I wiped my face of crumbs and settled my chin in my hand on the counter, watching her pipe the last cannoli.
“You still not doing great?”
Wise girl, that Jackie.
I shrugged.
“Do you want to talk about it?” She asked.
Apparently I did. I was the queen of bitching and moaning that day. Seemed to be the only thing that could dull the pain was talking about it, oddly enough.
So I did.
I told her about the lack of response from Chalice, ignoring the call from Cole, that lack of motivation, my failure of an evening the night before.
The down side of venting about your problems is that no matter how good you feel while venting, after you’re done, you return to the silence to fester – alone. Emotional pain is a bitch.
She listened, nodded, sighed her sympathy at appropriate times. Then as I went silent, she turned her attention to boxing up the cannolis, leaving me to mope a moment.
Then she struck. “What’s going on with Stellan?”
The tears were coming down my face before I could shield it. Somehow just the mention of his name set a fire in my chest that could have razed a forest. She swiftly snuck around the counter to put her arms around me, and I shook.
The dream that woke me that morning had been about him. Stellan was getting married to a random, beautiful, skinny, tiny, short little brunette with perfect teeth and an adorable laugh. A girl I clearly couldn’t compete with because I wasn’t tiny, adorable, or a brunette. I hated that figment of my imagination.
“Have you tried talking to him?”
I shook my head. “No. I’ve been waiting for him. I don’t want to pester him or drive him away more by seeming – I don’t know – needy.”
“He’s your best friend. How can you think you could push him away by needing him?”
“Because I need him in a different way now,” I said.
I’d fucked this up. Me, alone. I’d taken something and was now left with the hole, made only darker by the fact that I’d dug it myself.
“I think you’re underestimating him, honey.”
I took deep, shaking breaths, trying to regain my composure, breathing out slowly through pursed lips. The first attempt failed, and my chin creased with a new bout of tears. This one was shorter, soundless. The shaking in my breath slowed.
Jackie ran her hand over my shoulder until I was able to wipe my eyes. God how I hate spending time with people whose lives are perfect.
“You should reach out to him. Let him know you miss him.”
I tossed my napkin onto the counter. “It won’t get me what I need.”
She sighed. “You never know until you try – and I mean really try.”
I was having trouble being there. Being out of the house, out of my bed felt like an ordeal. I took my leave, being sent home with a box of cannolis, and piled into the car.
I drove home with tears running down my face.
CHAPTER fifteen
I didn’t sleep all day, but I didn’t get out of bed, either. By the time the sun started to go down I’d somehow managed to give myself a headache from doing nothing.
I’d forgotten what that felt like.
I crawled out of bed around nine that night and futzed around the kitchen.
I picked up my phone, silently hoping for some text message or phone call that would set my troubles at ease.
Repentant Stellan - Faye, I love you!
Love-struck Stellan - Faye, marry me.
Lusty, Hard-bodied Stellan - Faye, I was wrong, I DO want you to eat my face.
Instead I found no messages – none. I suppose that is better than an array of messages from people who are, in fact, not Stellan. It had begun to hurt my heart with each chime I heard. All I wanted was to hear from him; all I wanted was to be near him. These were things I no longer felt I could ask for.
The notion of a repeat of the night before depressed me even further. I contemplated going for a walk – no, I’d end up in view of Stellan’s house, and that would definitely not help my frame of mind.
So there I was; no inkling of desire for food, no desire to be around my friends - Even Evan wasn’t an option, possibly the least appealing one. He knew Stellan, had actual contact with him. I was just completely alone.
My phone vibrated in my hand.
I jumped, looking down in that instant of blind hopefulness.
Cole.
The fuckface almost made me throw my phone a second time in two months. I refrained. I stood there a moment.
“Hello?”
“You answered.”
My tone betrayed just how excited I was to hear from him. I had no control over it. “Yes, that is the common courtesy response expected of a person – with manners.”
He paused. “Are you free?”
I stood stock still a moment, my feet sinking through the floorboards. “Yes.”
