Losing Mr. Right

by Natalie Charles

  Was I walking past the inn because I’m nosy? Maybe.

  Lately I’d been finding excuses to pass by, ever since that morning I’d walked with Mrs. Samuelson. She was from out of town but she already knew about the inn. “Is it really a whorehouse?” she’d asked breathlessly, her eyes lit with interest. I was as startled by the fact that she’d asked me a question as I was by its content. Mrs. Samuelson wasn’t a person who needed someone to carry a conversation. She needed someone to receive it, and she’d been talking ever since we’d met outside of the beach house she was renting with her husband, Earl, who was still sleeping and snored a lot. And who had a heart condition but was doing much better now, and also his colonoscopy had come back clear—not a polyp in sight. But that was thanks to her and the high-fiber diet she’d put him on.

  I’d learned a lot.

  “The lady at the pie shop was telling me that the woman who runs the inn is really a madam,” Mrs. Samuelson had continued before I got the chance to respond. “I told Earl I’d better not catch him up this way. He’ll be sleeping in the doghouse for the next five years.”

  I’d smiled and looked down at my feet. “Watch the sidewalk here. There’s a ridge.” I’d steered Mrs. Samuelson to one side.

  “You’re not answering my question. Is it a whorehouse?”

  I’d heard some things, none of them reliable. West Portsmouth is such a sleepy seaside town that I could barely imagine the rumors were true. There’s a quaint center lined with artisans’ shops and restaurants, and the town hall has a bell tower. But residents love gossip. A criminal presence gave the otherwise charming town some street credibility. “I’ve heard rumors about the inn,” I’d said carefully. “Nothing I can personally confirm.”

  She’d punched me playfully in the arm. “I wouldn’t think so. A man who looks like you doesn’t need to pay for it.”

  I had laughed it off and changed the subject, but I mulled over the compliment now as I approached the inn. Doesn’t need to pay for sex. It was something I could add to an online dating profile, if I ever bothered to set one up. I’d been going through a dry spell recently. Ever since I came into money, I’d avoided taking anyone home. That didn’t mean that I wasn’t tempted sometimes, but life was more complicated now. Funny, I would’ve expected the opposite.

  Now, as I walked beside the inn, I craned my neck over the black wrought iron spokes of the front gate, trying to catch a glimpse of something, I didn’t know what. Then I heard a voice screaming, “Help me!”

  My muscles tensed. I couldn’t see the woman who was calling. “Where are you?” I shouted.

  “Help!”

  The voice was coming from the inn property. I darted through the gate and up the green lawn, trampling small patches of mulch and petunias. I paused on the brick walkway that led to the white inn. The building was columned and imposing, seeming much taller than only two stories. “Where are you?” I repeated.

  “Over here.”

  Not helpful. But when I looked to my right, I saw a crumpled figure lying on the ground by the side of the structure. I dashed to her side and crouched down. It was an elderly woman in a green floral housecoat lying beside a ladder. My stomach fell when I saw the unnatural turn of her ankle. “Are you all right?”

  “Do I look it?” She stared up at me from the grass, appearing remarkably calm. She’s probably in shock, I thought.

  “I’m calling an ambulance.” I pulled my cell from my pocket. “What happened?”

  “Someone set me on fire.” She pursed her lips. “Come on, Sherlock. I fell off the ladder.” She started to sit up but stopped, grimacing with pain.

  “Don’t move.” I set one hand on her bony shoulder as I dialed with the other. “You’re going to be all right.” If she felt well enough to show me sass, she’d pull through.

  “Call my son, too. So he doesn’t worry.”

  I patted her arm. “I’ll take care of everything. You’re safe now.”

  The woman reached up to wrap her hand in mine and squeeze. “Thank you,” she said softly. Her face was contorted with pain. She exhaled slowly. “Tell them to hurry.”

  CHAPTER 3

  MINDY

  HOURS AFTER THE champagne boutique, I was pacing my cramped apartment, my face hot with shame. I’d always prided myself on being forthright. But being honest was easy when I was talking about something someone else was doing, like telling Darylle that she couldn’t pull off the Emily dress with her waist-to-hip ratio, or telling the other guests they needed to go up a size in the Ophelia. Telling Chase about my feelings was a little bit like walking down the street naked at noon.

