Only In Dreams (Stubborn Love Series)

by Owens, Wendy

  “Fine, truck’s out back,” Christian relents.

  “Wait, did you say truck?”

  “Look lady, when in Rome.”

  “Clearly.” I giggle again as he walks past me.

  “Get the lights on your way out,” he instructs, walking over and securing the front door. I flip the switch to the back room, which surprisingly also shut off the lights to the showroom. Suddenly, I realize I am in the dark … alone with Christian.

  Lunging for the side door I had entered through, I breathe a sigh of relief as the light from the parking area bleeds into the room.

  “What’s with you?” he asks as he moves toward me, furrowing his brow.

  “I’ve developed a fear of the dark,” I say, trying to sound funny, but quickly realizing I sound insane.

  “All right then,” he huffs, coming to a stop and looking at me. I look back at what he’s doing. Am I supposed to say something? “Well?” he asks.

  “Well what?”

  “Have you developed a fear of doorways, too?”

  I laugh awkwardly and step outside, breathing in the fresh air. Yup, this night is going great so far. I wait as he locks the door behind me and leads the way to his truck.

  “Now, just so you know, we have a ton of whitetail deer around here, so if you’re driving at night you need to be careful.”

  “Thanks, Captain Safety.”

  “Fine, see if I try to help you anymore,” he snaps, but I can tell we are still joking with one another.

  “Besides, I’m not really planning to do any night driving around here, so I think we’re good.” I reply.

  He looks back at me before opening the passenger door of the newer gray pick up truck. “Colin said you are going to be here for a couple months.”

  I climb into the oversized vehicle, and to my recollection, I had never set foot into such a beast. “I’m thinking about it, but I haven’t decided yet,” I reply through the open window after he shut the door, leaving out that he is why I am reconsidering staying.

  “Oh,” Christian begins before walking around and getting into the driver’s side. He turns the key and, looking over at me, adds, “That’s odd. He made it sound like a sure thing. He said Em was super excited about helping you plan the wedding.”

  “She is?” I ask, surprised by the revelation. “I wasn’t sure when we talked if it was even something she wanted to do. I was afraid I was putting too much on her with the gallery and the baby.”

  “Are you kidding me? Em and her best friend’s wedding. It’s all she’s been talking about since you got engaged.” There is no pain in his voice. He isn’t hurting over me marrying someone else. I breathe a sigh of relief as I realize, in fact, this is just a friendly dinner, and I have nothing to worry about.

  Except for Em. I had been so hateful to her before I left, and all she was doing was trying to look out for me. I need to remember to do something extra nice for her when I get home.

  “All right, so I gotta know,” I continue. “A roadie—what were you thinking?”

  Christian takes a deep breath, his eyes never shifting from where his headlights hit the road.

  “I’m sorry, it’s none of my business,” I quickly add, sensing his hesitation.

  “No, that’s not it,” he says. “It’s just— it’s embarrassing.”

  “Christian Bennett! I’ve known you since we were kids, and you’ve never gotten embarrassed about anything. Let me guess, you did it for a girl.”

  He smiles, but still says nothing.

  “Oh, wait, shit, it wasn’t a girl at all, was it? I had no clue,” I say, insinuating perhaps he is more interested in boys.

  “Huh?”

  “It’s cool, and it actually explains a lot about why we didn’t work out,” I continue.

  “What explains a lot?” he demands.

  “You became a roadie because you were trying to impress a boy,” I say, keeping a straight face. “And I want you to know, I completely support you. I think it’s very brave of you to come out and be so open about it.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” Christian gasps, looking back and forth between the road and my face. His expression is too much for me to handle. I burst out laughing, unable to contain it any longer.

  “Something isn’t right about you,” he remarks firmly, reaffixing his gaze on the highway.

  “Oh, come on.” I slug him playfully in the arm. “Since when did you become so serious? If it wasn’t for a girl, then why’d you leave New York?”