I plopped down on the stool by the bar, keeping my eyes on the mirror behind the bar at Paparazzi’s. My knit hat was slouched back on my head and I’d barely gotten dressed; I was clad in an AC/DC t-shirt and blue jeans.
Despite agreeing to meet, the notion of actually seeing him settled in my stomach like over whipped cream. I’d ordered a drink to steady myself, but by the time I saw his reflection coming in, I hadn’t been able to force down a single sip.
He looked as bad as I felt. Well, let’s be honest, I probably looked just as bad, but whatever, I’m talking about him.
He was dressed in his work clothes – the black button down and black pants. His hair was tousled, clearly slept on with product still in it, but his eyes looked like they hadn’t seen sleep in days. I didn’t move. I wanted to be invisible.
He met my gaze in the mirror, walked up behind me, and waited. He ran his fingers over my shoulder. I shuddered.
After he received no response, he settled onto the bar stool next to me and asked for a drink. It came before either of us said a word.
“You look beautiful,” he finally said.
“You trying to sell me something?”
His mouth fell open. “I think you always look beautiful.”
I spun on him, turning my full body to face him. “What do you want?”
He didn’t speak.
I clenched my fists.
“Faye,” he said putting his hand on my knee. I swatted him away, but he continued. “I fucked up. I fucked up so bad. I think about you every day. I miss your face… I miss your laugh.”
I turned back to my drink. “I’m sure clit-piercing has a great laugh.”
“She was a mistake. I was stupid, and I didn’t know what I was fucking doing.”
I turned my gaze toward the highest shelf of drinks behind the bar. So she was real. She wasn’t just a picture.
Someone kill me, I thought.
“I’ve heard that infidelity is a symptom of a dying relationship.”
“I didn’t even give us a chance to find out. You were spending the night so often, I guess I just started to get scared -”
“I was spending the night too often? Are you fucking kidding me? Mister I-don’t-want-you-to-slow-me-down-in-the-morning cocksucker!”
A middle aged man and his young date glanced at us from the other end of the bar. I lifted my glass to them with a shit eating grin.
“I was scared! You lost your place, and you were going to need somewhere to stay, and I knew that it should be with me, and I just freaked out. I didn’t think I was ready to move in together.”
I thought of the former fantasies I’d managed to collect when we were together, of making him coffee when he was in the shower, or perhaps sneaking in to join him, or the fantasies of us making love before the alarm clock went off despite him pushing me away more than half the time when I wanted him.
I swigged hard on my white Russian. “Well, fucking another girl solved that problem for you, didn’t it?”
&n
bsp; He pressed his knuckles to his nose and closed his eyes. He hadn’t touched his drink. I decided to finish mine off.
“I would do anything to fix it. Is there anything I can do to fix it? Faye?” He settled his hand on my knee again, and I looked down at his fingers. I didn’t push him away this time. “I love you.”
Ah, fuck. He’d never been forthcoming with those words before. Hearing the timber of his voice, the waver it carried; he’d meant it. I swallowed hard.
Someone loved me. I wasn’t unlovable.
He leaned in and kissed my shoulder. I shook my shoulder to push him off, but the fervor in me had died. The closeness, the familiar smell, his sad blue eyes – they were all working. I held tight to one phrase I’d heard said from every person in my life. I remembered the person who’d said it with the most conviction, and my throat tightened. “You don’t deserve me.”
And he cried.
Right there in the middle of the bar, Cole Blanchard cried for the world to see.
I lost the battle right there. I couldn’t see him like that; broken and miserable. I tossed the last few dollars I had to my name down on the bar, took him by the hand and led him outside. We stood between his black Infinite convertible and my Santé Fe. After a moment, he teared up again, and I couldn’t take it. The sound, the sight of him - I wrapped my arms around him. He clasped his hands into the fabric of my tired old t-shirt and held me as tightly as he could. His body shook, and he gasped softly.
