Mrs. February

by Karen Cimms

  Chapter Forty-Two

  I was a terrible liar. The kids were probably too stunned at my outfit or too upset about meeting Callie to notice, and Chase—well, he was just stunned.

  Once they’d left, I climbed into the car and drove in to Somerville and then up toward Clinton. After about forty-five minutes, I turned around and headed for home. They should have been well on their way upstate by then, and if Chase decided the only way out of town was past my house—which would make no sense, but nothing made sense lately—he would’ve had to drive past my empty driveway. But just to be on the safe side, when I got home, I parked in the garage, in the spot where Chase used to keep his Harley.

  I scrubbed my face and climbed into an oversized T-shirt, opened a bottle of wine, and curled up on the bed to the sounds of the classic movie channel. I dozed off to Arsenic and Old Lace but awoke a little while later to Poltergeist. I flicked off the set. I hated scary movies. I hated anything scary. Life was scary enough without make-believe scariness too.

  On my way back from the bathroom, I snatched the laptop off the coffee table, where Izzy had left it earlier. I logged on to Facebook. Maybe someone else was lonely on a Thursday night.

  Other than a dozen requests to play Candy Crush Saga or FarmVille, neither of which I’d ever played or had an interest in playing, the few people I connected with online were all off doing something else. I scrolled through my news feed, then poured the last of the bottle.

  Chase didn’t have a Facebook account, so there was no way I could stalk him, but that didn’t mean I hadn’t stalked him on Lorraine’s or Dylan’s pages. At least until Lorraine blocked me. And Dylan hadn’t updated his page in more than two years, so there was nothing new to see.

  And while part of me was curious about Callie, another part didn’t want to risk seeing pictures of her and Chase together. Unfortunately, the part of my brain in control of my fingers must’ve had too much wine.

  Nothing came up when I searched for Callie Stankevich. She might not have a Facebook page, but I somehow doubted that. I drained my glass, then went to find another bottle of wine in the cabinet over the refrigerator. I popped a handful of ice cubes into my glass, twisted off the cap, and poured myself another glass. If nothing else, I would sleep well.

  My phone chimed as I sauntered back into the bedroom. It was Izzy.

  Dad said to let you know we’re here. Are you having fun?

  I wondered whether she wanted to know or if Chase had said something. Probably not with Callie right there. Just in case it was Chase, I looked up the menu for La Petite Auberge. It was the fanciest place I could think of.

  Gr8! Eating at La Petite Auberge. Just had escargot! Yum!!

  I hit Send. Now Izzy would ask her father what escargots were. Even if she knew, she’d probably say something to Zac about me eating snails. Then Chase would certainly hear about it. I felt vaguely guilty about dragging the kids into our drama.

  “I didn’t start it,” I reminded myself, wondering if I might have had a bit too much to drink. Since I’d started talking to myself—out loud—the answer was probably “yes.”

  “Fuck it.” I poured another glass.

  Snails??? Yuck!

  “Bingo!”

  Goin dancing. G’night! Love U. Tell UR brother I love him 2! C U Sunday night.

  I hoped she wouldn’t ask where I was going dancing, because I didn’t have a clue.

  I tossed my phone to the side, then got myself comfortable against the headboard so I could drink more wine and continue my stalking.

  Someone like Callie would definitely have a Facebook page. She probably took photos of everything she ate and her cat. I bet she had a cat. Single girls always had cats.

  I searched a few names of people from high school who I thought might also be friendly with her in case she wasn’t using her last name. When that didn’t help, I tried whoever I could think of who graduated around the time that she had. Still nothing. If she was as stuck up and mean as she was in high school, it was no wonder she didn’t have any friends.

  As a last resort, I tried Dylan’s page. Even if he never posted, that didn’t mean they hadn’t friended each other.

  “Bingo! There you are, Callie Beth.”

