loved boots, I had several pairs and they were all kick ass—as soon as I took them off, the socks came off with them. Don’t ask me why, it was just something I did.

  So I was standing in the arch that led to my kitchen with my feet bare—showing off my dark purple nail polish—surveying the scene. Cal had let go of my hand to go straight to the coffee and at this very moment was pouring himself a cup as well as me. Tommy had his head in the fridge, surveying its contents, coming out with a carton of chocolate milk—no, I don’t drink chocolate milk, I thought Tommy would appreciate it, so I had bought it special for him early this morning—grinning wide at me and I grinned back.

  Then it hit me. I liked this. This was how it was supposed to be.

  Comfortable.

  Intimate.

  Happy.

  Normal.

  That was exactly what I was feeling. And I liked it. No. I loved it.

  I should probably be annoyed that, although they were guests in my house, Tommy was inspecting my refrigerator and Cal was pouring coffee as if they were in their own kitchen, but funny enough, I was not.

  At all.

  In fact I liked it that they felt so comfortable around me and by extension in my house that they didn’t hesitate in making themselves at home. But at the same time, it also scared the living daylights out of me. Here was a man with his son who I had known for nine years existed, but had really just got to know these past couple of weeks, comfortable in my kitchen, seeming to be completely at ease as if I had always been a part of their lives, as if they had always been a part of mine, as if it was natural for them to come over and make themselves at home. Yeah, that was downright scary. Never had I let anyone into my life that quickly, had felt anything remotely like I could trust a man, wanted to trust him. Not even with Kyle, who I had thought I had trusted completely, given myself to completely, had I felt like this. I closed my eyes to fight off the rising panic, took a deep breath through my nose, then opened my hands which had clenched into fists at my side without my knowledge, and reminded myself of the promise I had made myself—trying to have some faith. I opened my eyes to find Cal’s dark blue ones on me from across the room.

  That warm feeling was spreading through me again.

  I wanted to believe.

  I wanted to believe this was real. It felt too good not to want this to be real. Please let this be real.

  “I take it with a splash of milk,” I said quietly to Cal, still standing in the arch uncertain what to do next.

  “I know,” was all he said, but that was enough to make that warm feeling
spread further. He knew how I took my coffee without having to ask. I had never told him my preference, but now that I thought about it, every time he had brought me coffee, it was always exactly the way I liked it. How had he known?

  As Cal walked over to the fridge, got the jug of milk, splashed a good amount into my coffee, then returned it back to the fridge, I asked him, “How did you know how I like my coffee?” Cal looked at me, surprised as if the answer was obvious. “We’ve run into each other for years at Lola’s and you’ve always ordered the same. Unless it’s Sunday or you’re in a really good mood and order one of those fancy coffees, it’s always a medium roast with a splash of milk.” He grinned at me. “Whole milk,” he added.

  Wow. He had really paid attention. Did he generally pay that much attention to everything that was going on around him or had he paid special attention to me, I wondered. I couldn’t ask him that, though, so I shrugged and murmured, “Milk should taste like milk,” then in an effort to ignore Cal’s knowledge of my coffee preferences and wondering what else he knew about me, I looked at Tommy, who was sitting at the table, salivating over the food. I followed his gaze and thought that, yes, maybe I had gone a little overboard in my nervousness and insecurity.

  Cal confirmed this by muttering a “Babe” under his breath when he saw the spread laid out on the table. There were pancakes topped with strawberries and whipped cream, French toast dusted with icing sugar and a drop of butter that was currently melting hence making it extremely yummy, bacon—lots of it, I loved bacon and thinking men were men and all men liked meat, I made the triple amount I usually made—, a variety of toasts and jams as well as the bowl of fresh fruit I had almost dropped upon their arrival.

  Yup, definitely went overboard.

  But Sunday breakfasts were special to me. Sundays were the only days when I could take the time to make and consume an awesome breakfast, so I usually made things from scratch. Just not so many of them.

  Deciding not to feel embarrassed but own it instead, I fully stepped into my kitchen and said, “What? It’s Sunday. Sundays are special. Sundays are the only days I get to make breakfast from scratch. And I like breakfast, and believe it or not, I can pack it away. I knew Tommy was coming and he is a growing boy who needs a lot of food, and seeing as I didn’t know what he liked, I wanted to give him choice. And you are you. Big and muscly. Which I assume means you can also consume a lot of food. So there you go, a lot of food ready to be consumed,“ I ended my babbling by throwing an arm out, indicating the food on the table.

  “She is right, dad. Lots of food to be consumed,” Tommy said, a laugh in his voice. “So can we start consuming it, or what?” he asked hopefully, if a little rudely.

  “Bud, you wait until everyone is seated,” Cal disciplined his son.

  Hungry and ready to eat, I swiftly moved towards the table and took a seat across from Tommy, then looked up at Cal expectantly, waiting. Cal’s lips tipped up. He shook his head at me, but thankfully walked towards the table, put my coffee beside my plate, then sat down next to me while saying, “See this is how it’s gonna go,” with amusement in his voice.

  As soon as Cal was seated, Tommy dug in and so did I. But seeing as I was not an eleven-year-old boy, I did this more slowly and passed the plates of goodness to Cal. Cal took them from me, still amused, and I knew this because his lips were still twitching. I gave him a smile, then dug into my pancakes.

  “These pancakes are the shit!” Tommy exclaimed with his mouth full.

  “Bud. Manners,” Cal said in a low voice.

  Tommy finished chewing, then swallowed and said, “Sorry, dad.”

