Reading His Mind (16 page)

He laughed. “Sweetheart, I think you’ve finally begun healing.”

“You let me destroy my house so I could heal? A stick of dynamite in my Cheerios probably would have accomplished the same thing.”

“Tomorrow, first thing, we will get someone to start rebuilding.” His promise helped a bit, but not as much as the pizza and beer. “We can fly out to Vegas, and when you get back here, it will be just the way it was.”

I supposed we’d come to the time for me to give him my news. “I’m not going back to Vegas.” More quietly, I added, “Ever.” As a brighter point of interest, I produced an envelope from my back pocket and held it out to him. “I signed the deed over to you today.”

He put up a hand and scooted backward. “No.”

“Yes. It was always your place more than mine. You can use the income from the bar rent for the upkeep.”

He shook his head, continuing to move away.

“It’s more than I ever sent you, G.” I chased him on all fours. “George, take this deed.”

“No.” He moved back five more inches. I advanced ten.

“Yes.” I sat on my heels, holding the packet of papers out once more. “It makes sense. You love that old building. It was really always more yours than mine. This way, instead of selling it and having to rent a hotel room
if
I ever come there, I’ll still be able to stay with my best friend.”

He contemplated my statement. “Okay.”

So, it was settled.

Four months later, George returned to Las Vegas, and I still sat amidst the rubble, having decided I would learn how to rebuild the walls myself. At least I hadn’t destroyed the upstairs, which left me an almost dust-free place to sleep—which I did often. A local handyman, of the seventy-five-year-old variety, came every day, helping me hang drywall, teaching me over and over how to use a screw gun. Due to his age, he hindered more than helped the lifting process, so I looked like I was training to become some sort of overbuff wrestling diva. As a price to such brute workouts, I often fell into bed exhausted and aching. So, 4:00 a.m. phone calls annoyed me beyond belief.

“This had better be God calling to tell me to take cover because the world is ending.”

The sound on the other end seemed to be a scuffle. I could hear muffled voices.

“Give me the phone, Jasper!” I recognized Dylan’s voice immediately. “She’s moved on, and you can’t be drunk dialing. It’s four in the morning where she is.”

“Hello? Jace?”

“Give it back, Dylan. It’s my damn phone!” His voice was slurred.

More fracas ensued then the line went dead. I lay there, holding the cell in one hand and my forehead in the other. Who hadn’t, at some point, consumed a bit too much alcohol and used their dialing digits to make ill-advised contact with an ex? But I’d been doing just fine receiving the daily texts. He’d kept them impersonal, which made it easier to believe I’d been nothing more than a random name in a mass text to his fans or family. He never used my name, never said anything to lead me to believe I held any importance in his life.

I had three hours before Henry Madsen would arrive to resume construction. I used every second of those hours to reason away Jace’s behavior.

Around one that afternoon, my daily message arrived from Jace. This time, I knew the text was meant for me.

Sorry
, it read.

Because something inside me wouldn’t allow me to let go of him, I loaded every message he’d sent me onto the computer and read then reread them, searching for anything—a sign, a code word, anything—to tell me I’d meant more to him than a weekend fling. After three hours—more exhaustive than any manual labor I’d done that day—I gave up and crawled into my bed. Pulling the covers over my head, I cried.

In the six months since our weekend in Vegas, I’d never answered a single text. Not one time had I been tempted to call him or reply. I possessed enough common sense to know either idea would, without a doubt, be my undoing. I learned to rely on my self-preservation instincts to resist temptation, but it didn’t mean it made me happy. Every day I sank deeper and deeper into a bottomless pit of depression. Nothing pulled me out—not a visit from my sister or George or even Henry’s bad jokes.

I survived the next six months by rebuilding, rebuilding, and rebuilding. I pounded nails, taped, mudded, sanded, primed, and painted. I threw myself into the remodeling like my life depended on restructuring the walls. I stood admiring my newest paint job, trying to select the final color for the last wall I needed to paint. My phone beeped. I picked it up, somehow knowing before I looked at the screen it was from Jace.

