I laugh out loud to myself at that one. Gilf? Please dear God don’t tell me that means Grandmother I’d Like to Fuck. I do a quick Google search to confirm and wish I hadn’t. I take notes on profiles that have some nice family photos or food shots so I can reach out to them and ask if we can use their pics or link to them.
I’m about to close Instagram when I notice one post using the Hawkins Lobster hashtag features a very familiar face. Jackson. I go straight to it. Surely it isn’t actually him…but it is. “Oh my God…” I whisper to myself.
My husband is sitting at a booth in Hawkins Lobster Shack with his brother Denny eating a lobster roll and smiling at me, and the air disappears from my lungs. It seems to be Denny’s account, which I didn’t know he had. This is the only shot of Jackson, which makes sense. They got along great but didn’t spend a lot of time with each other because we lived so far away from Denny for so long. The caption under the photo says, ‘Big bro moved to Maine!’
I remember this day, vaguely. We had been here about a week and Denny drove down from New Hampshire to visit for the day. They wanted to go out to eat, and I declined. I wanted to unpack more of our moving boxes, and I also wanted them to have guy time. Jackson would be killed less than four weeks later. I stare at Jackson’s smiling face, and my heart plummets into my gut, which is suddenly swimming with mixed emotions, including guilt. Lots of it.
I didn’t get counseling after Jackson died for a few reasons. One, I was recovering from my injuries, and although they sent a social worker by to chat with me a few times and give me grief pamphlets, I didn’t have the time to attend the free group therapy classes, nor did I want to. Groups have never been my thing. And I couldn’t afford private counseling. So I relied on self-help books and blogs. I still had issues around everything, I knew it. But I was managing. I removed all traces of Jackson from the house because it was too painful, but I didn’t throw a thing away. All the photos and even his clothes were tucked away in airtight containers in the attic. It wasn’t that I wanted to forget him, I just had to stop seeing him everywhere. The guilt and pain were too much. So seeing him now, it blindsides me.
The doorbell rings, and I jump. I close down my iPad, thankful for a chance to stop staring at the picture. I get off the couch and make my way to the front door. I’m scared it’s Logan. I’m too out of sorts, and seeing him will trigger feelings that will mix with the pain I’m feeling over seeing Jackson’s face again and…ugh just please don’t be Logan.
It’s not. It’s worse. It’s Mrs. Green.
“Chloe, darling. I hope I’m not interrupting something,” she says, but the way her eyes dart from my face to over my shoulders indicates she hopes she is interrupting something.
“Of course not,” I say, fighting my facial muscles that want to do nothing but frown. “What can I do for you?”
“It’s about that petition I told you about. There’s an online link to it on my blog and I noticed you haven’t signed it yet” Mrs. Green holds out a clipboard with the petition on it. Who even owns a clipboard? “You know that the Carter lawn is a disaster and those kinds of lawns attract the wrong kind of people.”
“Lawn ornaments attract the wrong type of people?” I can’t help but sound cynical, and I’m sure the look on my face is even more cynical than my tone.
“I have done a lot of research on this, and garden gnomes on your front lawn means you’re…” She steps forward and lowers her voice, her pale eyes staring up at me, as serious as a heart attack. “It means you’re swingers.”
I blink. “Swingers.”
“Yes a couple who…fornicate with other couples…” she whispers and her cheeks start turning pink.
I blink again. I am playing dumb because I’m hoping if I make her uncomfortable enough, she will simply leave without pushing me on this petition. “Fornicate with other couples at the same time? Like a foursome? Or are there multiple couples? Like how many?”
Mrs. Green’s posture gets ramrod straight. “No, I think that’s called something else. I am not an expert on this, Chloe. I just want it gone off the lawn. There are fourteen of them for goodness sake! And that miniature reindeer they have up year-round.”
“It’s a rooster,” I correct her. “And I’m sorry, Mrs. Green, but I don’t want to get involved. I’m not against lawn ornaments, and although I don’t want that many myself, I’m not willing to go to war on this. I’m sorry.”