  “I never said it wasn’t for a girl.”

  My heart sinks. I had always assumed he left for a girl, but to have him confirm that, only a few months after I left for the European modeling job, he had already moved on, stung. I realize I’m staring at him. Don’t stare. Look anywhere but at him. Change the subject. He can’t see that this hurts. Don’t let him see.

  “Do you enjoy what you do now?” I ask, before forcing myself to look away.

  Christian seems to be thinking about my question. “I love it. You know that I’ve always enjoyed working with my hands. I don’t have to keep regular hours, since most of my sales are through custom orders, and when I can’t sleep, I can stay up all night working if that’s what I want to do.”

  “You still have trouble sleeping?” I ask, a little surprised he had continued to be plagued by the affliction. When Christian’s parents died, he was only ten years old. He had night terrors most of his childhood, which then manifested into insomnia as an adult. Originally, that was how his drinking problem started. The alcohol helped him sleep.

  When he quit drinking he would sometimes be up for days. That was when we figured out sex was a huge help. I shiver as I think about the passionate nights we used to share, ending only when exhaustion would overcome us.

  “It’s gotten bad again since I stopped drinking.”

  “Wait, what?” The words slip from my lips, dripping with disbelief.

  “You don’t have to sound so surprised.”

  “No, it’s … I didn’t …” My thought trails off, and I fall silent.

  He looks at me; there is a pain in his eyes. I’ve seen it before—long ago—when he had been vulnerable enough in his youth to tell me all of the things he felt might burst from his grieving heart. It is a vulnerability I have not seen in his adulthood.

  “You didn’t know,” he says more as a statement than a question. “I stopped when Olivia was born.”

  “She’s ten months old.”

  “I know. I’m her uncle.”

  “I’m sorry, it’s just, well, Em and Colin never mentioned you stopped drinking again.”

  “I’m sure they were waiting to see if it stuck.”

  “Ten months is a long time. I’d say it stuck.”

  “That’s how I actually discovered I could do this woodworking. I’d just moved here, determined to stop drinking, and prove myself to Colin and Em so they would be all right with me being a part of Olivia’s life. I hadn’t slept in two days, and the crazy was starting to set in. I picked up a hunk of wood in the back of the gallery, and I carved. I had no idea what I was making. I just kept going.”

  “So did it help you sleep?”

  Christian nodded. “It did. My shoulders were sore, and I was starving, but my body gave into the fatigue, and then I slept. I got up the next day and started all over again. I worked all day. By the end of the week I had a set of hand-carved skis.”

  “Wait, are those the ones on your wall?” I laugh, remembering the oddity.

  “I had no clue what I was making when I started. They just kind of took shape eventually. I hang them there to remind me to always move forward, never back.”

  The hair on my arms stands up. “Wow.”

  “It’s just what I do, no big deal,” he adds modestly, turning the wheel, pulling into a gravel parking lot. I resist the urge to lean over and hug him.

  Leaning to one side and peering out the window, the now famous Roadhouse comes into view. An unass
uming building with rust-colored exterior walls and a tin roof sits surrounded by parked cars. There is a deck area with picnic benches and tables that are over-flowing with locals.

  “This place is hopping,” I comment.

  “You’re going to love their portabella burger with sweet potato fries.”

  “No, this is Texas. I thought everything was bigger in Texas. What happened to a huge beef patty?”

  “Oh no, you’re right, everything is bigger in Texas. They’ve got the biggest damn portabellas you’ve ever seen.”

  I start laughing. As Christian gets out of the truck, a warmth falls over me. That is it, the friend I’d been missing. Not that Henry isn’t my friend, as well. Christian just knows me in a way nobody else can. No matter how many stories I tell Henry about my mom and our past, Christian saw it. He lived it with me. He was there through all the issues of my youth. I suppose most of my problems were actually my mother’s problems, or related to the vile men she would bring home. Christian never tried to fix it—the same as I couldn’t fix his parents dying. All we could do was simply be there, together. I never thought I could have that friend back, but hope is growing in me that it might be possible.