  Cal took a bite of his own pancakes, chewed, swallowed, then confirmed, “Tommy is right. These are the shit, baby.”

  “I know. They are awesome!” I said, a smile in my voice after which I heard Cal chuckle. I giggled under my breath and resumed eating. And I was right before. I liked this. This was how it was supposed to be.

  Comfortable.

  Intimate.

  Happy.

  Normal.

  And instead of questioning it, I decided to enjoy it while it lasted.

  Every single minute of it.

  *****

  Breakfast consumed, Cal and I were standing at the sink doing the dishes together. No, I didn't have a dishwasher. My house was old and so was my kitchen. I had refurbished and painted my kitchen cabinets a nice bright white, had new wooden counters put in and a new sunken porcelain sink installed and had painted the walls a nice warm, light green colour.

  My kitchen was perfect and I loved it. It looked exactly the way a farmhouse kitchen should look. My upper cabinets had glass fronts, so you could see my collection of oddly mixed and matched dinnerware as well as my hand blown glassware that had a hint of green to it and, so tied in with my green walls. The bottom cabinets had lots of drawers, which I loved, seeing as drawers were more practical. I didn’t like crawling into the dark recesses of my kitchen cabinets to find the lid that matched the pot I needed to cook my spaghetti. My awesome farmhouse kitchen table was right smack in the middle of the kitchen, white legs, used butcher block top, matching the kitchen perfectly.

  What I had not done was install a dishwasher.

  I liked doing the dishes. It gave me peace. It was normal. And there was only me, so really I didn’t have that many dishes to do in the first place.

  The kitchen was where I spent most of my time when I was home if I was not outside on my front or side porch, reading a book and drinking a cup of coffee or slaving away at my dining room table. Now, with Cal beside me on drying duty and Tommy at the table with his nose in a book, it felt even better, which I hadn’t thought was possible.

  “Did you build your own house?” I asked Cal while looking at my hands in the soapy water, trying to keep the conversation from breakfast going.

  “I did,” Cal answered.

  “I helped!” Tommy added excitedly, “I helped dad laying the tile in the bathroom and the hardwood floors in the living room. And I helped pick out the colours for the walls, though I wasn’t too good at painting, so I didn’t help with that. And I picked out everything in my room. It’s awesome!”

  “You did all that? That’s so cool! I’m sure you guys had lots of fun together.”

  “Yup,” Tommy again, “it was good father-son time. When I’m old enough, I’m gonna help dad build houses. I can’t wait!” I had to smile at how grown-up Tommy sounded sometimes. Had to be all those hours with his nose in a book. He had clearly enjoyed spending time with his dad. That was good.

  “So what was left for you to do if Tommy did most of the hard work?” I teased Cal.

  He chuckled. “Not much, other than building the walls, a roof, putting in windows, doors, installing a kitchen and bathrooms, painting walls, and setting up furniture.”

  “So really, Tommy did do most of the hard work,” I said grinning.

  Cal chuckled again. “Looks like it,” he said with laughter in his voice.

  I had learned a great deal about Cal and Tommy during breakfast. Seeing as Cal hadn’t been on my radar these past nine years, there was a lot to learn. I hadn’t even known what he did for a living. Turned out he built houses. Log homes to be precise. I loved log homes. They were so nice and cozy. Cal owned a relatively small company that built log houses all over the county. It took him away from home quite a bit due to his long days sometimes. Recently, he had been working on a house on the outskirts of town, so that was why he had been able to pick Tommy up from the bookstore every day—and stalk me all week.

  When his building locations were further out, Tommy stayed with his grandparents. Again, how could I have missed that Betty was Cal’s mother? Was I in my own head so much that I didn’t even know the connections and goings-on in this small town that I had called home for these past nine years? I adored Betty and thought her and Pete were just right together. Why had I never asked her about her life? That had to change. It was very rude not to inquire about people you
liked, who liked you back. Rude and self-centered. So I would remedy that immediately and be more open and interested in other people’s lives.

  Tommy was in grade six. He had skipped a grade. Not very surprising.

  I had also learned that Tommy’s mother was not a part of his and Cal’s life. She lived in Montana, but never saw or talked to her son. Tommy didn’t have anything to say about his mom. She had left when he was only a baby, so he didn’t know her at all. What he did, though, was get very quiet and sad all of a sudden. When I lifted my eyebrows at Cal at this disturbing fact, he shook his head at me, mouthed a later and changed the subject. Guess he didn’t like talking about his son’s mother much either. At least not in front of his son.

  It was almost time to get ready and go to town to open my store, but I realized I didn’t want this to end. Not having much of a choice, seeing as I was a business owner and if I didn’t open the store, nobody would, which would lead to me having to go to the grocery store to stock up on Ramen noodles, I led the conversation back to work by asking Cal, “Do you have to work today?”

  “Make it a point not to work on Sundays. Sundays are family time.” That warm feeling in my stomach was back. Sundays were family time. And he had brought his son to my house on a Sunday.

  Whoosh.

  “That’s nice,” I breathed softly, a little bit of disappointment laced my voice, because I had to go to work on Sundays, which meant it was not family time for me. I also didn’t have family to spend this time with.

  “Yeah, dad and I spend every Sunday together and do whatever we want to do. Though, he won’t bake cookies or a cake with me, says he’ll cook, but draws the line at baking.”

  Tommy gazed at me, thinking. Then he asked hopefully, “Will you bake a cake with me? I love cake!”

  He loved cake. So did I. I would definitely bake a cake with him. And cookies. And anything else he wanted.