“Whenever.” I shrug. “We’re not in a rush. It’ll happen when it’s supposed to happen.”
We glance into the next room, where my father and Cainan are deep in some discussion about foreign trade policies as it relates to building supplies. Cainan is doing his best feigning as much interest as possible, though I’m sure he’s bored to tears. It’s sweet that he’s indulging my dad.
“Have you two talked about it at all?” She grabs the last potato.
“Not in detail, no. We both just know it’ll happen someday. We’re not worried about it.” I scoop the peels from the sink and toss them in the garbage.
While we’ve only been dating a year now, Cainan and I feel like we’ve been together our whole lives—and we know we’re going to be together the rest of our lives. Engagements, weddings, those are formalities.
We’re choosing to focus on what matters: the relationship.
Besides, the last engagement left a bit of a bitter taste in my mouth. Fortunately, I’ve yet to run into Grant since everything went down. Cainan mentioned they spoke on the phone briefly after their altercation in Vegas, but he never heard from him after that. Though he still sent Georgette a card on Mother’s Day—and the day she got it, she called and spoke to him for a solid hour about this, that, and everything else non-Grant-related.
I think she understands why the guys fell out.
And I think she truly sees Cainan as her second son.
I’ve yet to meet his parents. He doesn’t like to talk about them. You have to pry details out of him like tweezers to a deep splinter. His sister’s a little more forthcoming, though she’s in the blissful throes of new motherhood, so I avoid dredging up anything from the past when we’re all together.
I smile to myself when I think of Cainan with his baby niece, Hadleigh. The first time Claire put her in his arms, he claimed he wasn’t good with babies. But he settled down and she settled in and the two became best pals from there on out. Now whenever we visit, he doesn’t waste any time crawling on the floor with her and making ridiculous noises and silly faces to match.
To be honest, I was never one-hundred-percent sure I wanted kids …
But seeing Cainan with Hadleigh sends a twinge to my ovaries like nothing before. And then there was that dream he had after his accident. He said we had two kids: a boy and a girl. I try not to let him go into detail whenever he brings it up.
I don’t want to know what comes next.
There is beauty in not knowing.
Magic, too.
“Well, whatever you decide,” Carly says, “just know that we all really like him.”
“Appreciate it.” I give her a wink, and I don’t remind her that they all really liked Grant too.
Grant was my past.
Cainan is my future.
He was, is, and always will be the best man for me.
Epilogue
Ten Years Later …
Cainan
“I’m not ready to leave.” Brie hugs her thighs against her chest, toes buried in the sand as we watch our daughter, Elle, and her kid brother, C.J., chase one another along the shore, giggling every time the ocean laps at their bare feet.
“Then we won’t.” I wrap my arm around her shoulders and pull her against me. Her bronzed skin is sunbaked, freckled, and warm, and the scent of her coconut sunblock carries on the salty ocean breeze that surrounds us. “I’ll quit my job and we’ll stay here. Forever. Every day will be just like this.”
I’ve lived this before—this exact moment.
In my dream.
She turns to me, fighting the smirk that claims her full lips, and then she pushes her cat-eyed sunglasses down her nose. “Don’t tempt me.”
“You’re not happy in the city.”
We’ve been here before. We’ve had this conversation before—only she doesn’t know it.
While we’ve talked about the dream I had after my accident, it’s never been in great detail—at her request.
From the beginning, she told me she wanted our life together to unfold organically, to be a surprise.
And for the most part, it has been.
I never could have anticipated moving to Phoenix for a few years shortly after we married. I also never could anticipate that she’d want to move back to the city—which we did shortly after C.J. came along. She said it felt like home, that it fit us better. And she felt more of a connection to Manhattan because it was where we fell in love and had all of our firsts.
First kiss.
First broken bed …
First fight.
First (and only) wedding.
Brie slides her glasses up and turns to watch the children. “It gets claustrophobic sometimes. The kids come out here and there’s so much space. They don’t stop smiling for months. Then we head back to the city, cram ourselves in a narrow, three-bedroom brownstone, and live in that gray cinderblock world for nine more months. Things are so fast-paced in the city, you know? Life is literally passing us by. Out here, time moves slower. Or at least it feels that way.”
“I told you the day I married you that your happiness is my happiness. If you want to move, we’ll move.”
She exhales. “I can’t ask you to walk away from your life’s work. We tried that in Phoenix, remember? You were miserable.”
“I can practice law here.”
“Now you’re just being optimistic.” Her voice is soft, apologetic almost.
But she’s right. With a population just above a thousand, I’d be lucky to land one new client every other week in Calypso Harbor. It’s a blink-and-you-miss it village that an overwhelming majority of locals forget even exists. That said, if we sold the brownstone, we’d have enough to fund a new little venture, maybe something in e-commerce.
The opportunities are endless.
“We can figure it out.” I tighten my hold on her.
“You make it sound so simple when it’s anything but.” That’s Brie—the worrier. She’s always been a numbers girl, gravitating toward the safety facts and figures give her, though I’ve helped her to loosen up a little over the years.