  My door creaks open, and I beam a smile at him.

  “What’s that goofy look for?” he quickly asks.

  I shake my head. “I don’t know—just having a good time.”

  “Now now, Paige, you’re a promised woman, so don’t go getting a crush on me.”

  “In your dreams.” I hop out of the truck.

  “How’d you know?” Christian laughs.

  “Know what?”

  “That you’re running through my dreams every night,” he says, cracking the widest grin.

  “Yeah, and I’m the one who’s not right in the head,” I reply, slugging him in the arm again.

  “The punching thing,” Christian moans. “Why couldn’t that have been the one thing you grew out of?”

  “Oh,” I answer thoughtfully. “I did. I just like punching you. Now can we please go eat? I’m starving.”

  “You got it.” He leads the way to open the large glass door.

  Once we are seated at our modest table and the food is ordered, Christian looks at me, and suddenly the tables are turned, he begins asking me the questions.

  “So Henry, he seems like a … a nice guy.”

  “Don’t start,” I warn, tilting my head and flashing a smile.

  “What? I’m serious. He seems … nice.”

  “It’s the way you say it, and you know it,” I argue.

  He snickers. “All right, I’m just playing. He was your date at Em and Colin’s wedding, wasn’t he?”

  “I didn’t think you noticed I was there.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “You didn’t even say hello. I mean, really? I was the maid of honor, and you were the best man.”

  “Okay, okay, I’ll admit it. I had every intention of making nice, and then you showed up with a date, and … well, I couldn’t.”

  “I get it, it’s not easy. I was kind of relieved we didn’t have to speak.”

  “It’s not so bad now, is it?” he asks, huge puppy dog eyes staring back at me.

  “No, but I think it’s because we’ve both moved on and have other things in our lives.”

  Christian looks back at the kitchen, searching for any sign on the status of our food. “Henry does seem to make you happy,” he adds at last.

  “He really does.”

  “I’m happy for you. So tell me all about this guy. How did you meet, what does he do? I want all the details.”

  I wrinkle my forehead and ask cautiously, “Are you sure?”

  “Of course, this is the kind of stuff friends talk about. I want to know everything about your new life,” he insists.

  And so I tell him everything. We talk all through dinner, the drive home, and then even stand in the courtyard talking. Nothing is off limits. Nothing feels weird. He isn’t jealous, and he actually seems genuinely interested. I wonder if he misses our friendship as much as I do.

  When a silence at last lingers, he chimes, “You better get to bed.”

  “Are you going to be able to sleep, or is it back to the studio for you?” I question.

  “What can I say, it’s my routine,” he answers, walking backward as he watches me quietly sneak in through the back door of Em and Colin’s home.

  I WAKE UP late, look at my phone, and realize I’ve missed a call from Henry. I decide he can wait, as I sit up and get a look at the clock. 9:26.

  When I came upstairs, after my evening with Christian, I was suddenly troubled with a case of insomnia, something very rare for me. I’d sketched into the early morning hours.

  Reaching down, I pick the pad up from the floor and flip through the pages. Examining the ideas that had flooded out of me, I’m expecting nothing usable. Much to my surprise and delight, I see design after design that I still love in the morning light. To be quite honest, they are better than anything I’ve ever created. I find myself loathing the designs I’ve already made for my show. There is cohesion in the images that I have seemingly struggled with before. I’ve never included a vest in any of my designs, yet here are at least three within the pages of sketches.

  The words urban country pop into my head. There it is, the entire show, the concept shifting in the blink of an eye. The beauty of the south is taking things slow, doing it right. I want to take all the textures and patterns that make you think Southern style and put them on urban lines. The cut of a nice blazer paired with the perfect blue jean. Oh shit! If I’m going to commit to this, it means starting over from scratch. I have to think on this some more; any major decisions prior to my morning coffee always leads to disaster.

