by Donna Alward
“I see.”
“I admit I convinced her to bend a few rules.”
He nodded, his eyes warming just a little. “Of course you did. Ian did always say you were determined.”
She blinked. He’d mentioned Ian; this was progress, even though it was small. “I think he probably said stubborn. Or bullheaded.”
“Maybe,” George agreed, and the energy between them relaxed.
“Where’s a good place to get some dinner around here?” she asked, needing to change the subject while they were in a good place. She didn’t want to push too fast. “I didn’t get Mom’s cooking genes, and I bought a few things last night but I’ll probably try the local places while I’m here.”
He switched topics with what she could only describe as relief in his eyes. “You looking for some place fancy? There’s an inn not far from Darling. And there’s a new Italian place—Roberto’s, I think—a few blocks north of Main. If you’re looking for something more casual, you can’t beat the Sugarbush. It’s a family restaurant and the food’s good and big servings.” His eyes twinkled at her a little. “Enough you could probably take leftovers home and have a second meal.”
“Maybe I’ll go somewhere fancy another time, but the Sugarbush sounds good. If I were home, Mom would have me over for dinner and send me home with leftovers.” She laughed. “I guess that’s what moms are for.”
A shadow passed over his face again and she could have kicked herself. He’d never had a mom like hers.
But the shadow passed and his face softened. “Your mom made a wicked lasagna, if I remember right,” he said. “Ian and I went through a whole one on our own, I think.”
“He always did have a massive appetite,” Amy agreed, sensing that dropping Ian’s name into the conversation—twice now—was a big concession on George’s part. “George, do you want to join me tonight? Have dinner?”
His gaze held hers for a few moments. “I don’t know if I should. There are things . . .” He lifted his hand, as if to run his fingers through his hair, but he encountered his hat and dropped his hand again. “Amy, I have a lot of baggage. I’m barely back on my feet.”
She laughed a little. “It’s only dinner. I’m not looking for a big commitment.”
His cheeks colored a little as he chuckled back. “True enough. Sorry. After so many years, my social skills are kind of non-existent.”
“Well, we can start with the Sugarbush. Do you want to meet me there? Around six?”
“No questions about the past?”
“I’ll try really hard.” He was thawing bit by bit, but she didn’t want to promise when she wasn’t sure she could follow through. Ian was the link between them. What else would they have to talk about?
A transport truck pulled into the far side of the lot, creeping forward carefully and giving a raucous honk with his horn. George sighed. “Well, I’d better cram the rest of this in my mouth. The new load of trees is here and I’ll be busier than a one-armed paper hanger for the next few hours.”
She laughed unexpectedly, pleased that something of the sense of humor she remembered was still inside him somewhere. He shoved the last bit of his sandwich into his mouth and crushed the wrapper in his hand as he chewed.
“Thanks for lunch.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Tonight is my treat.”
She wondered if he made enough money to do that. She didn’t want to assume and leave him strapped for the month, but she wouldn’t insist on paying, either, since she was sure there was some pride involved. “Why don’t we go Dutch? We can each pay for our own. It’s not like it’s, well, a date or anything.”
“All right.” He accepted the terms so easily she was a little deflated. She still felt a little of the old attraction. It was surprising, but not unpleasant. George, on the other hand, seemed completely unaffected by her. Maybe he didn’t even remember kissing her before he left on that deployment. He’d probably kissed a lot of girls . . .
He stood and she followed suit, picking up the paper bag and the discarded wrappers. “I guess I’ll let you get back to work.”
“Thanks. And . . . thanks for not pushing today. There are just some things I can’t talk about. I hope you understand.”
She did and she didn’t, but she knew better than to push. If they could be friends, maybe he’d open up on his own. She had time. And truthfully, George’s hesitation aside, she was enjoying being away from the city. She spent so much time commuting and working and commuting again that being at loose ends with no set schedule was remarkably freeing. She was overdue for a vacation, even one as low-key as a trip to Vermont.
“I’ll see you at six,” she said, and smiled. “Have fun with the trees.”
He retrieved his work gloves and headed to the transport. As she got in her car, she saw him swinging one of the back doors open, his strong body pushing it aside as they prepared to unload.
Just dinner. So why was she already nervous?
Chapter Four
He’d wanted to have time to go home and shower, but the unloading process had taken longer than he’d expected, and just when he was getting everything tidied up, the poinsettia delivery had come and he’d helped with that, too. There’d been an afternoon rush on trees—it seemed a few people had taken the day off from work due to the previous night’s snow, and were taking advantage of the time to decorate. He and Laurel were run off their feet all afternoon, and even after they’d closed at quarter after five, because of a few late stragglers, there’d been cash to ring off and things to stow and tidy before they could leave for the day.
There was no time to go home and change. Not that he couldn’t show up at the Sugarbush this way; the place was super-casual and counted on its post-work traffic. It was more because of Amy. He didn’t want her to see him fresh from an afternoon’s labor. His knitted hat had flattened his hair and he knew his jeans were dirty from being around the trees all afternoon. But he had no choice.
