by Harlow James
I shut off the saw, throw the last two steaks in the pile, and then unwrap the next roast, more irritated right now that he can’t keep up with packaging the meat with how fast I’m slicing it. “I’m fine.”
“You know how I know that you’re not? Because you said it like a woman does—where you’re trying to sound convincing, and I’m inclined to believe you, but the moment I drop it, you’re going to explode.”
I throw the rest of the plastic wrap in the trash and then slide the hunk of beef closer to the saw, firing it up again in preparation to slice another mountain of steaks.
“The only reason I’m going to explode right now is if you don’t stop flapping your jaws and start packaging these steaks,” I command, pointing to the stack on the table. “Now get to it.”
He holds his hands up in the air. “Alright. But if I didn’t know any better, the only two reasons I know a man is usually surly is when his football team lost, or there’s trouble with his girl. And since I know you’re a Dallas fan and their team is leading their division right now, I’m going to go with the latter.”
I curse his name under my breath, but ignore his observation nonetheless. Because if I engage, that means I’m going to have to acknowledge that the perfect woman I thought I found turned out to destroy my heart even worse than the last time.
And instead of dealing with my anger or doing the mature thing, like hearing her out, I called up Marsha, told her my plans for my vacation fell through, and now I’m back at work, helping train the new butcher while working extra hours to keep my mind off of McKenzie and prevent me from sulking around my house where every surface and room reminds me of her.
The more I reminisce on the part of her story I read, the more angry I get. And yet, there’s also a part of me that wants to read the rest—as if reading her words will give me a glimpse of what our love story has looked like through her mind.
And I think the fact that I want to know that pisses me off even more.
On the one hand, I feel like my private life is being put under the public eye, opening it up for scrutiny and judgment, even though I know she hasn’t published the book yet.
And then on the other hand, I think about how cool it is to have our love story eternalized in ink, even if other people get a glimpse of it as well.
As a romantic at heart, I can appreciate her desire to tell a love story that would make her readers believe in love, in what we have. But the other part of me wishes she had just told me from the get go.
You know, if you’d just let her explain, all of your questions would be answered.
Shut up sub conscience. No one asked for your opinion.
Then why do you keep talking to yourself in your head?
Because I don’t have anyone else to talk to.
Yes, that’s right. I’ve been ignoring everyone. My family thinks I have the week off still and am probably with McKenzie. I obviously haven’t been speaking to them. And my buddies tried to get me to go to Perry’s Pub last night, but I came up with some lame excuse about staying in and relaxing.
The moment the last steak is sliced, I turn the saw off once more and then rush to the sink, remove my gloves, and proceed to wash my hands. But the voice that calls out to me from my right sparks a pit of uneasiness in my gut.
“Dylan?”
I shut the water off while closing my eyes, cursing myself for not being prepared to see her tonight. It is Tuesday after all. It’s when she does her shopping every week.
“I’m busy.” It’s short and laced with irritation, but it’s the only thing I can manage to say before breaking apart in front of her. I’ve harnessed my anger and sadness the past three days, but I feel like once I look at her, the rush of emotions that will barrel through me will be too powerful to stop.
“What are you doing at work? I mean, I thought you had the week off…”
“I did. But plans change.”
“Oh.”
Before I can stop myself, I turn to her, and the sorrow on her face about slices right through me.
Her face is free of makeup, her hair covered by the hunter green beanie I bought for her. There’s a puffiness around her eyes that has to be from her crying, and her lips are in a concerned frown that makes me want to reach out and correct with a kiss. Part of me thinks she didn’t anticipate seeing me, which is why she looks like hell. But honestly, she still looks beautiful, clearly sad, and uneasy, but gorgeous.
But I can’t kiss her. I can’t just let my guard down yet. I… I still don’t know how to feel about everything.
“What do you need, McKenzie? Do you need some meat? Because if not, I have a job to get back to.”
My harshness makes her take a step back from the counter, but she remains in front of me. “I… I was hoping I could talk to you, Dylan.”
“I’m working.”
“I know. Not now, obviously. But… later.”
“I’m busy.”
She sighs. “Okay. Fine.” Her throat moves as she swallows and looks down in defeat. “I get it. See you later, Dylan.” I watch her brush her cheek as a tear slips free, but she turns away from me as quickly as she can and pushes her cart away, taking a piece of my heart with her.
Fuck, I hate seeing her cry, especially since I know that my sharp reaction to her was the cause of it.
“Told you it was girl trouble,” Kyle whispers in my ear as I spin around, nearing knocking him over.
“Shut up and get to work.”
“Fine. But know that the longer you let the problem fester, the worse it could get.”
Don’t I know it, Kyle. I just don’t know if I’m quite ready to hear what she has to say.
***
“Good! You are alive!”
“Well, hello to you too, sister.” I reach down to untie my shoes, pulling them off of my aching feet as I rest back into the cushions of my couch and hold my phone between my cheek and shoulder.
“Don’t give me that crap. You are lucky you answered because I’m on the way to your house to make sure you’re still breathing.”
“Jeez. Dramatic much?”
