Chose the Wrong Guy, Gave Him the Wrong Finger (32 page)

It had to be.

This was confirmed when Glenn called me later that night.

“I think you need to talk to Burke again,” Glenn said.

“
What?”
I was still feeling woozy. “No, thanks!”

“You told Linda her fiancé was cheating on her and Deliah her bridesmaids were prettier than her but that it would make her look better than the opposite.” He took a breath but only, I knew, so I could take a moment to reflect on what he’d said.

“I—” But he interrupted me right away, because it turned out he wasn’t done. And I was glad, because I didn’t have that much to say.

“No. There is no response. There is nothing you can say that’s going to make me think, oh, you’re right, you should be so concerned with Burke Morrison that you’re yelling what a jerk he is out the door of your shop. There’s just nothing.”

“You heard about that?”

“I didn’t hear
about
it, I heard
it
.
Everyone
must have heard it.” There was clearly a smile in his voice. “It was drunken idiocy at its best. I thought you’d reflect on your past and your present and make resolutions about a strong new future. I had no idea you’d curl up like a potato bug into your own self-pity.”

“Really? You didn’t? No idea? Have you heard nothing I’ve said for the past few weeks?”

“You’re right,” he conceded. “All the clues were there. Your mental health has been clearly wobbly for some time now. So now we have to undo this huge clusterfuck of a mistake we’ve made.”

I did appreciate him including himself in the clusterfuck, even though I knew a part of him was just vain enough to be miffed that his plan wasn’t going as swimmingly as he’d thought it would. It has to be said, some of his crazy day plans had turned out pretty well, if only because they really had been so unlike me.

So the guy wasn’t dumb. And he probably had better ideas than I did at this point about how to correct this catastrophe.

“So what do you want me to do?” I asked, thinking there was no way I could hit the road; I was still drunk, though less so. But having second thoughts and a headache didn’t mean a person was sober.

“Talk to Burke,” he said again. “Hammer it out and get
over
him once and for all. I’ve got to go, but I swear, Quinn, if I hear one more profanity-laced shriek from your direction…”

“You’re miles away from me right now.”

“Exactly.
That’s
how loud you were.”

I laughed. “Okay, point taken. I’ll let you know what happens.”

We hung up, and as soon as the connection was gone, so too was my conviction that he was right. Actually, maybe it wasn’t even my conviction that was gone. I definitely wanted to feel better about things than I did right now. It was just that, while a moment ago I’d felt like,
Yes, I will call him and we will hash this out
, now I was all,
But what if he doesn’t want to talk to me again because I’ve been such an immature idiot?

He would certainly be within his rights to not want to talk to me again, particularly if he’d heard about my antics the day before.

But the bottom line was still the bottom line, and that was that I needed to clear things up with him. Actually—and, hey, maybe the fact that I came to this revelation proved that Glenn’s plan had been sound on some level—what I really needed was to come to peace with the past. Not keep being pissed off about it, or even
more
fired up because I’d found out it was true. I just couldn’t stand on that soapbox for long before it started to splinter under my own weight.

I’d done plenty of objectionable things myself. Maybe not
to Burke
but certainly
since
Burke. I’d done things I wouldn’t want my mother to know about. And she was the one who always taught me to live in a way that left nothing deliberately hidden—to never say anything to anyone, and especially to never write anything to anyone (like in an e-mail or on Facebook) that I wouldn’t want my grandmother or next-door neighbors to see. Because these days anyone and everyone could end up with access to communication you thought was private.

Admittedly, that lesson had come up with my mother when I’d written something about a teacher to Lincoln Stennet in third grade and he was a whiny little suck-up who showed it to the teacher and created this big situation where my parents had to come in for a conference and I had to pay penance by sitting in the Seat of Shame in the corner, five yards from the closest desk, for the rest of the month.

