The Wishing Season (29 page)
T
HE DAY OF THE FUNERAL WAS BLEAK AND OVERCAST
. A
SMALL
group clustered around Lizzy’s casket. The pastor’s words droned on, but Cole didn’t hear anything he said. He stood with Greg and Becky, their extended family, and their three current foster children. Lizzy’s mom, a druggie who’d shown little interest in her daughter while she lived, hadn’t bothered to show for her funeral. Braden, the guy she’d been so distraught over, hadn’t come either.
Cole felt something deep and black building as he stared at the small spray of roses on the casket. He’d chosen white ones dipped in turquoise, Lizzy’s favorite color. The casket was the cheapest model available, but it was white with pink lining, and he thought she would’ve liked it.
When the funeral was over, they returned to the house. It had been ominously quiet the past three days. Greg’s eyes were continually bloodshot as he helped with the kids. Becky sobbed quietly in her room several times a day. When they returned to the house, they sent the kids to their rooms to play, checked on Cole, and disappeared into their own bedroom.
Cole stared out the kitchen window into the backyard as the dark clouds finally let loose, pummeling the ground with rain. He thought of Lizzy’s casket sitting at the grave site and wondered if it had been lowered into the ground.
Everywhere he looked, memories of her played like a ghostly hologram. Tugging him from bed on Saturday mornings.
“Dit up, Cole! Watch cartoons now!”
Shrieking with glee as he pushed her on the swing set out back. Struggling through math homework, her elbow on the table, head on her fist.
“I can’t do it! I’m too stupid!”
Too many memories.
And not enough.
Why, God? I should’ve been here. I should’ve figured out a way to take her with me. I should’ve known something was wrong. I let her down.
His phone vibrated with an incoming call. Probably PJ. She’d texted or called a couple times every day, but he’d only responded twice. He was too overwrought to deal with his feelings for her. Too tired after three nights of little sleep.
And he knew that the dark thing that had been rising inside him had everything to do with her. As much as he needed to leave this house, escape the memories, he could only dread his return to Chapel Springs.
PJ would be there, and the darkness building up in him reminded him that he didn’t deserve her. Didn’t deserve her love—if that’s what she felt for him. He destroyed the people he loved. He wasn’t worthy of someone like PJ.
The phone stopped buzzing, and he released a heavy sigh.
PJ. The kids. The house. Lizzy. It all spun in his mind like clutter caught in a tornado. He didn’t know what to do about any of it. But one thing was for sure. He wasn’t going to figure it out from here.
T
HE RESTAURANT WAS SLAMMED DESPITE THE THUNDERSTORM
. One of PJ’s servers was a no-show. Shaundra had filled in for a while, but she’d had to leave at seven.
“Chef, we’re in the weeds out here,” one of her servers called from the window. “Any chance of more help?”
PJ turned from the stove. “Already tried. Sorry. Hang in there. Rush is almost over.”
“Two steamed scallops, on the fly,” another server called.
“Mussels are done,” called someone from the hot line. “Drop the calamari.”
Callie returned from her restroom break, joining the line as though she’d never left. A few minutes later she brought over a bowl of mushrooms. “I think Cole’s back.”
He’d texted earlier today that he was coming home tonight, but PJ had thought he’d hunt her down when he arrived. Of course she’d been busy, and he probably hadn’t wanted to interrupt.
“Why do you say that?”
“I think I saw his truck out back. And the shed light’s on.”
He was definitely home then. No one else went out there. She wanted to drop everything and go to him, but she couldn’t leave while the kitchen was buried.
PJ sautéed the mushrooms and dropped the calamari. She
wondered how long he’d been back. She was dying to get her arms around him. She hated that he’d gone through this alone.
Not alone, PJ
.
He’d had his foster parents. Still, she’d hated being apart from him while he was hurting. He hadn’t communicated much while he’d been gone, but he’d been busy with funeral arrangements and, no doubt, grieving—which he seemed to prefer doing alone.
She wondered if that was because he’d never had much choice. Maybe he’d just learned to suck up his pain and deal. She hated that for him. Everyone deserved the comfort of a loving family.
Twenty minutes later things had slowed down. PJ pulled off her apron. “Taking five,” she called.
“Take your time,” her sous chef said. “It’s under control.”
She checked with the maitre d’ before she left and resolved a problem with the credit card machine. The front was clearing out, and her servers didn’t seem so frazzled.
She went out the back door, dashing through the rain toward the shed. She probably looked like heck in her dirtied whites and ponytail. She probably smelled like garlic and onion, too, but she couldn’t help the excitement that built inside at the thought of seeing Cole again. Four days without him was four too many.
The door squawked quietly on its hinges as she pulled it open. Cole’s sharp jabs thwacked the punching bag. His feet shuffled on the cement floor, and his back muscles bulged under his black T-shirt. The light from the bare overhead bulbs glinted off his dark hair. He delivered another series of punches.
Mercy, she’d missed him.
She covered the distance between them and, between punches, slipped her arms around him.
He started, stiffening.
“It’s just me. You are a sight for sore eyes.” PJ flattened her hands against his taut stomach. His back was warm and solid against her cheek, his shirt slightly damp. “When did you get here? You should’ve popped in to say hi.”
He pulled off his gloves. “Haven’t been here long.”
She listened to his deep voice rumble in his chest.
He smelled like the soap he used, something earthy and musky. She inhaled deeply. Delicious. She realized he hadn’t turned in her arms, wasn’t touching her at all.
He stepped away. “I’m sweaty.”
“I’m wet from the rain.”
“Kitchen must be busy.” He was looking everywhere but at her. “Lots of cars out there.”
Why were they talking about the restaurant when they had so much catching up to do? “How’d the funeral go? You didn’t say much in your texts.”