She looks like I just announced to her that I swing. “Humpf. Well, what about the Hawkins boy you’ve got stashed around here someplace. Will he sign?”
“I don’t have Logan stashed anywhere,” I say, my voice as tight as my grip on the door. “I rent him an apartment. And I doubt he’ll want to sign it, but you’re welcome to ask him sometime, just not tonight. He’s with his son.”
I start to close the door and am about to tell her to have a good night, and pretend I actually mean it, when she starts talking again. Gossiping. “You know my kids are around the same age as the Hawkins brood, give or take. And I went to school with Lucy and Charles,” she starts, and I already don’t like where this is going. “Lucy is a naive woman. That husband of hers was quite the player in high school. Almost got his claws into me. Anyway, they clearly went a little crazy on the baby front, and trust me when I tell you they had their hands full with that brood. The older one, Declan, was so uptight and anxious as a kid he tried to hurt himself. It was horrible. And then Terra with her sickness and having to take a kidney from her boyfriend. The twins, they seem to be the normal ones, but they’re the wildest of the bunch. Players like their daddy was. I can’t keep track of the number of different woman I’ve seen Finn running around with, and you know Logan up and got that poor Bethany Bard knocked up, and then he disappears to Florida or some such nonsense because he can’t stop guzzling booze and leaves her with a newborn and then comes back and—”
“Mrs. Green,” I interrupt her and put my hand up in a universal stop symbol. “I will not sit here and listen to you tell tales about my…boyfriend,” I say flatly. Her eyes light up because I just gave her the new gossip that keeps her heart pumping. I swear that’s all that keeps her going.
“I thought he was your tenant?” She lifts a salt and pepper eyebrow.
“He is. And boyfriend.”
“So that’s why I’ve seen him climb your stairs fairly late at night,” Mrs. Green comments.
“When he climbs my stairs and why is not your business, Mrs. Green,” I say, and I’m not even trying to be kind anymore, which I know I will regret later. “And what happens in this house—my house—is not Paul Turner’s business either. If you want to continue to have a neighborly relationship with me, then I suggest you remember that. Good night.”
I shut the door firmly, but I don’t slam it. I can hear her let out a loud huff on the other side, and thanks to the single pane windows, I can hear her muttering all the way down the stairs.
“Well I never! That Jackson boy was such a delight. He wouldn’t want some Hawkins hellion in his house with his wife. I just…Oh my word. Why did he marry her?”
Half of me wants to swing the door open and really let her have it, but the other half of me just wants to go to bed and cry. I let that half win. Because my quiet night at home has turned into an emotional rollercoaster. I shouldn’t be surprised. I’ve had a lot of highs and lows since the crash. I used to burst into tears randomly for years, but I’ve been under control for a while. Everything went to shit tonight.
Mrs. Green’s words hurt. I know it’s not my fault Jackson died. I know he wouldn’t want me to be miserable for the rest of my life. I know but…My cell rings from where it’s charging on the bed side table. I see Denny’s number on the screen. “Hey Denny.”
“Sorry to call so late,” he says. “I’m on a shift and just realized it’s past eleven after I dialed. Sorry.”
“It’s fine. I was awake,” I say and try to sound upbeat. “What’s up?”
“I wanted to let you
know I talked to Paul and made it clear that he needs to back off or I’ll help you file that restraining order,” Denny says and his voice is grim. He hates fighting with his brother, but to be fair, he did it a lot before Jackson died. Neither Jackson nor Denny got along with Paul, but Jackson tried harder and made Denny try harder. “I’m sad to say I don’t know if it made a difference. He’s obsessed with that damn house.”
“I know,” I sigh. “Thank you, though, for the back-up. Whether it works or not, I’m very appreciative.”
“You sound down. Everything else okay?” Denny asks. “I have time to talk if you want. I’m on a break. Just sitting in my cruiser sipping a coffee outside a donut shop. You know, to keep up appearances.”