And all I’d written was that her breath smelled like old people, and it
did
. It was
horrible
to stand in front of her, especially if you’d done something wrong enough to warrant a lecture or you needed a long explanation for a math formula. That didn’t get me a pass, of course, I was still in trouble. But the lesson was well worth the punishment because not only did I learn you couldn’t trust that weasel Lincoln Stennet, obviously, but also that once you put something out there you’re never entirely safe from it.

Lincoln went on to major in corrections, by the way, and is now the warden at the Lorton prison in Northern Virginia, so I guess his character was set up from the beginning.

The longer I sat there, thinking about my nefarious elementary school past and all the other things that had nothing to do with solving my problems in the present, the more uncomfortable I became. Because I knew what I needed to do, and ignoring it—
denying
it—wasn’t going to make it go away. It was going to just feed the discomfort and make it worse.

I knew what I had to do.

So, not without a
lot
of apprehension, I took out my phone and dialed.

It rang so many times I thought he wasn’t going to answer, and a part of me was relieved.
I tried
, it said.
This must be a sign
.

But then he did answer, right when I was sure it wasn’t going to happen.

And that voice—wow, how that voice could still get to me. I can’t even describe it. “Deep” sounds so
Jim Nabors
, and it wasn’t operatic like that at all. Just very masculine, with the slightest rasp of boyishness on the edge.

“Hi,” I said uncertainly. God knows if he’d heard anything about my behavior.

Bad idea
, I thought suddenly, painfully aware of my headache.
This was a stupid idea.

“Hi,” he said back, in an equally questioning tone.

Which could have meant anything or nothing.

Including that he didn’t know who the hell I was.

“It’s Quinn,” I clarified.

“I know.”

“Oh. Okay. Well. I’m sorry to bother you so late.” I looked at my clock. It was 7:48. Those weren’t streetlights outside, it was twilight. “But…” I was suddenly at a loss for words. But
what
? I had no right to ask him for anything. “I was wondering if maybe you could come over to the shop? And talk?”

There was a long silence.

So long I thought he’d hung up.

Then he said, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Only then did I realize I’d been holding my breath waiting for his answer. “Oh. O-okay.”

He exhaled. “I don’t mean to be hurtful, I just think we’ve said everything we can say. If we push that now, someone’s just liable to get hurt.”

Someone was already hurt, and he knew it. That was what this was all about. He just didn’t want the liability for it anymore.

And I didn’t blame him.

“It’s probably best just to leave well enough alone,” I said, as if I agreed.

“Right.”

“So … I’ll see you at the wedding, then.”
This time I’ll see you at the wedding.

This time, since it’s not ours.

“It’s just a week or so away,” I added, sensing, in the silence, that he was thinking of something else as well.

“Oh. Yes, I guess I will see you there.”

“Assuming you don’t stop it, since that’s what you guys like to do, stop weddings, break dreams,” I said, intending it as a joke but hearing its idiocy in real time, right along with Burke. God, what was
wrong
with me? Could I just push every bruise? Touch every nerve? Make sure no wound went unsalted? “I mean, god, I didn’t mean—”

“I know what you meant,” he said.

“Honestly, I was kidding, I just … wasn’t thinking.”

All it took was for Burke to do something slightly unpredictable—saying no when I really hoped for a yes—and I was completely rattled.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I understand.”

“I hope so. I really didn’t mean to be insulting.”

“I’ll see you at Dottie’s wedding, Quinn,” he said pointedly.
And only then.

I nodded, even though we were on the phone and he obviously couldn’t see me. “See you then.”

Chapter 24

I spent the next week trying to get used to my new reality, which was that my old reality was still exactly the same but now it was clouded by the knowledge that it was the same because
I
had doggedly remained the same, or at least kept my life so routine as to not really be able to distinguish one week from another in memory. In some cases, even the years were the same—I couldn’t remember whether an event had occurred five years ago or seven, because the surrounding scenery in my mind was unchanged.