He parked a block away—Main was busy tonight—and headed to the diner, breathing in the scent of fresh snow and smiling at the Christmas lights adorning the street lamps. With only a few weeks to the holiday, every storefront and home was decorated in some way—twinkling lights, lush wreaths, evergreen boughs, and painted windows. In other years, the sight had made him feel incredibly lonely and isolated, but this year he found himself anticipating the holiday. It was dark by the time he reached the diner, but he stepped inside to a brightly lit, colorful display of Christmas cheer, right down to the carols being played over the sound system—barely audible over the cacophony of voices.
Amy was already there. He caught sight of her at a small booth about half way down the left wall, a glass of soda in front of her as she stared at her phone. Lord, she was pretty. Her hair curled around her shoulders in tumbling waves, and the slender girl he remembered now had the delicious curves of a woman. The sweater she wore had a floppy sort of neck that seemed to cradle her chin without the tight constriction of a turtleneck. And here he was in a flannel shirt and a pair of dirty jeans. Oh well. Nothing to be done about it now, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to stand her up over it.
She looked up and caught him staring at her, and he felt the strange zing again, the same one he’d felt at lunch when their fingers had touched. Wasn’t that inconvenient?
He made his feet move forward and slid into the booth across from her. “Sorry if I’m a bit late. And a bit scruffy. I didn’t have a chance to go home.”
“Busy day, huh?” She smiled easily at him, and picked up her glass and took a drink through the white straw.
“Crazy. We seriously just left. I think last night’s snow put everyone in a holiday mood.”
“I suppose.” Her brows wrinkled together, and she laughed a bit. “Hang on.” To his surprise, she stood a little, leaned across the table, and rubbed her thumb over his cheek. “It’s sticky!”
Heat rushed to his cheeks, flustered by her touch and embarrassed by the fac
t she’d caught him with dirt on his face. “Damn. It’s probably pitch from the trees.”
“Let me,” she suggested, and she dipped a paper napkin in her water glass and then rubbed it over his skin. “There. That’s better.” She sat back, then handed him a menu. “So what’s good here?”
He didn’t even open it, but instead sat there wondering how she could act as if nothing had just happened. Oh, the touch was innocent enough. Platonic, even. But it had been important to George. Occasionally Laurel teased him, but this . . . this was the first time he’d been touched by a woman in a very long time—even if there was nothing sexual about it. It still felt intimate.
“Everything’s good,” he got out. “But I don’t know what you like, so I can’t really make any suggestions.”
She looked at his closed menu. “You don’t have to look, I suppose.”
He didn’t want to tell her that over the years, he’d tried a lot of the Sugarbush offerings simply by accepting the charity of others. Sometimes it had been a meal specially purchased, but more often than not it was someone’s leftovers boxed up to go home. Either way, he’d had a lot of hot meals courtesy of the Sugarbush’s large portions.
It wasn’t that he was really embarrassed, exactly, because with the Gallaghers’ help he’d pulled himself out of that life. But to say there wasn’t a little bit of pride at stake would be a lie. “My go-to items are either the meatloaf and mashed potatoes or a club sandwich and fries. They use real turkey, none of that deli sliced stuff. But since I had a sandwich for lunch, I’ll probably go with the meatloaf.”
She opened the menu and scanned the items. “There’s split pea soup. I haven’t had that in years.”
He nodded. “They use yellow peas, not green, and big chunks of potato, ham, and carrots. I think it comes with a mini loaf of French bread.” He grinned. “I like to think of it as the porridge of the dinner hour.”
She frowned and tilted her head.
“You know,” he explained, “it sticks to your ribs.”
A waitress came around and they placed their orders. Once she was gone again, an awkward silence fell that George didn’t know how to fill. He’d asked her not to talk about the past, but that didn’t leave them with a lot of options. Ian was the main thing connecting them.
The waitress came back with his drink and he took a moment to sip and scramble for a topic.
“So,” he finally said, “what are you doing now? Last time I saw you, you’d just graduated and the world was your oyster.”
She fiddled with her straw. “So we’re talking about me, now? Does that technically qualify as the past?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Only if it makes you uncomfortable or you don’t want to talk about it. It’s only fair.”
Her gaze softened as she looked at him. “Deal,” she said softly. “Well, the short version is I did my masters in HR, started working at a little company in Hoboken, then I got married. Then I got divorced, moved back to Brooklyn, got a new job at a bigger company in Manhattan, and that’s where I am.”
“That really is the short version.”
She shrugged. “It’s not very exciting.”
He doubted that. A woman as pretty and vibrant as her? And her summary prompted more questions than it provided answers. “Do you like your job? Plan on staying there?” He really wanted to ask about her marriage, but figured it might be a bit on the too-personal side.
“It’s okay. I’m good at it. The company’s decent. For the most part, the people are, too. I don’t get out of bed dying to get to work, but I also don’t hate my job.”
“But you must like being close to your family.”
“I do. What’s left of it.” Her cheeks instantly colored. “Oh dammit, I’m sorry. Forget I said that. I have my own issues where the family is concerned that have little to do with Ian, really.”