I smile at that. Denny is a police officer just across the border in New Hampshire. Although Jackson and his family moved a lot, they lived in Vermont, Massachusetts, Georgia, and Hawaii before Jackson turned eighteen. Paul, Denny, and Jackson ended up back in New England as adults, where both their parents had been raised.
“I was having a good night and a good few weeks actually, but then…I wasn’t,” I say, not knowing how much I can confess to him. Denny has been a good friend since Jackson died, and he’s said before he wants me to start dating, but now that I am I’m worried I can’t be honest with him.
“Okay…” Denny says tentatively. “So let’s investigate. Why were you having a good night? What changed that?”
“I was doing some work for a client, scouring social media for posts about them, and I stumbled onto your Instagram,” I say vaguely and bite my lower lip. “And saw that pic you have of Jackson eating lobster rolls at Hawkins.”
“Shit. I haven’t looked at that picture in ages,” Denny says.
“It was taken when we first moved to Maine and…well, moving on never gets easier. Even when you think it is, something blindsides you.”
“But you are moving on, and that’s great. No one wants you to be alone and sad forever, Chloe,” Denny says and after a pause. “So did you find someone to potentially move forward with? Is that why the guilt is resurfacing?”
“Yes,” I say and hold my breath waiting for his reaction.
“I’m happy for you, Chloe,” Denny says and pauses for a moment. I can hear him let out a heavy breath.
“Den, you’re a very good friend, and that won’t change no matter where things go with…” I bite my lip again to keep his name from falling off my tongue. I’m not ready to share too much information. “This guy or anyone else for that matter.”
A short burst of air hits my ears from Denny’s side, and I know he’s let out a soundless little laugh. I know he’s grinning cheekily right now. “This guy? I’m a good friend, but I don’t get a name?”
“Not yet. It’s new. Give me a minute,” I reply and sit up higher against my headboard. My fingers run over the butterfly bandage on my forehead.
“It’s been five years,” he says. “Of course you’re still going to have fleeting moments of survivor’s guilt but don’t let it steal happiness from you, Chloe. And when things get serious with This Guy, give me his date of birth and full name so I can background check the hell out of him.”
I laugh and Denny chuckles. “Be kind to yourself, Chloe. I have to run. Gotta keep the mean streets of Portsmouth safe. Last night a raccoon pillaged four trash cans on one street and the town is up in arms.”
“Night Denny. Be safe. And thank you.”
I put the phone back down, turn off my light, and snuggle deep under the covers. Boss is snoring at my feet, and Stevie walks up the side of the bed. She licks the tip of my nose once before curling into a ball right next to me. I’m suddenly exhausted, which is good because I drift off immediately before the guilt can seep back in.
But it feels like I’ve barely blinked when I’m awoken by my phone ringing again. My heart lurches as I bolt to a sitting position. The room should be pitch black, but it’s not. There’s a horrible orange glow bouncing off the walls which is filtering in from the gap in the curtains on the front window. The ringing stops. I glance at it and see the call was from Logan, and the time is three forty-four in the morning. And then it starts ringing again.
“Logan,” I say hoarsely, my voice less awake than I am. “Are you—”
“Mrs. Green’s house is on fire!”
“Oh my God.”
“I need your help,” he says frantically.
I throw back the covers. Stevie startles awake when they hit her. Boss is already barking and growling at the foot of the bed. I put the dogs on the floor of the bedroom and rush downstairs through the house in the dark to the big bay window in the living room and gasp as I pull back the curtains. There’s flames coming out of almost every window on Mrs. Green’s ground floor.
“Oh my God,” I whisper again.
“Can you come downstairs and watch River?” he asks. “I need to help.”
“I’m on my way.” I hurry to the front hall and grab my coat and throw it on top of my pajamas and then shove my feet into my boots.
I hang up, unlock my front door, and rush down the stairs, slipping on the last one and almost landing on my ass. I take more ginger steps as I make my way around the side of the house to his door. All the other neighbors are on their lawns or porches. A few have garden hoses and buckets of water they’re trying to spray the house with. When I get to Logan’s door, he’s standing there with it wide open. Chewie is standing just behind him, tail wagging. “I don’t know how, but Riv hasn’t woken up. He might when the fire trucks show up, though. I need to get over there now.”