I can’t say that Glenn’s “days” didn’t help. Certainly they had brought this truth into sharp focus for me. Of course, some days were better than others. Bikram yoga class had been interesting, and it was conveniently timed to allow me to sweat off five pounds of champagne from Day Drunk Day. Also, it effectively kept me in the back room finishing Dottie’s dress the next day, nursing a hangover, while Becca dealt with the customers and just tried not to laugh at me every time I had to communicate with her.

No Caffeine Day was exhausting. Ask a Stranger for Directions but Pretend You Think You’re in North Carolina Day was, I thought, covered by that stupid Improv Acting Class Day. Amish Day, when I used no modern conveniences except those that I absolutely couldn’t avoid, made me laugh, and allowed me to get a lot of needlework done.

And I straight up refused to do Kiss a Stranger on the Cheek Day, and Glenn reluctantly agreed, persuaded by my argument that it was the kind of thing that could get a person arrested.

Two days before Dottie’s wedding, a slight young woman with glossy dark hair, an exotic almond shape to her eyes, and deeply tanned skin came in and asked if I used Bell and Gardener threads.

“Yes…,” I said slowly, surprised. No one had ever come in here demanding a particular thread manufacturer for a dress.

She looked relieved. “Do you have any Ivory number four that I can borrow?”

This made no sense. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

“I’m sorry, I work across the street”—she flung her arm toward the door—“and I’m making a dress that has to be ready in an hour and I ran out of thread because it got tangled in the bobbin.” She shrugged helplessly.

Taney
.

“Are you Taney?” I asked, trying not to look as if I were asking a movie star for her real identity.

She looked surprised that I knew her name. “Yes.”

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” I said, perhaps a little too bold. “You like making dresses?”

“Oh, yes.” Her face lit up, completely innocent. “That is my passion.” There was a long hesitation before she added, “But…”

“You know that’s what we do here, right?”

She nodded. “That’s why I thought you might have the thread.” She looked around the shop with a smile. “I thought surely a place as fine and beautiful as this uses the best products.”

That threw me off. “Thank you,” I said uncertainly, and suddenly I didn’t know whether to give her the thread or not. I didn’t want to help her employer, but she was obviously the one who would take it on the chin if she “failed” to deliver on time. “I’ll get the thread,” I decided. It wasn’t like I didn’t have enough. I used it all the time.

I went in the back and got it, then handed it to her, holding her gaze for a moment as she took it. “Taney, do you enjoy working there?” I nodded toward her shop.

She looked down. “Yes, of course.” But I knew she didn’t mean it. “They have been very good to me.”

What could I say? Nothing. Just the small, meaningless pleasantry of, “Good luck finishing the dress on time.”

*   *   *

Which took me to Tell Someone Three Truths You’ve Never Told Before and One Lie Day.

The magnitude of both the truths and the lie hadn’t been outlined, so I thought this would be easy, but I also recognized it as a potentially valuable breakthrough point. And even though all day I pretended to myself that I was trying to think of who I would choose to be the recipient of these revelations, I knew what I was going to do. Or at least what I was going to
try
to do.

Turned out I didn’t even need to call him; he came to me, showing up magically and unexpectedly, the Brigadoon of men.

It was half an hour past closing time, and I almost didn’t notice him out in the dark and did a double take that must have looked sitcom-like from the outside, with me inside under the lights.

He was leaning against his car out front, facing the shop. I opened the door and stood in the doorway, looking at him. “What are you doing, Frank?”

“Stalking.”

“Any reason?”

He shrugged. “Came to make sure you’re all right, since the talk of the town is you’ve popped your clutch. Apparently concern about that is another formula for an otherwise normal person to turn into a creeper.”

I had to smile. “It can happen.” Truth. Prior to Glenn’s insane plan, I’d never
been
one before, and I didn’t know if Frank knew about that, but I decided it was best not to acknowledge it. Just in case.

“I know it.”

“Want to come in?”

“No.”

I sighed. “Are you going to come in anyway?”

He heaved himself off the car and came toward me. “Can’t see as I have much of a choice.”

“No one’s forcing you.”