True Divide (31 page)

In the placement of his hand over mine, the soft well-tended hand of a man, combined with those words, my stomach starts to tumble. If Jake isn't here, if he isn't coming back, if he can't even bring himself to try, where does that leave me? Right now, it leaves me in a weak slump on the empty floor of an empty room, with a seemingly good man's hand on mine. Even if I don't really want Matthew, not in any significant way, I want this comfort. I wanted it from Jake, but he isn't here. Instead, another man showed up and said what I needed to hear.

When I turn my gaze up to his, I see it. The flicker in a man's eyes when he realizes you're opening yourself up to him. A spark of triumph and curiosity, mixed with just enough lust to make my heart turn fluttery for the briefest moment.

Because even the smallest crack in a woman's armor is sometimes more than enough. I avoided that glimmer for what seems like ages now. That flash used to make me feel alive, powerful, for as long as it took him to get me naked and breathless. After that, their eyes inevitably darkened—not hatefully, merely flatly. And that was worse.

When I finish signing the last few papers and he tucks them back into the folder, he only has to ask.

“Lunch?”

I say what makes the most sense. The words that don't feel quite like a betrayal to another man who said he loved me but left me again, words that aren't at cross-purposes with my heart.

“Sure. Why not?”

The restaurant is almost painfully trendy, with all the trappings of the hip, gentrified neighborhood it occupies. Reclaimed wood everywhere it will fit, mason jars incorporated in the light fixtures, and garage doors where walls might be in a less remarkable establishment. Chalkboard menus have succinct descriptions, in the full-stop style that says nearly nothing about how whatever you order will actually taste. A place where everything is a shank off something, but responsibly harvested.

Just inside the front door, Matthew puts his hand to the small of my back and presses so gently there, it feels almost unintentional. I slow my gait just a fraction, hoping it will push him closer, even when I can't be sure why. Perhaps I want to feel some ember of interest that could kindle into more if I only try hard enough. But when his hand shifts the tiniest bit lower and his fingers drift closer to my hip, I have to fight the urge to twist away.

Once seated, we work our way through the shared plates he orders for us, chatting easily, first-date-type banter peppered with the occasional drift toward weightier things. Ruth Ann's funeral, Matthew losing his father as a kid, small references to the breakups and broken hearts between us. All between bites of burrata with heirloom tomatoes, frico caldo, and that charcuterie he's so fond of.

But I don't think about what it might be like to kiss him, or consider how his body might look under his expensive, tailored clothes. I don't find myself lingering on any physical aspect of him. His hazel eyes, the full lips that part to reveal straight white teeth, the way he pushed up the sleeves on his sweater and the surprising tease of what appears to be a full-sleeve tattoo revealed itself.

Nothing. Even now, when his hand presses more purposefully to my waist as we leave the restaurant, there's mostly silence from my body. If I could, I would force it. Anything to feel the slightest tinge of desire toward this sexy, smart, accomplished man. I consider pinching the skin on my forearm just to ensure I'm alive.

We drove separately, but parked just a few spaces away from each other in a lot adjacent to the restaurant. Matthew stops us next to my car, pausing to slip past the truck parked next to mine. We're crowded together in a relatively small space, standing face-to-face in a way that would be perfect if I wanted him to kiss me.

“Thanks for letting me take you to lunch.”

I huff a quiet chuckle. “What do I say to that? ‘You're welcome'?”

He looks away for a moment, then makes as if he wants to put his hand to my skin somehow. Before he does, he awkwardly runs his hand through his hair. “The last time I saw you, you said you were involved with someone. But now we're here and unless I'm losing my mind, it feels like something's different.”

A million things are different. I fell in love. It destroyed me. Then I stumbled into a big, gaping hole of misery and only crawled out of it yesterday. Matthew doesn't know the details but it seems he's smart enough to see the shadows and fill in the blanks.

I manage to mumble a few sounds that make it clear I don't know what to say, how to answer to his assessment. Matthew holds up a hand to stop me, then rests it on the roof of my car, where the posture puts his body even closer to mine.

And, dammit, there's nothing. Not even the hint of anticipatory excitement. Instead, I'm on the verge of taking a step backward, maybe a few, just to ensure he can't touch me. Because if he does, I'll probably cry. The poor guy will think he did something wrong, and he hasn't. I force my body to stay put even if it hurts every inch of my skin to imagine any man other than Jake being close enough to kiss me.

“Is something different, Lacey? Because if you're available, I'd like a shot here.” He furrows his brow a little at my lack of a response, and leans forward incrementally. “Are you single now?”

Jesus. Simple question, Lacey. Only two answers exist. Yes or no.

Pick one.

But I can't. No right answer announces itself or leaves my lips. My head is saying yes. Yes, I'm unattached from a man who can't be bothered to fight for me or even bring himself to send me an email. My heart, though, is screaming, caterwauling, and wailing the opposite. No, no, no.

When I shrug to answer him, Matthew's shoulders sag and his gaze drops. All I can do then is apologize. Say I'm sorry for trying to fill the hole in my heart with someone else, when the very idea is unimaginable.