  The satisfaction at finding her name quickly morphed into nausea. Her profile picture was a selfie of her and Chase, heads bowed close together. And while Chase was wearing sunglasses, Callie’s were pushed on top of her head. She was beaming—smiling straight into the camera, and I could swear, she was looking right at me. Like one of those creepy paintings where the eyes follow you.

  I should’ve slammed the laptop shut, but no. Drinking made me stupid and masochistic. I scrolled through Callie’s feed. There were more than a dozen photos, going as far back as Memorial Day that included Chase.

  Some were selfies that Callie had taken, unless Chase had suddenly turned into a Kardashian. One was at a concert, which hurt even more, especially since I’d ruined the only concert I’d ever been to when I flashed the band. There were a few photos from a picnic, probably at Dylan and Lorraine’s. One even included Geraldine, Chase’s mother. That bitch was actually smiling.

  It wouldn’t have surprised me if Callie deliberately set these photos public, just in case I did exactly what I was doing—snooping.

  I studied Chase’s face in each picture. He was smiling, but it wasn’t the smile I was used to. At least that’s what I wanted to believe. Chase didn’t smile often, but when he did, it lit him up from the inside. I might have been kidding myself, but I just didn’t see it.

  I dug through the bundled up blanket and sheets in search of my phone.

  Diane answered after four rings.

  “Are you sleeping?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “If my husband’s in the woods with another woman, does that mean he loves her?”

  “Huh?”

  “Let me begin again—”

  “How about you begin again in the morning?”

  I tried to stand but my legs were tangled in the sheets, and I face-planted onto the floor. I untangled myself and crawled across the carpet to retrieve my phone. “If my husband’s in the woods with another woman, does it mean he loves her?”

  “Why is Chase in the woods?”

  “You’re not listening!”

  “Do you know what time it is?”

  “No. Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  “Does he love her?”

  There was a long, drawn-out sigh on the other end of the line. “No, sweetheart. Not necessarily.”

  “That’s what I said!”

  “To who?”

  “You!”

  “Are you drinking?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Go to sleep, honey.” She yawned in my ear. “And call me in the morning.”

  I hung up and tugged the laptop onto the floor beside me, going back to Callie’s Facebook page.

  I raised my glass, only to find it was still empty. I tried several times to pour more into the glass. When I kept missing, I gave up and drank straight from the bottle.

  My thoughts thick and muddy, I threw myself back, slamming the back of my head on a corner of the nightstand.

  Fucking Chase. Fucking Callie!

  The bottle slipped from my hands.

  Was he fucking Callie Stankevich in the woods?

  The air grew heavy, and I struggled to breathe. Of course he was fucking Callie. I knew my husband—my ex-husband. He liked fucking. A lot. And Callie was a fucking bitch.

  Moving from Callie’s Facebook page to my own, the question at the top of my blank status update beckoned: What’s on your mind, Rain?

  At least Mark Zuckerberg cared about me.

  I began typing. Tapping out letters, deleting the ones my clumsy fingers chose on their own until I’d said exactly what was on my mind.

  I don’t want to live like this. It hurts too much.

  Fat tears splashed onto my hands and my laptop. I wiped them away
quickly. My life was pathetic enough without having to explain to the Computer Geeks that I shorted out my computer because I cried all over it.

  I pushed the laptop out of my way and climbed into bed.

  Maybe in my dreams I could find a place where I would still feel whole.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  With the kids camping for the weekend, I was able to sleep off most of the brutal hangover I’d given myself. I still felt a little out of sorts by the time I got to Blondie’s Friday night, but it was more my heart than my stomach or my head that was hurting. At least it had been busy most of the evening, which didn’t give me too much time to dwell on anything other than filling mugs and mixing drinks.

  It was nearing midnight before things finally slowed down long enough that I could restock the beer fridge behind the bar. I emptied the last case of Heineken, wishing Irena would stop carrying it, when the door opened, bringing with it a rush of warm air from outside. Which was odd, because at the exact same moment, I felt a tiny shiver run down my spine as if it had been an icy blast instead.