  Pregnant. I set a hand across my heart, which felt like it had been hollowed out. Ouch, did I ache everywhere.

  I checked my cell. Chase hadn’t texted yet.

  He should have by now. He should have checked in with me, told me how much he had been thinking since I drove off, and how he was wrong. I love you, too. I realize that now.

  I paused in the kitchen and leaned against the counter, resting one bare foot against the dated maple cabinets. The floor felt sticky, but I only considered cleaning it for a brief moment before pulling out my phone again and composing a text to Chase.

  Hey. Sorry about before.

  Wait. Why was I sorry, exactly? I frowned and deleted the text. If anyone should be apologizing, it was him. For breaking my heart.

  Hey. You owe me an apology.

  There, better. But then, that sounded awfully demanding. He’d think I was a bitch. Delete.

  My heart felt weighted. Part of me couldn’t believe that this was it, that years of friendship had come down to Chase rejecting me after I told him I loved him. Loved. The blood rushed to my face. Why couldn’t I have exercised some judgment and protected myself better? Told him I thought he was special or something? Telling someone you love them is the worst kind of exposure.

  This was new territory for me, this I love you thing. My relationship history was … lackluster. Sure, I’d dated some guys, but those relationships hadn’t worked out. Either the excitement wore off or they’d do something awful like say they had a fetish for Asian women. Chase wasn’t vile like that. We’d been friends for years, through college, work, and relationships. We could hang out and it was super casual and fun. We exchanged Christmas gifts, that’s how close we were. I had given him the best version of myself, and if he didn’t love me, it was only because I was unlovable. This was the only rational explanation. I wrapped my arms around my middle, nauseous.

  But then again, why shouldn’t I have told him? He should have known to protect my feelings. None of this I love Jackie. The correct answer was I love you, too. Help me to figure this out. Hadn’t I been there for him through all of his breakups? Always loyal, ready to tell him that he deserved better and then take him out for a beer? Dammit, hadn’t I paid my dues?

  I glared at the phone as I typed, I can’t believe you haven’t called me. Doesn’t our friendship mean anything to you?

  Well, now I sounded like a shrew. Jackie wasn’t a shrew. Was that what he liked about her? Maybe if I sent him a text that sounded more like Jackie …

  Hey, shit bag. Do you honestly think I have time to sit around and wait for you to not call?

  No. That was all wrong.

  Back away from the phone, Mindy. I turned it off, set it down on the counter, and covered my face with my hands. I kept thinking of Chase and Jackie being all happy and engaged, with a baby on the way. I am a victim. I hate feeling victimized.

  Mr. Beau Jangles strutted into the kitchen at that moment, his tail aloft. Beau is my roommate Sorelle’s stuck-up British shorthair: gray and portly, with gold eyes that can cut through your soul. He hides under the couch and attacks my ankles when I walk by. Once he perched on the top shelf of my closet and pounced on my head when I opened the door. The cat is a textbook psychopath. No wonder Sorelle had left him when she’d run off to wherever she was, leaving behind a note that simply said, Destiny calls! I don�
�t fear many things, but I fear Beau.

  He proceeded to his food dish, saw it was empty, and then sat beside it, giving me that look that makes the hair on the back of my arms prickle. “Hello, Beau,” I said coolly. “Can I help you?”

  Beau glared at me. You know what I want. He set a paw into his food dish.

  With Beau, it’s important not to give him the satisfaction of an emotional response. “Oh, is it dinnertime already? Then let’s get you some num-nums.” I reached into the cabinet to grab a can of cat food, trying to sound upbeat as I squinted at the label. “Mmm, chicken liver. Yum, yum.”

  Beau didn’t move. He didn’t weave himself between my legs or mew, or do anything that normal cats do. Being endearing isn’t Beau’s style. Instead, he sat and glared while I opened the can and shook a circular, oozy gray lump into his dish. Then he frowned at it and twitched the end of his tail, displeased.