“Nothing’s ever simple,” I remind her. Our entire life together has been proof of that. “But we’ve always managed to figure it out. If this is what you want, we’ll make it happen. One way or another.”
I flip her wrist over and lift it to my lips, kissing the tiny tattoo that resides there—the one she got in honor of her twin sister shortly after we started dating. She was supposed to do it years ago and chickened out with a myriad of Brie-like explanations. I had to dial in my trial lawyer training from my law school days just to reason with her, and in the end, my persuasiveness did the trick. Shortly after that, I booked her an appointment with one of the best tattooists in Brooklyn and held her hand the entire time.
Elle and C.J. squeal with delight in the background, running from yet another gentle wave as it chases them up the shore, leaving a path of tiny footprints that get washed away in seconds.
Turning my attention to my lovely wife, I cup her cheek with my hand and claim her cherry-flavored mouth with a kiss—the mouth I could kiss a million times and never tire of.
But she doesn’t kiss me back.
Instead she pulls away.
“Cainan … there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you …”
“Of course. You can tell me anything.” My heart hammers, every second that passes more endless than the one before.
She bites her lower lip, looking away, and her shoulders rise and fall as she gathers a salted breath. And then she turns to me, green eyes dancing. “I’m pregnant.”
Afterword
My grandmother, Norma Jean, was sixteen when she dreamt she’d married a farmer, and in this dream, she found herself suspended from a crystal chandelier high above a room filled with farm animals of every kind.
Not quite ten years later, she was working at a bank in her hometown of Johnstown, Pennsylvania and engaged to a local man when she met a
handsome young soldier from rural South Dakota. The country was in the midst of the second World War, and he’d been drafted and stationed near her home for training.
The star-crossed souls had an instant connection, and soon she found herself torn between two men—and two vastly different futures.
Norma Jean chose the soldier …
… who just so happened to hail from a large farming family.
After the war ended, the two married in a civil ceremony, loaded into a Chevy pickup with a top speed of fifty miles per hour, and drove for three days until they reached southeastern South Dakota. When the newlyweds arrived, Norma Jean and the soldier were given a one-room house and some land from his family’s homestead, and thus began her life as a farmer’s wife.
Fifteen years later, on their crystal wedding anniversary, Norma Jean and her farmer husband had more livestock than ever before.
SAMPLE - The Cruelest Stranger
CHAPTER ONE
Astaire
It wasn’t supposed to rain today.
I stand on the rubber entrance mat inside a bar called Ophelia’s, soaked to the bone, water as cold as January dripping off my wool pea coat in rivulets, toes pinched numb in my pointed heels.
The sign for the ladies’ room flickers in neon, and I waste no time trotting to the back of the narrow space, ducking through the swinging doors, and positioning myself in front of the first vacant mirror I find.
The instant I encounter my gaze in the reflection, I know I should have stayed home tonight.
What kind of person marks the one-year anniversary of their fiancé’s death with a blind date?
A person who can’t say no to anything or anyone—that’s who.
Mrs. Angelino had good intentions, trying to set me up with her nephew, and I knew better, agreeing to go despite every atom in my body screaming for me to tell her the truth … that I’m just not ready.
I hang my jacket on a nearby wall hook and return to my station.
“Weak.” I slam my bag on the white porcelain sink and start digging inside for a hairbrush, a hair tie, anything to tame my damp baby-blonde waves. “Weak, weak, weak.”
I locate a mini wet-brush and a rubber band so stretched it could snap without warning, and then I rake my hair back, twisting it into a low bun and securing it at the nape of my neck.
When I glance up again, I realize my mascara has settled beneath my lower lash line—not exactly the smoky eye look I was intending.
Yanking a paper towel from the nearby dispenser, I fold it into fourths before running it under warm water.
Behind me, a bathroom stall door swings open and a leggy blonde in an ecru sweater dress and black knee-high boots saunters out, bending over the sink a second later to wash her hands. Our gazes intersect as I attempt to remove the remnants of my Great Lash, and she offers a sympathetic half-smile.
“You okay?” The woman reaches for a paper towel, unhurried. Her ballet-pink nails are shiny and shellacked, her fingers long and slender. Everything about her is soft and elegant, a jarring contrast against my current condition.
“Wasn’t expecting to get caught in the downpour. Supposed to be meeting someone in a few minutes. Kind of hoping he stands me up.”
“Too late to cancel?”
“I don’t know his number. A colleague at work set us up. It’s her nephew. All I know is he’s six feet tall with dark hair and his name is Garrett. She says he’s unbelievably handsome but she’s his aunt, so …” I laugh through my nose at the absurdity of this entire situation, and it’s then that I notice a section of hair still sticking out. Carefully I tug out the elastic and re-do my low bun, smoothing my palms over my half-dried mane. But there’s nothing I can do about the fully-dried mascara under my eyes. “I can’t meet a complete stranger looking like this.”
The easy-breezy siren of a woman studies my face before placing her oversized handbag next to her sink.
“It just so happens I work at the Catherine DeAngelo makeup counter at the mall on weekends.” Her voice is light, sing-songish “Which means I’ve got you, girl.”