  Stumbling out of bed, I slip on my robe, pulling the fabric up to my nose and inhaling deeply. It still smells of home, my home with Henry. I decide I’ll call him after coffee. He will be honest about the makeover idea—complete and total honesty is something I can always rely on from Henry.

  Shuffling down the stairs, I weave through the halls and make my way into the rustic kitchen, the smell of muffins filling the air. Emmie is dancing with Olivia near the stove to a song on the radio I’ve not heard.

  She spins around, dancing her way over to me. “Oh my, Ms. Olivia, look who joined us. Can you say hi to Auntie Paige?”

  My heart warms as Olivia giggles and gurgles, her mom suddenly dipping her back in a dramatic dance move.

  “What’s gotten into you?” I ask.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she replies, throwing a puzzled glance in my direction.

  “Dancing in the morning … what did you do with the Emmie I know?”

  “Tell Aunt Paige that just because she’s a grumpy puss, and her date must have went terrible, she doesn’t need to bring us all down,” Emmie says in a baby-like tone.

  My stomach twists and suddenly my face flashes with heat. My reaction is pure instinct. “How about you tell your mommy to hush it when she doesn’t know what the hell she’s talking about.”

  “Whoa!” Emmie replies quickly. “I was just kidding. No reason to get nasty.”

  I sit silently, avoiding eye contact, unsure why what she said bothered me so intensely.

  “I’m serious,” Emmie continues. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Did something happen?”

  “What?” I snap. “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know.” She grabs a mug and pours me a cup of coffee without asking. “Clearly something has you on edge.”

  “I’m fine, but I just don’t like the jokes about Christian and me.”

  “All right, I’m sorry.”

  I feel bad and wish I hadn’t reacted so swiftly. “Since when do you bake?” I ask, shifting the attention away from my behavior.

  “There are a lot of things I started doing since we moved down here,” Emmie says. “I know you’re all Manhattan girl, but I think this town will really start growing on you.”
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  “I think it already has,” I say, remembering the recent inspiration in my designs.

  “What? My ears must be deceiving me.”

  “You’re not the only one who has changed,” I say with a smile, scooping the sugar into my black coffee.

  “Oh, do tell.” Emmie plops a muffin on the table in front of me, no concern for a plate or napkin underneath it. I smile, thinking of Henry’s pet peeve. Pulling up a chair, she sits down, bouncing Olivia on her knee.

  “Tell what?”

  “All these things that have changed about you. I feel like we never get to talk these days, and when we find time to Skype, it’s always baby stuff.”

  “Seriously?” I gasp. “You can’t just put me on the spot like that. It’s not like I can just list things off.”

  “Today is Colin’s morning for the gallery, so please, let’s talk about something,” Emmie pleads, grabbing my arm. “What about last night?”

  “What about it?” I reply quickly.

  “You went out with Christian, right?”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “So, tell me, how did it go?” she pushes.

  “You do realize I’m engaged to be married,” I remind her.

  She glares at me. “Um, I know. I’m not accusing you of—” She pauses to place her hands over Olivia’s ears before whispering, “screwing him.”

  I laugh. Screwing has somehow become a curse word since Emmie became a mother. It is actually quite endearing, and I want to squeeze my friend to pieces.

  “He took me to dinner, then we came home, and I went to bed,” I say at last.

  “Oh no, that won’t do at all,” Emmie protests. “Where did you go to dinner?”

  Picking up the muffin, I take a sniff, trying to identify what is inside. There is a hint of banana and cinnamon. “You made these?” I ask nervously.

  “Yes, and they’re good.”

  “Do you have the number for poison control handy?”

  “Shut up! They’re good.” Emmie slaps my arm playfully. “Quit changing the subject and tell me about last night.”

  Lifting the delicious-smelling muffin up to my lips, I take a huge bite, allowing the moist mixture to dissolve in my mouth.