by Holly Kerr
“Where’s Thomas?” I’m surprised at the lack of bitterness in my voice.
“He’s in the shower. I saw your car and wanted to talk to you. How are you? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” And I am. This little side detour is an accident, nothing more. I didn’t unconsciously want to see Evelyn. She doesn’t hold a spell over me; I’m no longer caught in her thrall.
The realization is like a fog lifting. “I’m great, actually,” I say.
“I was worried.”
“Don’t be. Really, there’s no need. I’m fine.”
“Fine, as in over me?” She looks concerned and more than a little unbelieving.
I chuckle. “You make it sound like it’s not possible.” As I look down at her, I’m amazed that I had once thought the same. She had been everything to me but now…
What was left? We’d never been friends, so that wasn’t an option. What is? Is Evelyn destined to be placed in the category of women who have shared my life?
It’ll be a lonely place for her.
“It is, I’m sure, but it seems a little quick.”
“You don’t think I can get over you quickly, yet you clearly didn’t have a problem with marrying the next guy you met. I’d say that’s hypocritical.” I walk backwards, away from this conversation.
“I’m not. Dean, wait. I don’t want you to hate me.”
I stop and really look at her—at the grasping, controlling woman she is. “I don’t hate you, Evelyn. I don’t feel anything, really. I think that was the problem. Good luck with your marriage and all the best.”
“I think you still love me,” Evelyn calls when I’m almost at the Jeep. “It can’t end that easy.”
She can’t hide the sneer in her voice, the desperation. I didn’t want to listen but can’t help myself.
“Well, it has for me.” Without another word, I get into the Jeep and drive away.
Chapter Eighteen
Flora
I stare out the window at the steady drizzle obscuring my view of the street. It’s been a dry autumn so far so the plants will benefit from the rain, but it wrecks my plans to work outside.
I only have another week to make the garden perfect before the entry for the Canada Blooms competition is due. This is the second year I’ve entered for best small garden. Last year I was blown out of the water by the bigger, well-known landscaping companies, but this year I’ve done my homework and a little voice in the back of my mind whispers that this year I might have a chance.
But I don’t have a chance if I don’t finish it.
Maybe it’s best that it’s raining, because by going through paperwork at the store, I’ve found too many things I should have finished.
Here’s the list of Christmas plants and decorations that should have been ordered last week. I had set aside a morning last week to go through it, but at the last minute, decided a trip to Wonderland with Dean was more important. And the Thanksgiving decorations are still packed in boxes in the back.
I scribble a note asking Imogene to spend a few hours sorting them out for the displays tomorrow.
Here’s an order for a bridal bouquet that I haven’t even glanced at and an order for flowers for an anniversary party that I need to deal with.
I’ve spent too much time with Dean lately and my business is paying the price.
Even with that realization, my hand still drifts to my phone. I haven’t heard from Dean since he dropped me off Sunday night.
Was it the hug? I’ve been tempted so many times to hug him, or kiss him, but resisted. My plan had been to make him fall in love with me, but I need to make sure he’s over Evelyn before I do that.
I really don’t know if he is. How can I ask something like that?
I needed to touch him the other night. It had been the smile that did it, as well as the sadness in his voice when he talked about the end of his career.
Dean has a fantastic smile.
It’s slow to start and partly hidden among the red of his beard, but once those lips curl up, his whole face transforms. His eyes twinkle and these little creases show up around them. I have a sneaking suspicion there’s a dimple under the facial fur.
It’s been three days since we’ve talked, which is three days longer than we’ve gone without speaking since we hooked up.
Not really hooked up, but became ‘friends’.
It’s been almost two months since Las Vegas, and the hooking up we did there.
I stare unseeing at the papers on my desk, thinking about that night. The memories of leaving Thomas aren’t painful any more, which bothers me more than I want to admit. How did I get over him so quickly? Was there anything to get over?
“I need to get some work done.” At the sound of my voice, Cappie wakes up with a snort, his tongue hanging out as he gazes at me with reproach. “Go back to sleep. You’re no help.”
I wander to the window, plucking a dead leaf off a potted philodendron, checking the soil in the display of African violets. Is it raining too hard to make it to M.K.’s without getting soaked? I haven’t had a customer all morning, so the rain is obviously keeping people indoors.
What’s Dean doing? Maybe I should text him, see if he wants to stop by…
“I have to work!” My voice sounds louder than I expected in the quiet store. “Quit mooning over him!”
Thomas often accused me of being needy, like a teenage girl with a first crush, and I recognize the signs. I don’t need to text Dean or invite him over, or do anything but wade through the stack of papers on the counter.
Dean is a grown man with a life of his own. I’m a grown woman with my own life. We don’t have a life together.
But I really like spending time with him.
And I liked hugging him, breathing in his man scent, feeling safe and content in his arms.
When I broke things off with Thomas, there was anger and recriminations and absolutely no physical contact. Why do I now wish that I could have had a final hug from him? Thomas always gave good hugs—firm, yet gentle. He rested his cheek on my head and stroked my hair and his cologne smelled nice, faintly sweet.
A wave of nostalgia crashes over me, sudden and intense.