But the words had hit their mark. The Mercks had had twins and then no more children. George tried not to feel responsible, but he did just the same. He’d promised to look out for Ian, and instead he’d got him killed. Time and the few counseling sessions he’d had helped him to see that he couldn’t go back and change the past. He’d accepted that what was done was done. He hadn’t yet figured out how to stop the guilt, though. Or the memories from intruding when he least wanted them to.
“George?”
The touch of her fingers on his brought him back to the present. To his surprise, his food was in front of him, steam rolling off it and smelling delicious. But he hadn’t even registered that the waitress had returned, he’d been so deep in his thoughts.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. I’m sorry I brought it up.”
He dipped his fork into his potatoes, tried them, found them unusually tasteless. “You . . .” He scrambled once again to find a way to put the focus on her. “No kids?”
“No,” she said quietly, and she focused all her attention on buttering her bread. “I discovered I can’t have children.”
That bombshell was sufficient to clear his head. “Shit. I’m sorry, Amy. Is that what happened with your marriage?”
She nodded, then broke off a crust of bread. “Yeah. Well, some of it. We’d been trying a while, and things weren’t going well. It was a lot of pressure, and it took a toll on our relationship, not to mention our finances. Right around the time I found out I couldn’t have kids, I discovered he’d been seeing someone else.”
“Rat bastard,” George grumbled, and then felt pleased when she choked out a laugh.
“I might have called him that a time or two,” she replied. “But truthfully, his affair was a symptom of a bigger disease, not the disease itself. I’m not blaming myself,” she rushed to assure him. “He made his choices. But I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that things were already a mess.”
“So he moved on, and you moved back to Brooklyn.”
She nodded, tasting her soup. “And he and the other woman have a couple of kids now and a dog and . . . yeah. This soup is fantastic, by the way.”
So she’d lost her hopes for a family and a husband all at once, and she was now casually commenting on the soup. He knew the tactic well. Make it sound like no big deal when it was a big deal indeed.
And with her revelation, he also realized that her parents, Ian’s wonderfully kind and warm parents, would never have any grandchildren. Amy wouldn’t have kids of her own and she wouldn’t ever be an aunt.
It was hard not to feel responsible for it all. He’d made the wrong call, broken his promise to bring Ian back in one piece. And when he’d come home, he’d been too much of a coward to go to Ian’s family and apologize. To admit out loud what he knew in his heart. It was his fault.
“George?”
He shook his head, realizing he’d blanked for the second time. “This probably wasn’t a good idea,” he said, his voice rough. “You were right. You haven’t asked any questions but the past can’t really be avoided, can it?” He fumbled to reach for his wallet, drew out a twenty, and dropped it on the table. “I’m sorry, Amy. You want to know what happened to Ian, and all I can say is I didn’t protect him like I promised. You want a place to put the blame, put it on me.” All their lives would have been so different if he hadn’t told Ian to stay put.
“Don’t go. Please, George . . .”
But he stood and shrugged on his jacket. “I’ve gotta go. I’m sorry. This is too hard.”
He left her sitting there, her lips parted in surprise and her eyes wide with confusion. What would she think if she knew the whole truth? Ugh, he was such a mess. He jogged to the truck and jumped inside, then drove a little too fast down Main before turning onto Bridge. He had to get home. Away from people, away from everything. He needed to just be for a while. Slow down his breathing, be calm.
Once he got inside, he went to the cupboard and took out a glass, then filled it with water. His throat burned for a whisky right now, but he didn’t keep the stuff in the house, and for a very good reason. It had
n’t taken much for him to understand that he’d self-medicated when he’d first come home, and it had contributed to his downward spiral. Maybe Amy had set him off tonight; maybe it had been the most difficult day he’d had in a long time. But he wasn’t ever going back to being the shell of a man he’d been after he was discharged. Instead he went into the bathroom and took a hot shower, then got into bed and put in a CD Willow had given him to help him relax. He hadn’t quite got up the gumption to actually attend one of her yoga classes at her new studio, and he couldn’t afford the extravagance, anyway. But he’d accepted the CD and found that it helped when he was having a hard time settling.
And he thought of Amy, what she’d lost, how pretty she was, how he’d been a dumbass fool to kiss her all those years ago and a bigger fool tonight for running out.
She deserved better. And she’d already been disappointed once in her life. He wasn’t about to make things worse.
When he woke, hours later, it was still pitch black outside. He looked at the clock—4:00 a.m. He’d gone to sleep so early that he was up and fully rested.
Last night’s dinner played through his mind and he sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. He’d run out on her, leaving her with food, the bill . . . sure he’d thrown money on the table, but he was ashamed of his actions. There were days he felt as if he’d come so far and had a good handle on life, and then other days where it seemed to kick him in the teeth again and all he could do was react rather than be in control. Maybe Laurel was right. Maybe he did need more counseling. But accessing it was proving harder than he had anticipated, and the VA doctor’s solution had been to put him on meds to help with his symptoms.
Truth was, despite jumping up yesterday when Amy had asked, he was pretty sure he did have PTSD, though no one had come right out and diagnosed it. When he’d got his shit together and got this job and an apartment, he figured he was on his way to handling it on his own. When days like yesterday happened, he wasn’t sure “on his own” was a good enough strategy.