“No. Dramatic is Mom calling me on the verge of tears wondering why when she text you to ask if McKenzie can bring deviled eggs to Christmas dinner, you replied with ‘I don’t know if she’ll be there anymore.’ Are you trying to send her into an early grave?”
“Uh, hate to break it to you, but you are definitely being dramatic right now.”
Suddenly there’s a knock on my door, but my body protests the idea of standing from the couch right now.
“Open up the door, Dylan, before I knock it down.”
“Ha. I’d love to see you try.”
A loud boom echoes through the phone, followed by a few choice curse words. “Open up the freaking door!”
“Alright, alright,” I groan, standing and walking to the front door while hanging up the phone.
“Did you just hang up on me?” My sister looks shocked as I open the door and I see her standing on the other side with her phone face up in her hand.
“Kind of didn’t seem relevant to keep talking over the phone when you’re here in person now. So what do you want, Robyn?”
She follows me inside as I make my way back over to the couch, still in my work uniform, ready to shower and call it a night before I return tomorrow for a Christmas Eve shift. I originally had far more different plans for Christmas Eve with McKenzie, but I think we all know why that fell through.
“What happened? Why isn’t McKenzie coming to Christmas dinner anymore?”
I sigh, leaning my head on the back of the couch. “We sort of had a fight.”
“Okay…”
“And I’m not talking to her at the moment.”
“Why?” The annoyance in her voice is enough to make me snap my head up.
“Why? Because the woman has been writing a story about me, about us—and she didn’t even tell me. I found out about it after I read it for myself on her laptop.”
> “Wait a second,” she says, holding a finger up in the air. “You snooped on her computer? That’s not cool, Dylan.”
“It wasn’t exactly snooping. She had it open and it wasn’t password protected or anything. When I jostled the mouse, it lit up with her story right there on the screen.”
“Alright. I still don’t see what the big deal is…”
I huff, leaning forward on my knees. “She was writing about me, her and me, and our family. The snippet I saw was word for word a conversation that she and I had after she spent Thanksgiving with our family, Robyn. She was using me…”
She puts her hand up again. “Are you serious?”
I don’t say anything as her eyes widen and she shakes her head at me. “You’re unbelievable. Do you actually think that she would do that?”
“Well, she sure as hell never said anything to me about it. Isn’t that the type of thing you should ask someone before you do?”
She shrugs, but then comes back at me. “Yes. But at the same time, I feel like you’re missing the whole picture. You only read, what, a couple hundred words, if that?”
“Yeah, it wasn’t much. But I know what I read was real stuff that happened between us.”
Robyn gives me a soft smile, which instantly confuses me. “That’s… don’t you think that’s actually kind of sweet?”
“Huh?”
She adjusts herself on the couch so she’s facing me more, tucking her leg up underneath her. “Don’t you think it’s a compliment that she found your relationship—you and her and the things you’ve discussed and experienced together—so strong that she was inspired to put them in a story?”
My sister barely stops to breathe so I let her continue.
“I mean, the woman writes and sells stories about love for a living. And here you are living a real life love story and she’s writing about it. That’s pretty amazing if you ask me.”
“Don’t you feel like it’s an invasion of privacy or something? I mean, what about our family? I don’t want people knowing stuff about us.”
She waves her hand nonchalantly. “It’s fiction, Dylan. I’m sure she’s changed details and stuff so it’s not as conspicuous. And besides, our family is a hoot, and pretty spectacular. There are a lot of people that don’t have a family as close as ours.” Like McKenzie. “Don’t you trust her enough to get your approval before she lets the entire world read it?”
“I was going to tell you… I wanted you to approve of it…”
Fuck. She was trying to tell me that when I was too busy freaking the fuck out and rushing out of her house.
“Shit.” I toss my head in my hands, pulling at my hair. “Yeah. I think she tried telling me that, but I was so pissed in the moment, I didn’t want to hear it. I mean, I know her, Robyn. And yeah, I don’t think she’d do something like go behind my back and publish facts about my life without my permission.”
“Exactly. And for my own benefit, I hope to God she changed enough details so it doesn’t seem like I’m reading about my brother’s sex life.”
“Ew. Damn, Robyn. Why do you have to say shit like that?”
“Newsflash, brother. We’re both adults and both have sex. And I read books with sex in them, like McKenzie’s books.”
“What happened to reading fairytales? You were obsessed with those when we were kids.”
She nods. “I was. And still am. I just like mine a little dirtier now.” She winks at me and it makes me wrinkle my nose. “And McKenzie Daniels happens to be one of my favorite authors. Her stories are real, heartwarming, and super steamy. She’s got talent, little brother. And a good heart.”
“I’m in love with her.”
Tilting her head at me, she reaches out to grab my hand. “I kind of figured. So, are you going to talk to her? I really think you need to let her explain, get the entire story from her before you throw away the best thing to ever happen to you.”
She’s right. McKenzie is the woman I’m meant to be with. I’ve known that from the moment I saw her. So am I really going to let this mistake and misunderstanding stand in the way of what I feel is right down to the marrow of my bones? Am I going to let my pride win here, forcing myself into a bitter state that serves no other purpose than to help me forget about how much I fucking miss her?