Cole squeezed me in his arms, fighting to get a hold of himself as he did. I thought of things I’d once daydreamed about, some piece of joy I’d held in my heart before that picture on his cell phone, or the ones I held before that Halloween party at Lambert’s.
I’d lost those things. I’d lost them, and I couldn’t have them back.
The sound of the door opening to the restaurant and the boisterous laughter of the people exiting startled me. I watched them leave with a degree of envy that far passed disdain. I rubbed the back of my hand across my eyes and pulled away. Cole moved slowly, leaning toward me, whispering my name.
I knew what was coming. I didn’t stop it.
He kissed me.
I walked into the house at 8:30 the next morning, groggy and confused. My mother was already gone when I’d pulled into the driveway, something I’d made sure of by driving around aimlessly for an hour before actually pulling into my street. I didn’t want to see her, didn’t want to have to explain myself. I was sure there was no one in my life who would rejoice in hearing the words, “I spent the night with Cole.” Seeing their faces when I confessed myself did not rank high on my list of most looked forward to moments. I hobbled upstairs and took a shower, then sprawled out on my bed in a towel.
I was sore in certain places, tired in others, and peeing was an interesting experience as well. I actually got up and dressed after a few moments rather than wasting away in bed. I pulled my cell out from my jeans pocket, still dead from the night before, and plugged it in. I left it on the kitchen counter as I made myself an egg sandwich. When the phone went off, it was my mother.
I’m heading to the store after work. Are you doing dessert on Thursday? Need me to pick up anything?
Oh my fucking god, I thought. It was Thanksgiving. How had November already gone by? Stellan and I hadn’t been speaking, and I’d managed to wallow through three weeks of near silence. Three weeks.
I felt like I’d been punched.
Dessert on Thanksgiving was a Jensen tradition. Supper itself was always a family affair – unless my mother had a boyfriend at the time, which had happened once or twice when I was young. Yet, after supper the doors opened and neighbors and friends would come, and my Grandmother would lay out her best works. Pecan Chocolate Pie, Swedish Apple Pie, sometimes a Strawberry Rhubarb or a Pumpkin Pie. Many years she left one of the staples for someone else to bring, an act of kindness she thought, given they were the easiest to run down to the supermarket and purchase last minute. I’d spent many years at her side in this kitchen, helping her roll out pie crust or smashing pecans or slicing apples. Over the years, as her fingers bent and shook, I took over little by little. When she passed, I continued this alchemy for her - my way of communing, perhaps.
I texted back the ingredients for the mainstays. I’d do Chocolate Pecan and Apple. I swiftly turned to the project of reminders, informing the usual suspects that they were all invited to the Jensen Family Thanksgiving Dessert, err, shindig thing. I stood texting away for the next half hour as I sipped a cup of tea and watched the bird feeders out the kitchen window. I cajoled Jackie into bringing cannolis.
I came to Stellan and paused.
Then I thought of Cole, but the decision was quick. No, clearly. He has never set foot in the house or met my friends and family, and what happened between us was far too new – wait.
Are we new?
The thought stopped me cold. I’d slept with him – something that in my past had always meant ‘relationship,’ but did it mean that to him? And if it did, was I happy?
I stared at Stellan’s name. I knew my answer.
I opened a new text message and typed.
Breezy ‘Let’s-Pretend-It-Hasn’t-Been-Super-Weird- For-Three-Weeks’ Me - Is the Ødegård brood coming for dessert Thursday? Anything specific you want?
Then like a trained rat pulling a lever, I sat there staring at my phone, waiting for a response. I’d say five minutes passed before I realized my tea was getting cold, and my arm was falling asleep from leaning on the windowsill. I turned for the sink and the phone fired off in my hand; Stellan’s ringtone. The sound of it made my heart pound.
Swedish Apple. Always.
Done, I responded and set the phone down. I wiped my hand across my eyes and watched the birds.