I’ve done so well at moving on, picking up my life like the last eight years has been nothing but a blip. A wrong turn during a road trip, and now I’ve recalibrated my GPS. It’s clear my life is better without Thomas, that I’m better without him.
But eight years. It wasn’t the best relationship, and I may not have seen him every day, but I think there’d been enough time spent together for me to warrant missing him.
I haven’t let myself miss him.
“Why now?” I groan. Cappie looks up at me again.
With a shake of my head, I return to my paperwork. Imogene is at yet another doctor’s appointment. She’s growing bigger by the day and I’m going to have to find someone to cover her maternity leave. Ruthie or Patrick are my best options, involving minimal training and I trust them, but Patrick’s busy at school and Ruthie is spending more and more time in Niagara helping at the nursery.
I think about Patrick’s advice, that I should talk to Oliver. Yes, it was Oliver who had shut me out of the family business, but it’s not entirely his fault. I still keep kicking myself about how utterly stupid I’ve been.
I gave up everything for Thomas and for what? An eight-year relationship with an older man that reads like a bad Charlotte Bronte novel? It wasn’t worth it.
But at least I have Fleur.
“It’s probably the only baby I’ll ever have,” I mutter. “Except for you, Cappie.”
The bell over the door interrupts my pity party and I’m amazed when Ruthie strides into the shop. “What are you doing here?”
“Well, hello to you, too!” Ruthie has a grin on her face but I only notice the masses of cherry-red curls that has replaced the blonde braids. Cappie trots out to greet her as Ruthie places two coffee cups right on top of my paperwork. Shaking out her hair l
eaves droplets of water all over the counter. “I stopped at M.K.’s and got you a coffee.”
“Thanks. I didn’t know you were in town. Last time I heard, you were working at the nursery. And—” I touch my own head. “The hair.”
“You like? I was working, but Dad gave me a day off and I came here and…” Ruthie trails off with a rueful grin. “That was four days ago.”
Any thoughts I might have had about Ruthie replacing Imogene immediately vanish.
“Who is he?” I take a sip of the coffee and burn my tongue. I love M.K.’s coffee as much as Starbucks, but it’s always so hot.
“A guy.” The way Ruthie waves her hand tells me whoever the guy is, he’s out of the picture now. “I was wondering if I could maybe persuade you to give me a lift back home tomorrow morning,” she says with a winning smile. “I know it’s been a while since you’ve been down.”
“Ah—throwing in a side of guilt when you ask for a favour. Always a good thing.” I move Ruthie’s cup from the papers and try to sort them into a pile.
“Please,” Ruthie wheedles. “You’re my favourite auntie. And I really can’t handle taking the bus since I chatted up that driver and…well, never mind. What’s new with you? You didn’t go back to him, did you?”
“I guess I haven’t talked to you in a bit.” I feel bad about that. I may not talk to Ruthie as much as M.K., but my niece is still one of my best friends.
“Yeah, well, that’s my bad. I should have checked in with you,” Ruthie says with an apologetic smile. “How’re you doing?”
“Fine, before today,” I admit. “You interrupted my little pity party.”
“It’s probably because you’re listening to depressing music? Who is this? And what’s going on?”
“Sam Smith. Thomas got married.”
“To someone other than you, right?” She raises her eyebrows, the thin loop piercing her brow catching the light.
I frown in response. “It’s a funny story actually. Not funny ha ha, but funny strange. Thomas married Evelyn, who was Dean’s girlfriend.”
“Who?”
“You have missed a lot.” I fill in Ruthie about Dean and Clay, downplaying my friendship with Dean and focusing on M.K.’s happiness.
“Weird.” She paces the store. “They live so close and you end up meeting them in Las Vegas of all places. It’s karma. It’s like how the bus driver led to me watching a boxing match, and catching sight of Sean, and me going to the Falls to meet him.”
“I’m confused.”
“Sean’s the guy I’ve been—the four-day guy? He’s a boxer and on his way to Montreal. He invited me to go along, but he has this thing about not doing anything for seventy-two hours before a match and really, what’s the point so–anyway, enough about me. What’s Dean like?”
I give my head a shake at the quick change of subject. “He’s great. I’ve been sort of spending a lot of time with him. Not for the last few days, but…we’re just friends. M.K. is head over heels with Clay, but just friends with Dean is better for me.”
“Why?” Ruthie’s face is expressionless, her big eyes staring reproachfully at me.
“Why, what?”
“Why is just friends better for you? You have friends. You don’t have a guy who makes you smile like that.” I slap my hands over my face to hide the smile. “So what’s holding you back?”
“I need time to get over Thomas—”
Ruthie interrupts with a wave of her hand. “A new guy is the best thing for that. Plus, stopping the wedding meant that things were kaput already, so what else was there to get over?”
“When’s the last time you were in a long-term relationship?” I ask. “Besides, Dean just got out of a relationship too.”
“Fair enough. You don’t want the baggage. Have you talked about the possibility of just jumping his bones without all the other stuff? I assume you’d want a conversation first since you’re the talky sort.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. What else is holding you back?”