He shrugged, tossing his gloves on the concrete floor. “Fine.”
She couldn’t imagine a funeral for an eighteen-year-old ever going fine. She looked at him closely, noting the dark circles and a vacant look in his eyes that she’d never seen before.
Fingers of dread crept up her spine. She’d only intended to share a quick hug and a kiss or two and save the rest for later. But she suddenly felt the need to stay with him.
“How’d the kids do?” he asked. “Anything come up while I was gone?”
“No, they were great. Concerned about you. They’re really pretty self-sufficient these days.”
“That’s the plan. Thanks for your help.”
“No problem. You must be so tired. And hungry. Come
inside, and I’ll make you something. Tonight’s special is a seafood medley in a tomato-butter sauce—something new I tried. You’ll love it.”
He wiped the sheen from his face with the tail of his shirt. “I ate on the way home. Thanks, though.”
Thunder cracked, so close the building rattled. Rain pummeled the roof. He looked toward the door, his jaw clenching.
“You okay?”
“It’s pouring.”
They spoke at the same time.
His eyes ricocheted off her. “I’m fine. Just tired, like you said.”
She took in his rigid stance, hands pocketed in his basketball shorts. “It seems like more than that.”
He gave her a tight smile. Outside the rain picked up, growing even louder. “You should probably get back to the kitchen. We can catch up later.”
The fingers of dread tightened around her spine. “What’s going on, Cole?”
His sigh seemed to come from his feet. “It’s been a long day, PJ.”
“Has something changed?” She winced.
Of course something’s changed, PJ. Lizzy died.
“I mean, I know something’s changed. I meant, between us? Are we okay?”
He palmed the back of his neck. “I really don’t want to do this right now.”
She stepped closer. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No.”
“Talk to me.”
“It’s nothing that can’t wait until closing.”
“Just tell me.”
“You’re in the middle of supper.”
“
Tell me
.”
“Fine. I can’t do this,” he blurted, then pressed his lips together like he wished he could call back the words.
PJ wished he could too. Wished she would’ve been more patient. Wished she’d just kissed him, made him forget whatever was eating him up.
“Can’t do what?” She hated how small and weak she sounded.
“Can’t we just table this for now?”
“This conversation, you mean?”
“Let it go, PJ.”
“This? Us? That’s what you can’t do?”
Please, no. Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me you’re tired and cranky and didn’t mean it the way it sounded.
She longed for him to take her in his arms and press a kiss to her forehead like he’d done before and tell her there was nothing to worry about.
Instead he turned, palming the back of his neck. Several long seconds passed. Seconds filled with thudding heartbeats and shallow breaths.
When he finally turned to face her, the hard look in his eyes made her wish he hadn’t.
“I did a lot of thinking while I was gone.” His voice was smooth and calm. “I think we need to cool things off.”
“Cool things off . . .”
Thunder struck outside. Inside.
“This isn’t going to work between us.”
“You’re just . . . grieving. You’ve had a traumatic week, and you’re upset, understandably so. Take a few days and—”
“It’s not that.”
Her eyes burned and a lump swelled in her throat. “Why are you doing this?” Her voice wobbled. “What happened?”
Something flickered in his eyes before he looked away, his jaw going rock hard. “Nothing happened. I told you, I had a few days to think, got a fresh perspective. We’re not good for each other, PJ. This isn’t going to work. We just need to finish our time here and go our separate ways.”
She didn’t know who this person was. This stranger standing here without an ounce of warmth in his face, in his voice. She didn’t want to know him. She wanted her Cole to come back. The one who couldn’t let her pass without a touch, the one who caressed her face with heartbreaking tenderness, the one who held her so tightly she felt safe and cherished.
What had happened? She swallowed against the knot in her throat, forced back the tears that threatened. Was there someone else? Someone back home he’d never told her about? A relationship he’d rekindled?
Jealousy burned in her gut. “Is there someone else?”
His eyes darted to hers. “No.”
She saw no signs of deceit in his face, in his posture. But then, she’d seen no signs of deceit in Keaton either, and he’d lied to her for months.
Maybe her family was right. Maybe she did have poor judgment. Maybe she did make bad decisions. Maybe she wouldn’t know a good man if he fell at her feet.
She gave a wry laugh, remembering that Cole
had
fallen at her feet, the very first time she’d met him. She had a compelling urge to repeat the scenario.
So they were back to this? The past four weeks meant nothing to him?
She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze. “Whatever you say, Cole. I have work to do.”
She brushed past him, hit the door with a force that knocked it back on its hinges. She strode toward the house, barely feeling the shards of rain. Barely feeling the pain rising up to choke her.
The shed door clanked against the wall and rain pelted in. It took everything in Cole not to follow her. The sheen in her eyes had about killed him. He’d ached to take her in his arms and kiss away the pain. To tell her he didn’t mean any of it.
Instead he knotted his fists and forced his feet to hold their ground. She might hate him now, but this was better for her in the long run. His breaths came heavily, doing nothing to ease the ache in his chest.
How could she think there was someone else? Didn’t she know he was dying inside at the thought of hurting her? That he hated himself for letting things get this far when he’d known all along who he was, what he deserved?
The blackness rose from deep inside, closing in like a thick fog. His breaths accelerated, the heaviness crushing down on his shoulders. He advanced on the punching bag and delivered a bare-fisted jab. Then another and another, until the ache in his hands matched the one in his heart.
PJ
DRAGGED HERSELF OUT OF BED THE NEXT MORNING
. She’d tossed and turned all night, the bite of anger edging out any trace of weariness. Why did it seem like Cole was always making the calls?
We need to take a step back . . . We need to cool things off . . .
Didn’t her feelings matter?