  “Just a second,” I called over my shoulder, wiping my damp hands on my thighs. I pushed myself up, and when I turned, the empty carton I’d been holding slipped from my hands and landed at my feet.

  “Rain, Rain, Rain. Damn. You haven’t changed one bit.”

  The way Preston sized me up, I felt like the juiciest steak in the butcher’s window. I hated to admit it, but it was exactly what my pitiful excuse for an ego needed.

  He didn’t take his eyes off me as he walked around the bar, swung his leg over a stool, and sat down.

  “Hiya, Preston.” I kept my voice low.

  “Damn.” He said again.

  “What can I get you?” My face was growing warm from the way he looked at me.

  “Whatever you have on tap. I’m easy.”

  A laugh slipped out before I could stop it. “Oh, honey,” I said, my inner flirt perking up, “you were never easy.”

  He lowered his eyes and chuckled.

  I popped the top on a Molson, poured it into a glass, and set it on a coaster in front of him. “To what do we owe this honor? You get tossed out of that fancy country club of yours?”

  He watched me over the rim of his glass as he took a long drink, his pale blue eyes holding me in place.

  “Hardly. I heard you were back to work, and I couldn’t miss the chance to see the delightful Rain Storm back in her element.”

  I snorted. He wasn’t kidding. Even if Blondie’s had moved beyond its shot-and-beer days, it hadn’t moved all that far. “Yeah, well. Some things never change.”

  “Oh, but that’s not true, is it?” He swallowed another mouthful, and I waited, expecting a snarky comment about my current situation, but when he spoke, he actually surprised me.

  “I heard about your divorce, and I’m sorry. I really am. I’d hoped he deserved you, because God knows I sure as hell didn’t.”

  The sincerity in Preston’s voice made the backs of my eyes burn and my throat feel thick. Unable to answer, I just shook my head.

  “Can I do anything for you?” he asked. “I know you never wanted my help before, but I’d like to think we can be friends, and friends help friends.”

  I tried to speak around the lump stuck in my throat. “No. But thank you. Chase has been very generous with me and the kids. I’m good. More or less.”

  He held out his hand. “Can we be friends? Could you use one of those?”

  Despite the cluster of flares and sirens going off in my head, I accepted his outstretched hand. “I can. Thank you.”

  “Can I buy my new friend a drink? Tequila shooter?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  I prepared the two shots and set one in front of Preston with a wedge of lime and the salt shaker between us. I half expected him to remind me of the first time we’d done shots together, but to his credit, he didn’t. After we each licked and salted our own hands, Preston raised his glass in a toast.

  “To Miss February. Still the most beautiful bartender in New Jersey.”

  The sentiment was sweet, but I hadn’t felt like the most beautiful anything in a long time. I clinked the rim of his glass and then downed my shot.

  “So tell me, Rain. How are you? Really?”

  “I’ve been better.”

  His head bobbed sympathetically. “And Izzy? How’s she doing?”

  “She’s okay. Both of the kids are okay. They’re camping actually. With Chase.” There was no way in hell I was telling him that they were camping with Chase and his new girlfriend.

  I got called away to refill a few drinks at the other end of the bar. When I returned, I poured Preston another Molson and redirected our conversation.

  “How are you doing?”

  He stared into his glass for a few beats. When he lifted his head, I saw the man he’d been when we first met. Sweet, but also a little sad.

  “Honestly? I’ve been better.”

  “I am a bartender. We’re good listeners in case you didn’t know.”

  He swirled the liquid in his glass before he answered, as if sifting through what he was willing to share.

  “Probably nothing you haven’t heard before. I made a lot of bad choices, Rain. You, of all people, know that.”

  I did know that, but I also wouldn’t have changed a thing about Preston’s bad choices and how they affected me if it meant I’d not have fallen in love with Chase Holgate. No matter what. When I didn’t respond, he veered away from talking about anything serious.