Jace:
Lyric, I have written you a text every day since we parted a year ago. That is 365 unanswered messages and 365 chances gone by. I have missed you with all I am and all I have, but it is time for me to move on. I wish you well, and I hope you find happiness. J.

For over an hour, I did nothing but reread his words. Then I hit reply.

Lyric:
Are you seriously doing that thing from the
Notebook? Then I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

No painting got done.

“You’re preoccupied today.” Henry’s astute observations wowed me on a daily basis, but this one annoyed me. I picked up my phone for the hundred-and-eleventh time.

I shook my head. “No. No. I’m fine.” Maybe saying it for the millionth time would make it feel like less of a lie.

He nodded, a frown curving his lips down. “Is this about that man?”

How the hell did he know about Jace? “What man?” My face might have been the picture of innocence, but my heart raced to the point of pain.

He pointed over my shoulder. “That man.”

I spun around, hoping to find Jace in the empty doorway. “What man?”

Henry chuckled. “I knew it. Only a man can put such sadness in a woman’s eyes.”

I plugged my earbuds into my ears and turned on the music. “Let’s just work.” I covered my half of the wall in record time then moved on to walls that didn’t need repainted. I worked until my muscles ached. I worked until I didn’t feel like crying anymore. I worked until around 3:00 a.m.

I fell into bed, exhausted, with no room for anything in my mind but Jace—his laugh, his wide smile, his body, his hands, his every anatomical inch. I couldn’t clear my head. I had finally crossed over into disaster land. But I made a plan. I couldn’t let this guy go. No way. No how. No matter what I had to do.

I climbed from my bed and began packing. Next stop, Texas.

***

Battlecry, Texas, hadn’t changed in the decade plus I’d been gone. The morning coffee klatch sat in the middle of the town square at picnic tables, reading papers and playing cards and checkers. Lily Laugherty patrolled the streets, doing her best to keep the riffraff to a minimum. Molly’s Hair Haven was full of blue-haired women getting their weekly rinse while sharing whatever gossip could be determined newsworthy enough to be repeated. Double Coupon Tuesday had the grocer’s parking lot full, and school buses crept through town at a snail’s pace, delivering their charges to the last week of class before Thanksgiving break. Swiss clocks didn’t run as dependably as Battlecry.

I zoomed through town to Gran’s house and pulled down the mile-long drive in a cloud of dust. My palms sweated, while my heart raced. This did nothing to help my less than stellar driving, and I screeched to a stop bare millimeters from plowing through the garage door.

I’d reached Gran’s house—a brick ranch with three garage bays, a giant picture window, and a front door that looked like it belonged on a Medieval castle rather than a farmhouse standing at the edge of town. Her house was larger and roomier than either of its nearest neighbors. Her garden took almost the entire side yard and, in the summer, boasted five rows of tomato plants, ten or twelve rows of sweet corn, along with zucchini, cucumbers, carrots, and lettuce. Since November arrived, it had dried up and gone bare, but the memory of how it looked the day I left was a picture I carried with me whenever I thought of home.

The house, throughout the years, had expanded into the backyard. The square footage had doubled then tripled, and it looked as though she had added even more rooms. Gran loved company, never turned away anyone who needed a place to stay for the night. Thus, she needed a large house—this large probably spoke to overkill, but in terms of my recent deconstruction issues, I couldn’t very well throw stones.

I left my suitcase in the car and strolled up the steps to the wrap around porch. I breathed in the smell of fresh apple pie. Gran didn’t bake pies, but she planted those scented candles everywhere to make people believe she did. Sara Lee made our holiday desserts. I knocked then stood waiting, looking out off the front porch.

Gran shrieked her delight as she rushed out, drying her hands on a dishtowel then clutching me in a hug, almost knocking me off her front porch. This old woman had a lot of spry left in her. She didn’t ask why I’d come, didn’t comment on anything other than her happiness I had arrived.

She walked me inside with her arm around my shoulders. “I can’t believe you’re finally home.” For whatever reason, speaking choked the air from my lungs. I didn’t try a second time. “Thanksgiving is going to be so special this year.” She gushed words like Old Faithful gushed water. “Melody is cooking the whole meal. Don’t worry. Your mom and dad aren’t coming, so that’s good. I think they’re on safari somewhere. Maybe New Mexico or Africa.”