  “I don’t know what you want from me, cat,” I said, surprised at the hurt that was bubbling in my chest. “But I need you to not be a raging dick tonight, okay? Do you think you could do that, please? Just once in your life?”

  Beau raised his head and blinked once, slowly. Then he crouched down and took a bite of his food. “Thank you,” I said, and exhaled. Victory.

  But then he righted himself and brought one front paw down quickly, flipping the bowl. Chicken liver slopped onto the floor. He delivered a pointed stare before turning and leaving the room, his nose high. I stood still in silent rage, my breath coming in short spurts as I looked at the mess the rotten little bastard had left in his wake.

  Recently I’d developed a fear of living alone. If Beau was in my apartment when I died, he would eat my face.

  • • •

  I NEEDED dinner, so I decided to head down to the convenience store on the corner. It was called the Super Fast Mart, but some of the letters on the sign had burned out and for months it had read Super Fa—rt. I pulled my denim jacket around my body as a breeze whipped past, then proceeded down the cement sidewalk that arched and cracked unpredictably. At one point decades ago, this section of River Junction may have been nice, but that time had long passed. Now people here had old cars on cinder blocks in the driveway, or Christmas lights strung in June. One of my neighbors had a chipped lawn jockey that was lighting the way for a large garden gnome. Everything in the neighborhood had a tired, hopeless look to it. That night, it suited me just fine.

  I waved to one of my neighbors who was sitting in a lawn chair on his driveway, wearing paint-splattered jeans and a white T-shirt ringed with yellow sweat stains. He didn’t wave back, just glowered at me. I pulled my jacket tighter. The lease expired in three months, and if Sorelle didn’t come back, the rent would be too expensive for me to stay. Screw you, dude.

  I continued on my walk through my ugly neighborhood, determined to dispel the black cloud that was hanging over my head. Every time I tried to think positively, my thoughts sounded sarcastic. What will I find on my walk tonight? Broken glass, or perhaps a discarded hypodermic needle? One evening I’d gone for a walk and seen an entire cherry pie in the middle of someone’s driveway, sitting there like it was waiting for the bus. It kept life exciting.

  I paused on the corner, near the Super Fart. A flashing neon sign promised it was open, but the idea of patronizing the place for dinner seemed pathetic. Then I remembered that I’d abandoned my pride earlier that afternoon in Chase’s driveway. I had nothing left to lose.

  I pushed into the convenience store and headed for the frozen-foods section. If I was going to spend my Saturday night alone with a frozen pizza and a murderous cat, I’d pick up some ice cream, too. The clerk put everything into a sad little plastic bag that ripped just when I reached the driveway on my trek back, sending my junk food spilling onto the asphalt. “I hate you,” I growled at the pizza as I brushed some sand off the box. “But I’m still going to eat you.”

  There was the sound of footsteps near the road and a dark figure approached. “Uh, hello?”

  He was wearing an old hooded sweatshirt and he had a beard. Homeless. I gathered the pizza and ice cream into one arm and reached into my pocket with my free hand. “I only have a few dollars.”

  I followed his gaze as it drifted from the bills in my outstretched hand to the food. “Yes, I realize I have some food,” I said. “But it’s shitty. You don’t want this. You can go down to the Super Fart on the corner and get something better. Or get some cigarettes, I don’t care.”

  I pressed the bills into his hand but he didn’t move. Oh, swell. A shakedown. “Fine. You can take my pizza. Here.” I pushed the box into his chest. “But I’m not giving you my ice cream. I’ve had a really terrible day.”

  He stared at the box in his arms. Then the corners of his eyes creased in amusement. “Are you Mindy?”

  A chill shot up my spine. “Why?”

  The man smiled beneath the beard. “I thought so. Your parents have been trying to reach you.”

  His words took a moment to sink in. I reached for the pizza. “You’re not homeless,” I mumbled.

  “No. But I guess I look it.”