  We chatted easily for the next two hours—old friends catching up. And even though I was divorced, he wasn’t, and that wasn’t a road I would be traveling down again, despite what his attention was doing for my bruised ego.

  Irena rang the bell for last call. I circled the bar, filling mugs and settling up with the few remaining customers.

  When I got to Preston, I refilled his beer—on the house.

  “It was great seeing you again.”

  “Are you sending me home?” He gave me a sexy pout.

  “You know what they say about closing time: ‘You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.’”

  He chuckled. “I wasn’t planning on staying here, but I would like to spend a little more time with you. How about breakfast?”

  “Shouldn’t you be getting home?”

  “To an empty house? Not really.” He didn’t elaborate, and I sure didn’t ask.

  Irena had been eying him suspiciously all night, but she didn’t seem to remember who he was, which was a good thing, especially when we left together.

  “I’ll drive,” he said. “I’ll bring you back for your car later.”

  We turned the corner to find a classic Corvette Stingray.

  “You still have it?” I felt as if I’d stepped not just around the corner but back in time.

  “Yep. I don’t take it out of the garage much anymore, but I thought you’d get a kick out of seeing it again.”

  I ran my hand over the candy apple green finish. I’d spent a lot of time in that car and done a lot of things I shouldn’t have in there.

  “Brings back memories, doesn’t it?” he asked with a cheeky smile. I guess he remembered those things too.

  I slipped into the passenger seat and tugged at the seat belt. It didn’t budge.

  “Here.” He leaned across me, and I got a whiff of his cologne. I didn’t recognize it, but he smelled good. Chase never wore cologne—he just smelled like Chase—and I felt a pang of guilt. Or remorse. Preston pulled the strap across my lap. His hand lingered for a moment on my thigh before buckling me into place.

  We drove to the Circle Diner and sat across from each other in a booth at the back. After the waitress brought us each a cup of coffee—regular, not decaf—and took our orders, egg white and spinach omelet for him, scrambled eggs and bacon for me.

  Preston’s mood had taken a much more serious turn from the more casual banter we’d shared in the bar.

  He
poured a splash of cream into his cup, lifted his spoon, and stirred. His pale blue eyes grew darker, more intense.

  “Rain, I—”

  “How’s that team of farmers doing?”

  His eyebrows slammed together. “What?”

  “Baseball, remember? Didn’t you once tell me you owned a baseball team for farmers?” I knew I was way off base and sounded like an idiot, but the mood need some serious lightening.

  His head rolled back, followed by a low rumble of laughter. “A farm team. I own a farm team. Players usually start there and try and work their way up to the major leagues.”

  I flashed him a ditzy smile. It had worked. If my acting like the brainless halfwit he was used to kept the conversation from getting too serious, then that’s what I’d give him.

  “What do you grow on that farm?”

  He cocked his head. “You’re kidding, right?”

  I sipped my coffee and smiled at him over the rim of the cup. “Maybe.”

  “Okay. Since I’m not quite sure if you’re pulling my leg or not, let me tell you how a farm team works.”

  He launched into an explanation of baseball and stats and things I really didn’t care all that much about, especially not being a Yankee fan, while I smiled and nodded.

  I hated to admit it, but as long as we weren’t talking about Chase or Suzanne, or God forbid—us—I was actually having fun.

  It was the most I’d laughed in eight months.

  The waitress arrived with our plates balanced along her arm like an old pro and carrying a coffee carafe in her other hand. She topped off our mugs, then pulled a pen out from behind her ear. “Anything else?” she asked in a voice that had just enough gravel to hint at a habit of at least a pack a day.

  “I think we’re good for now,” Preston answered, dismissing her without as much as a glance in her direction or a thank you.

  He laughed when I grabbed the ketchup. “You still put ketchup on your eggs?”

  “Some things never change.” I rolled my eyes, referring not only to my love of ketchup on eggs, but his disregard for those who served him in some capacity.

  My comment lost on him, he smiled. “Just like you. You haven’t changed one bit.”