He gently pushes past me, shrugging into his parka as he goes, and I can’t help but grab his arm. “Be careful.”
“I’ll be okay, I promise.” The wail of firetrucks starts to permeate the air. “I just need to see if anyone needs medical attention.”
I nod nervously and watch him run away toward the flaming house, and my heart constricts. I close the door gently behind him and walk to the window, pulling back the curtains so I can watch the horror unfold. I feel helpless, but I know by staying here for River and letting Logan go be a doctor, I am helping. I think of Mrs. Green and our confrontation earlier that night. She had me so infuriated, but of course I’m praying she’s still here in the morning. Two firetrucks converge on the house, sirens blaring, and scream to a stop directly in front of my place, blocking my view. The sirens stop wailing almost immediately, but the lights keep swirling, making the inside of Logan’s apartment look like a macabre disco. Then Chewie barks. It’s like a cannon going off and reverberates off every wall in the apartment.
“Chewie! Shush!” I hiss, and he ignores me completely, barking again and jumping up on the couch so his whole head is level with the window. He pushes it through the curtains.
“Dad!” A little voice howls tentatively from the second bedroom.
Shit. Am I going to make this kid panic? He’s never met me, and he’s waking up in a house he isn’t used to with crazy lights and noises outside and now me, a stranger. I send up a silent SOS to the Universe to have this whole night not be too traumatic for him as I start down the hall. His bedroom door is only half open, and as he calls out for Logan again more urgently, I poke my head into the room.
“Hi River,” I say softly. “My name is Chloe. I’m a friend of your dad’s.”
He sits up in bed and turns on the small blue table lamp beside him. Holy moly he’s an adorable kid even with his blue eyes wide with fear and his bottom lip wobbling just the slightest. “I want my dad.”
“I know you do,” I say, keeping my voice gentle. “He’s just across the street. I promise he will be back soon.”
“I want him back now,” he whines and that bottom lip starts quivering so hard it looks like it’s in an earthquake.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
“River, you know that your daddy is a paramedic, right?” I ask and he nods. “Well he had to go across the street and help someone.”
“I’m scared,” he says. �
��I don’t like it.”
“I don’t blame you. I don’t like it either,” I confess and his watering blue eyes lock on my face. He’s on the verge of losing it completely and I am scrambling mentally to figure out how to stop it. I step farther into the room and extend my hand. “Do you want to come into the living room and wait for him there? Chewie is there.”
He nods and slowly, uneasily crawls out of bed. He doesn’t take my hand, so I drop it, but he walks a couple inches beside me. His little arms pulled forward, hands clasped together in front of his Darth Vader pajama set. He is trying so hard to be brave, and it’s inflating and breaking my heart at the same time.
“You like Star Wars?” I ask because of the pajamas.
He nods a shy yes. “Dad does too. He named Chewie after Chewbacca.”
As we enter the living room from the hall, Chewie jumps off the couch and trots over to us. River’s little face relaxes a little, and he almost cracks a smile as he reaches up to rub the dog’s head, which is higher than his own. Then he looks up as I walk to the curtains and pull the gap closed and flip on the tall lamp behind Logan’s couch.
“What’s the lights?” he asks, the apprehension still audible in his voice.
“There are fire trucks across the street,” I say because I don’t want to lie to him. I don’t think that’s the best way to make a good impression on this kid.
His face lights up. “Is Uncle Jake here?”
“I’m not sure.”
“He’s a firefighter. He let me ride in the firetruck once. It was awesome. I want to be firefighter too one day, but Ma says it’s too scary.” He climbs up on the couch and Chewie jumps up beside him. “But Ma also thinks the Invader is scary and he isn’t.”
The Winter We Collided: A Small Town Single Dad Romance (Ocean Pines Series Book 2) Page 20