Within seconds, she pulls out a travel-sized pack of chamomile-infused makeup remover towelettes and offers them with a wink.
“You’re a saint. Truly. Thank you so much.” I tug one wipe from the case and clean myself up, only when I’m done, I look more exhausted than fresh-faced.
I swear the circles beneath my eyes are a shade darker than before—probably from all the rubbing and scrubbing—and my pale lashes are practically invisible.
I exhale, reminding myself that looks aren’t everything, that there’s a chance he’ll find my drowned rat appearance … endearing?
“Uh oh. I know that look. Hold on.” Dipping a hand to the bottom of her bag, she feels around before producing a fistful of miniature lipsticks and mascaras. She checks the names on the bottom of the shiny gold tubes before handing me one. “This color would be perfect on you. Don’t get scared by how bright it looks in the tube. It’s completely different once it’s on. Oh, and here’s some mascara. These are brand new, by the way. In case you have a thing about germs.”
“Oh, honey. I teach kindergarten. Germs don’t scare me.” I bat my hand before graciously accepting her gifts.
Uncapping the lipstick, I’m met with a bold bullet the color of psychedelic poppies, but I trust this woman so I slick it over my lips. The payoff is sheer, like a wash of fresh color on my pale pink mouth, instantly bringing my pallid complexion back to life. I swipe on two coats of mascara next. It isn’t life-changing, but it offers a distraction from the dark circles, so I consider it a win.
“For the record, you look chic as hell—but you were beautiful before.” She flings her bag over her lithe shoulder, one hand on her hip. “And any idiot who would care that you got caught in a rainstorm wouldn’t be worth a second date anyway.”
“I know … it’s just … this is the first first date I’ve been on in … a long time.”
Five years to be exact.
I don’t go into the whole dead fiancé thing because I find it tends to depress people—myself included, and I don’t even know my new fairy godmother’s name.
Unpacking all that heaviness onto a kindhearted stranger would be cruel.
“No, I get it. Dating is hard. It’s even harder when you’re out of practice.” Placing a hand on my shoulder on her way out, she gives me a reassuring squeeze. “I’m Ophelia, by the way. My father owns this place. Tell Eduardo at the bar that your first drink is on me.”
With that, she’s gone.
I give myself one last glance in the mirror before pulling my shoulders back, collecting my things, and heading out to the bar.
The Killers play from speakers in the ceiling and a group of middle-aged men with slicked hair and expensive suits order a round of tequila shots.
I don’t bother scanning the room in search of Garrett, I head straight for Eduardo at the bar, cashing in my verbal coupon in exchange for a top-shelf gin and tonic, and then I help myself to a handful of pretzels because I haven’t eaten since eleven o’clock today.
Ten minutes later, warmth rushes through me.
My breathing steadies, no longer hitching and uneven.
My shoulders thaw, allowing me to melt comfortably into my seat.
Two spots down, a handsy couple clink martini glasses.
The table of suits and ties are enjoying dark lagers now.
Three women, all dressed in their office casual best, commiserate over bright-colored drinks at a high-top to my left. To my right is an empty stool.
The clock above the door reads six twenty-seven. It would seem I am, in fact, being stood up.
Be careful what you wish for …
“Can I get one more of these?” I lift my glass when Eduardo checks on me.
Tonight I’ll drink to Trevor—to his memory, to what might have been.
A minute later, my old drink is replaced. I don’t particularly like gin and tonics, but they were
always Trevor’s go-to. He was never into IPAs or craft beers or Jager-bombs-with-the-guys. And he hated anything remotely sweet. He appreciated the hell out of a nice, top-shelf classic—which was fitting because he was a nice, top-shelf classic.
My eyes begin to burn, but I force it away.
I told myself I wouldn’t cry today.
Lord knows I’ve done more than enough of that over the past twelve months.
Taking a sip, my attention is hijacked by a frigid burst of air that sweeps through the bar and the floor-shaking shudder that follows when the door slams.
Glancing over my shoulder, I spot a dark-haired man, easily six feet tall. He retracts his rain-slicked umbrella and leans it against the wall before stalking toward the bar, and then he steals the last spot on the end—five places down from me, hanging his wool trench coat over the seat back before sitting.
Eduardo greets him, wiping the section in front of him with a clean towel, half hunched over and nodding in quick succession.
I wait until the Eduardo returns with the man’s drink—which appears to be a triple shot of straight vodka over two perfect squares of ice in an old-fashioned tumbler—before appropriating a closer look at the mystery man.
Through the shadowy haze of Ophelia’s, my unfocused gaze struggles to home in at first. And then I see him perfectly.
Chiseled cheekbones.
Impeccably-groomed obsidian hair.
Broad shoulders hardly contained in a navy cashmere sweater.
Jawline for days.
Could this be …?
Is that Mrs. Angelino’s nephew?
I take a generous mouthful of gin and tonic, contemplating how best to introduce myself. My palms tingle, and I rub them against the tops of my thighs, sucking in a shallow breath.
The Best Man Page 20