“What if he doesn’t like me like that?” I haven’t asked anyone that, not even myself. “Even if he’s over her, what if he wants to keep things like this?”
Ruthie opens her mouth to reply but I push on. “Thomas never wanted me–not enough. Maybe I won’t be able to make Dean forget Evelyn. Maybe no one will want me enough.”
Ruthie stares at me with a flicker of sympathy. Then she blinks and it disappears. “Do you know how stupid that sounds?”
I heave a shaky sigh of relief. “I guess.”
“That’s Flora-and-Thomas talk. This is new Flora. I like the hair, by the way.” She finishes her coffee and throws the cups across the counter, spraying droplets and missing the garbage. “You can tell me about him tonight. I’ll check him out and make sure he’s good enough for you. Then you can drive me home tomorrow.”
I’m so happy to have Ruthie stop dissecting things, that I would have agreed to anything.
Dean
I stand in the hallway of Clay’s apartment building, letting the rain drip off me when Trevor calls. For a minute, I think he’s going to ask about Flora, but soon realize it’s much worse.
“There’s this girl I like, but she won’t go out with me unless I find someone for her friend,” Trev says in utter seriousness.
I have no intention of being set up. “This girl can’t find someone for herself? You tell me there are lots of dating sites out there.” Not that I’ve looked into them, but everyone keeps suggesting I do.
Flora even mentioned it the other night, how we should both work on our profiles and see who has more success. I had hoped it was a joke, but after her comment about guys being interested in her, I’m not sure.
She’s obviously into the just friends aspect of this.
Or maybe it’s worse. I haven’t been able to rid myself of the memory of Evelyn’s words. If Thomas is still in love with Flora, what’s to say that she isn’t still in love with him? They were together eight years and while I know it wasn’t the best relationship, that’s still a long time to share your life with someone.
Of course Thomas is still in love with her. It’s Flora—who wouldn’t be in love with her if they had the chance. And Flora loved Thomas, so her still having feelings for him isn’t much of a stretch.
I thought she was getting over him. It seemed like she was getting over him.
I thought I might have a chance with her soon.
“Apparently she just got out of a bad relationship and wants to find a nice guy,” Trev says, pulling me back into the conversation. “You’re a nice guy. And she’s your type.”
I sluice water off my head, wincing as it leaves a puddle on the floor. “I didn’t realize I had a type.”
“She’s perfect for you. C’mon, be a pal.”
“I’m really not looking for anything. It’d be a waste setting me up.”
Trevor hisses with frustration. “Do it for me. I really like this girl and she won’t meet me without her friend.”
“Does she know you or something?”
“Ha ha. Very funny. So you’ll come?”
“Just drinks?” I’m not doing anything tonight anyway. And I haven’t heard from Flora in three days. “Okay.”
“And if it doesn’t work out for me, will you give me Flora’s number?”
This time my no is pretty firm.
Later that night, I meet Trev and the women at a bar downtown. I almost choke on my tongue when I see her; Hayley is a dead ringer for Evelyn, right down to the perfectly straight bob that brushes her shoulders, to the iPhone X clutched in her hand, with perfectly manicured nails matching the hot pink of the phone case.
“That’s a nice colour,” I say, gesturing to her fingers.
“Thanks,” Hayley says with a hint of a furrow between her eyes.
Maybe it’s bad form to comment on nail polish on a first date. But this isn’t a date, it’s only helping out a friend.
“So what do
you do?” Hayley asks politely, laying her phone on the table within reach of those pink fingertips.
Trev and his date, a curvy blonde with the unfortunate name of Freyka, are in a world of their own. The name is only unfortunate for me because it takes three times to get the pronunciation right, which by that time Freyka wears a frown that does nothing for her attractiveness.
I’ve never had much to do with Trev’s dating life, and considering Freyka’s lack of personality, I’m pretty happy about that.
“I’m between jobs right now,” I say in response to Hayley’s question. My phone buzzes. Since Hayley is also checking her phone, I think it’s acceptable for me to do the same.
What r u doing?
Flora.
The smile creases my face before I can stop it.
Out w/Trev
Her response is immediate.
Where? Maybe I meet u
My smile falls. I don’t know what to tell Flora. Yes, I’d love to hang out with her, but I promised Trev. And what if she suggested it only to meet up with Trevor?
He’s made it clear that he’s interested in her, Freyka or no Freyka. Maybe Flora is starting to feel the same way?
Hayley finally looks up from her phone. “You’re unemployed?” Her tone might be the same if she asked: “You’re a cockroach?”
My phone vibrates before I can answer Hayley.
Just u and Trev?
“I used to play baseball, but had to give it up,” I say, struggling to give Hayley my full attention. “I work part-time in a training facility, coaching teams, and advising.”
“Like, for kids?”
“Teenagers mostly.”
“Ugh.” Hayley shivers dramatically. “How horrible.”
“Not really.”
“Today’s teenagers are nothing more than indulged, spoiled parasites that expect to be given part of the world that I’ve worked so hard for,” she says. “Their only concerns are missing out on something on social media, and saving the planet, using completely illogical ways. Excuse me.”