Am I going to miss spending Christmas without her, the one day of the year where love and family mean more than anything? The day I planned on telling her that I love her…
“Yeah. I need to call her.”
“Yes, you do. Listen, I’ll keep Mom occupied for the next twenty-four hours, tell her something like McKenzie had a deadline and that’s why you weren’t sure if she’d make it, just to keep her a bit more level-headed, okay?”
I nod in agreement. “Sounds good.”
“But the rest is up to you. Talk to her. Listen and remember that no one is perfect, Dylan. And you’re both going to make mistakes in your relationship, hurt each other’s feelings, and make choices that you wish you could take back. But it’s how you move on from those instances that dictates the future of your relationship.”
“You speak like you have some experience with love or something,” I tease, flashing her a crooked smile, the first one I’ve sported in days.
“Married for almost twelve years. We’ve had our share of ups and downs, and so have Mom and Dad, don’t forget that. Every couple has bumps. But remember the make-up sex after a fight is always the best.”
“Alright, alright. I get your point.”
My sister laughs and then stands as I join her, pulling her in for a hug. We say our goodbyes and then I hop in the shower, cleaning off the stench of the day, ruminating on the conversation I just had.
Robyn is right. I need to hear her out, get all the facts, and I’m sure McKenzie can clear up the millions of questions that have been firing rapidly in my brain since Sunday morning.
Once I’m dried off and dressed, I lay in bed and bring up our text conversation in my messages, noticing the last three have all been from her and I never replied out of anger.
McKenzie: I’m so sorry, Dylan.
McKenzie: I never meant to hurt you.
McKenzie: Please let me explain. It’s killing me that you won’t talk to me. I miss you. Please.
The last one gets me because God, do I miss her too.
So I type out a message, hopeful that it sparks a bit of optimism in the both of us that we can move past this.
Me: Hey. I’m ready to talk. Meet me at Perry’s Pub at six tomorrow.
I hit send and see it’s been delivered before those three dots start bouncing almost immediately.
McKenzie: Okay. I’ll be there. Thank you.
But I don’t type anything back. I plug my phone into my charger and then lie back, folding my hands under my head as I stare at the ceiling, anticipating an entire story that I only know bits and pieces of.
I just hope it’s a story I’m ready to hear.
Chapter 21
McKenzie
“I’m going to throw up.”
“No, you’re not. He’s a reasonable guy and I’m sure everything is going to be fine.”
It’s Christmas Eve and the bar is rather packed for such a pivotal night. But I guess even if it is a holiday, people still need a place to drown their sorrows and troubles.
Silver and gold garland runs from booth to booth, wrapped around the light fixtures above the tables. A Christmas tree sits the corner by the juke box, and Perry, the owner, has A Christmas Story playing on the televisions scattered around the bar.
I look up at my best friend as my knees bounce under the table in the booth I’m sitting in as I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. Brooke is standing to the side of me for moral support as I wait for Dylan to show up. I thought I’d be fine doing this by myself, but my best friend insisted on staying nearby, especially if Dylan decided he couldn’t forgive me and leaves me a blubbering mess in the middle of the pub.
“I hope so. I’ve been miser
able without him.”
“Yes, I’m aware. Do you not remember me ripping you out of bed the other day and making you take a shower?”
I huff out a laugh, a small one, but at least it’s something. “Yes. Thank you. Between existing in a haze and not being able to finish my book, personal hygiene had taken a back seat.”
“Well, thankfully you had enough sense to shower before this meeting.”
“Hey. I put make-up on too, thank you very much. But I did go light on the mascara, just in case.”
“Yeah, we don’t want you looking like you had a rough night with some tequila when you leave.”
I draw my lips in, contemplating every way I think this conversation could go. And I have been driving myself insane with those possibilities since I got Dylan’s text last night.
I assumed he wanted to meet tonight since he’d be working again today, which brings me even more pain that he canceled his vacation after our fight. Although sitting around stewing over the last time we saw each other certainly hasn’t been good for my well-being, so I can’t blame him for not wanting to put himself through the same thing.
“He’s here,” Brooke says, pulling my eyes to the door as Dylan walks in wearing a black and red flannel, dark jeans, and a black beanie. He looks so handsome, my heart can’t beat fast enough to keep me coherent.
“I’m gonna pass out.”
“First it was throw up. Now it’s pass out. Which one is it woman? Do I need to get a bucket and a stretcher for you?”
“No. But you do need to get the hell away before he gets here,” I grit through my teeth as his eyes find mine and I wave him over.
Dropping his head down and shoving his hands in his pockets, Dylan strides over to me as Brooke leans down and whispers in my ear. “Good luck. It’s going to be okay.”
“It has to be,” I reply, more so for myself—because if I have to say goodbye to this man after tonight, my heart may never fully recover.
Dylan arrives just as Brooke slips out the side door, trudging back to her car to wait. I insisted that I didn’t want her near to eavesdrop, even though she fought me on it.