CHAPTER Sixteen
Jackie came by on Wednesday night to help me with the baking. Despite her culinary prowess, we had a long understanding that when it came to my baking, she was NOT to interfere. No helping unless asked, no advice, no suggestions, just sit there and look pretty and keep me company while I work. The one year she tried to step in and advise me on my pie crusts, I snapped at her that my Grandmother had done a fine job of teaching me once, I didn’t need to be taught again. She never overstepped again.
“So is he coming tomorrow?”
I tossed flour across the counter to roll out another crust. “No. I didn’t invite him.”
“But you’ve seen him again, yes?”
I nodded. She was referring to Cole.
My phone buzzed on the counter. Jackie glanced at it and raised an eyebrow. It was Cole. Again. He’d been texting all day.
“He’s a chatty guy these days, I see,” she said.
I shrugged. He was. He was at work, calling me sweetheart and such. I responded as often as I had reason, but being elbows deep in pie crust made the act a little inconvenient at the moment.
“Are you two officially back together then?”
I pushed the rolling pin across the dough one last time and paused. I feared the response. “Yes. A kinda trial thing.”
Jackie drew her finger through the flour on the counter drawing a heart, and smiled at me. “That’s wonderful.”
I felt small in her gaze, like a patronized child showing terrible artwork. She continued to search my face; I kept my eyes to the crust.
“It sounds like he is making a sincere effort. That’s a good sign.”
It was. It was a big difference from the aloof way he’d been before. Now, I was the one being aloof. I didn’t mean to be, but I simply didn’t have a response to his texts about the man in traffic talking to himself, or the bar customer who left his dentures in the bathroom. Part of me felt unkind, given that I had once been the one to send these random texts in search of connection, but I simply didn’t have anything to say. I was giving myself time.
It was going to take time.
I shaped the crust into the pie pan, mixed and poured t
he pecans and corn syrup, then tossed in chocolate chips, eating more of them than I would like to admit. I tossed it in the oven while ‘letting’ Jackie cut apples to help with the second pie. I hated cutting apples. It made my teeth sweat.
I started the Kitchenaid Mixer whirring away at the batter for the Swedish Apple Pie and took a moment to respond to Cole. Instead, the phone buzzed in my hand, followed by a familiar, but rarely heard ringtone - Stellan.
Two guesses how my stomach reacted.
You getting your Swedish on?
I smiled with every inch of my being.
Me - Not as well as you.
I stood there clutching my phone, the mixer grinding away at the now whipped concoction of butter, flour and sugar.
Jackie set the apple wheel cutter on the counter with a firm thonk and said, “What now?”
I met her gaze. Her brow was furrowed, but she was smirking. I set the phone down, shut off the mixer and returned to my work. With every moment that passed, my stomach tightened.
Stellan wasn’t responding. He wasn’t responding. He still wasn’t responding.
This naturally translated into - He hates you. It was a mistext, he can’t stand you. He’s ignoring you.
I flustered with the mixer, trying to yank the beater free to wash it.
The phone buzzed – Cole.
My heart sank.
Yeah, it was going to take time.
My mother and I cooked a small bird, mashed potatoes, corn, and stuffing, and I made my grandmother’s green bean casserole and gravy. We sat and chatted about things, mainly museum news, details about a current student exhibition with a painting she was contemplating splurging on by a young man named Bertrand Fuller. She mentioned how his technique and pallet and eye for light reminded her so much of my father’s work, and I shut down completely. I let her go on, I even nodded and mhm-ed a couple times to be an active listener, but I didn’t hear a word of it.
We finished around 2:30PM, just enough time to clear the table, start the coffee and set out the dessert plates and utensils. The Hodges would always be first, and they would bring the brownie tree from the Concord Bakery; then the Fallons would come from up the road, potentially bringing a teenager or two with them; the Merle-Witts had RSVP’d this year, a first since the two women had moved in next door; and finally Jackie and Kevin and the Ødegårds, who walked down from their house in the center. At 2:55PM the doorbell rang, and I wiped my hands on a kitchen towel and dashed down the hall to answer it, still in my grandmother’s blue striped apron.
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