I didn’t quite understand how she could have gotten those two confused, but I didn’t have time to ask as she continued to motor on.

“The Laughertys are all coming. Wait until you see Melody’s house. You won’t believe the work she’s done. First, she ripped out walls then she built them up. It’s been going on this whole last year. They just got finished. Poor Max has had his hands full with his lawyering and then working on the house until all hours. Does she know you’re here?” I shook my head, unable to get a real word in even if it had been possible. “Oh, it will be such a fun surprise. Do you want to go over now?”

“Uh—”

“Of course you probably want to get freshened up first. You go ahead. I’ll whip us up some lunch then we can go over. Or should I call her and ask her to come over here?”

“Gran—”

Pausing, she looked at me. “Yes, dear?” Again, I didn’t have words. “I know, Lyric. It’s good to have you back. This is where you belong.” I saw the tears fill her eyes when she pulled me against herself one more time. “You run along and get fresh then we can decide what we’ll do.”

I nodded.

Having been shooed off to clean up as though I sported a ripe odor, I stepped into my room feeling as though I’d traveled through time. The only thing missing from the day I’d snuck out the window were the dirty clothes I’d left on the floor. The room smelled like sunshine, and the parted drapes revealed an open window that allowed a slight breeze to blow in. Every other thing looked the same as I’d left it—a U2 poster on the wall, my name spelled out in pink and lime green painted wooden letters, the mirror decorated with pictures of me and Melody throughout the years taped in each corner and along the frame.
Wow
.

My cedar-walled bathroom still carried the scent of the forest and its muted mint color. A bottle of freshly dusted Aqua Net still sat on the countertop along with assorted blue eye shadow and mascara. This had once been my stuff. It felt off to stand there looking in mirror whose reflection no longer showed the sixteen-year-old who’d lived in the room. The person reflected at me appeared older, more broken, less carefree, less sure of all the things she once believed she knew. I found the differences in my reflections odd.

I’d never associated feeling with a room, so the imaginations in my head had to be just that. But my mind saw Gran pining for me in this room. I’d witnessed her tears, and her pain caused a stab to my heart. I’d come home to straighten things out with Jace, but I knew I had to mend some fences with my grandmother, as well. The mattress springs groaned under my weight.

“Oh, Lyric, what are you doing here?” I whispered.

When I came out of my room, Gran sat at the table with my sister. I had been gone awhile, apparently. Melody had cut her hair into a pixie style and, for the first time in our lives, we looked completely different.

“You went blonde,” she gushed, throwing her arms around me. I didn’t remember us being such a touchy-feely kind of family.

“You cut your hair!” I tried to match her enthusiasm.

“You came home. I knew you would. I could feel it.” She giggled. “I even told Max yesterday I thought you would come home for the holidays this year.” She held our arms out to the sides. “Holy mother of hot sauce, have you been eating at all? These Texas winds are going to blow you away.”

I laughed at the hot sauce part of her sentence. Whenever I heard her spout one of her condiment epithets, I always thought of Jace. I couldn’t help it. “I eat fine, Mel.”

Gran poured lemonade with real lemon slices floating in it as she walked, a talent I had yet to master. “Oh, my girls,” she whispered, turning her eyes to heaven. “Thank you.”

Mel and I looked at one another, and I shrugged. “So, how is everyone?”

She winked at our grandmother. “You don’t have time to sit here gabbing with us. You have got to get to the airport.” Grinning, she pulled me toward the door. “Jace is flying out of here today.”

“What? Where is he going?”

“To Savannah.”

“Atlanta?”

“No, dummy. To Savannah to get you back.”

I dug in my heels, halting our progress. “I wasn’t his to get back.”

“Yeah, and the sun doesn’t shine in Texas.” The screen door still screeched the same as it had years ago. “Look, you can deny it all you want. You can say he was all head-over-heels for me, but we all know it isn’t true. We
all know
the only reason Jace ever wanted me was because he couldn’t have you.” She gave me a two-handed shove forward. “Now, go get him before he gets on that plane and gets to Savannah to find you gone.”