21

P
aint chips cover the front counter at The Beauty Barn. I've scattered them about in piles by color family, keeping the blues and greens far away from the red and yellow choices so I can see each in its own light. A fresh coat on the walls seems like the best first step to making this place feel more like my own. Not so dramatic a renovation that it would require power tools, but it's a start.

I shove the pastel peach chips off to the side. Those haven't looked good anywhere in decades. Picking up a bold charcoal-colored sample, I hold the little square up and try to envision it on the walls. When the front door bell tinkles, I look over and Dusty is standing there, out of uniform and holding his old John Deere hat in one of his hands. My shoulders sink and I immediately drop the paint chip, hoping he won't ask what I'm up to. I'll just stand here and hopefully, if I keep my wits about me, he won't stay long.

“Hey, Lace.”

Odd. His voice is too quiet. Not even the tiniest edge to his words. Dusty steps forward, hat still clutched in front of him and pressed to his pronounced paunchy belly. No strutting or swaggering. He actually dips his chin a bit when he pauses at the counter, deference in the gesture.

I don't care for it. At all. I rely on every bit of Dusty's arrogance and conceit to keep our relationship in perspective. Deference will not do. I say nothing, simply raise my brows, and ask what he needs with that gesture.

“Just came by to check on you. Make sure you're doing OK. Ruth Ann and . . . everything.”

I drop my gaze and pretend to flip through a stack of mail, trying to obscure the rest of the swatches as covertly as possible. The junk mail becomes my focus. I inspect each piece, front and back, before tearing open the envelopes with precise flicks of my letter opener. “I'm fine.”

“Brought you these.” A bag of animal crackers appears from behind him and flops onto the counter.

Oh God. What is he doing? What is this? I grind my jaw together and peer up through my lashes at him, waiting for the punch line or the inevitable jab about my hips. But when I see his expression, I understand everything. This is soft, frosted-sugar-cookie Dusty. Likeable Lofthouse-cookie Dusty.

The man is perfectly capable, adept really, at being charming. He can woo if he wants. Unfortunately, once you bite into the weird frosted-sugar-cookie Dusty, your tongue starts to itch because you realize how wrong it all is. Nothing with that kind of softness should bear such an extended shelf life; it isn't natural. Thankfully, I now know that unlike an actual Lofthouse cookie, this version of Dusty only lasts a finite amount of time. He can't maintain being charming beyond the length of a one-act melodrama.

Flatly, I do my best to remain polite. “Thanks.”

“Look, I want to put something on the table. I've been thinking.” His body tips forward, his hands resting on the counter to inch closer to me. “You and I make sense. Maybe you can see that now. I do. We should give this another go, don't you think? Like, for real, make it official. It's time, I guess.”

My hand freezes on the latest piece of junk mail in my grip and the other starts to tremble under grasping the letter opener so fiercely, trying desperately to avoid poking something, or someone, with it.

It's time? I guess?

Kill me now. Just let a giant, thunderous crack of lightning crash through the roof of The Beauty Barn and strike me dead. Right here. Right now. Because if there is a less romantic, more pathetic declaration of affection in the history of all declarations, I don't know what it could be.

I look up at the ceiling and wait, pray a bit harder for my own demise. My eyes skitter around, but nothing happens. Finally, with a long, shuddering exhale, I drop my head and look Dusty in the eye.

“No.”

He straightens up a bit and his features tighten a fraction. “No?”

“No.”

That's all it takes. Every bit of agreeableness he was using to lure me in disappears. Pushing up from the counter, he slaps the hat back on his head and gives it a tug, mouth curling into a sneer.

“I was right, wasn't I? Jake Holt decided you weren't worth it. He got what he wanted from you, a few passable fucks, then bolted. I was willing to overlook that, Lace. Your loss.”

I keep my eyes fixed on his. He backs out of the store, gaze unrelenting, and because I'm focusing so intently, my eyes begin to sting. When the little bell tinkles again, I'm finally able to breathe.

I head home in the dark and cold. Once there, I rummage through the cupboards and successfully manage to heat water for a cup of cellulose-ish noodles and dehydrated vegetables. I vaguely want to drink heavily, but I don't have anything alcoholic in the house and the small obstacle of venturing out into the world is enough to deter my desire for getting plowed until I pass out.

People are always babbling about closure, the obnoxiously unreliable words we think we need to put our grief in its place and move on. I never felt like I needed that before. When my dad died, I didn't. After Dusty and I broke up, I didn't. Even losing Ruth Ann felt like full circle from the day of her funeral. Maybe I'm too good at letting go. Maybe staying safely in the places I've always known has made it easy to do.

Jake has been the only thing I ever held on to with enough ferocity for it to really hurt. And I'd like it to stop hurting now.

Closure. That's what I need. At least that's what I tell myself as I open up my email.

Nothing more, nothing less than the comfort of some closure.

TO:
jake.holt6239

FROM:
laciegracie93

SUBJECT:
[none]

Was I worth it?