  This amused him to no end. I could see, now that he was standing in the light of the streetlamp, that he was quite attractive in spite of the thick beard and sad-looking gray sweatshirt. His blue eyes were intense, and he was about my age. Must be some kind of hipster, I thought. Homo sapiens hipsteramus. A little scruffy, but not homeless.

  “Your grandmother had a fall and broke her ankle,” the hipster continued.

  “Nana?” Oh no. Why had I turned off my cell phone? I reached into my purse and fumbled for it. “Is she—she’s okay, right?”

  “She’s okay, but your mom is panicking.” He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his khaki shorts. “She’s convinced herself you’re lying in a ditch somewhere. She asked me to run a welfare check.”

  I frowned at him as I pulled the phone out of my bag. “And who are you, exactly?”

  He smiled. “I’m Brett. I found your grandmother and called the ambulance.”

  “Hmm.”

  Could be some kind of con, I thought. I backed away from him slowly, hugging the frozen pizza to my chest. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to go inside and give my mom a call. You can go now. Thanks,” I added. I didn’t want to be rude.

  But Brett didn’t seem bothered, or threatening. He shrugged and headed back toward the road. As soon as his back was turned, I ran into the apartment.

  • • •

  “HEY, MOM. How are you?”

  “Oh my goodness, Mindy. I thought something had happened to you!”

  “Nope, not dead. I just turned off my phone.” I set the pizza and ice cream on the counter. “Did you actually send some hipster to check on me? Or do I have a stalker?”

  “Who, Brett?” Mom sighed. “You know, if it weren’t for him, I don’t know what Nana would’ve done. He’s a hero. An angel.”

  Resentment tightened my lips. I could read between Mom’s sentences: I was the irresponsible child who turned off her cell phone, and Brett was the hero. “Mm-hmm,” was all I said.

  Mom piped right back up. “I guess you heard Nana fell again. I’m with her now.”

  My seventy-five-year-old grandmother was having balance problems. She was living alone in a small house near the bed-and-breakfast she and Grandpa had run for thirty years until he passed away. Nana refused to sell the inn, even though the town was now so snooty that her own guests had routinely mistaken her for the maid. The most she would agree to do was to rent the inn to someone else to manage. I tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. “Is she okay?”

  Mom sighed. Poor, devoted Mom, Nana’s only daughter-in-law and therefore the first to be called when problems arose. If she’d had her way, Mom would want Nana to live with her and Dad. As a third-generation Chinese-American, Mom felt a strong obligation to care for her elderly motherin-law. It was the proper thing to do. Nana, however, said she’d sooner die than leave West Portsmouth. That left
my parents driving nearly an hour to be with her at times like this.

  “She broke her ankle. She may need surgery.” Mom’s voice was heavy.

  “Oh no!”

  “You know what she was doing? Climbing a ladder to fix a shingle on the inn.”

  I clamped a hand over my mouth. “You’re kidding me. What happened to the handyman?”

  “She never hired one. She’s been taking care of everything herself. Mowing the lawn, weeding the garden—everything. She’s been lying to me this entire time.”

  “Oh my.” I leaned against the countertop. “So, are you going to hire someone for her?”

  There was a pause, and I imagined my mother giving the phone that exasperated look where she threw her hands in the air and looked completely put out. My mom was a pro at looking put out. “I guess I have to, don’t I? Otherwise she’s going to keep going out there and weeding, or fixing the steps—”

  “She was fixing the steps?”

  “Yes, last weekend. Didn’t I tell you? She was hammering boards in place.”

  I nodded my head as I thought of my grandmother in one of her floral dresses, whacking nails into submission. “Wow. That’s pretty badass of Nana.”

  “This is not funny, Mindy. And I don’t appreciate your foul language.”

  If only she knew how very foul my language can get. “Sorry. I’m just impressed.”

  “Yes, and she’s going to have a stroke if she keeps this up. Are you going to think it’s impressive then?”

  “I said I was sorry. Shit, Mom. I mean, shoot.” The ice cream was getting soft. I put it in the freezer and walked over to preheat the oven.

  “Are you feeling okay, Mindy? You sound tired. Is that why your phone was off?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Are you drinking enough water? Are you still taking that turmeric I gave you?”