After my third knock, I take a step back and look left to right. I want to peek in the windows on either side of the door, but I know better. Privacy, and all that.
I’m on the bottom step when I remember the screened-in porch. I should probably leave, but, well, isn’t the guy hungry? And, if he’s a bad guy, I’d rather it be me who finds out about it instead of my grandma.
I come around the side of the cabin and round the back, walking right up to the black screen. The position of the sun has left the porch in total shade, making it difficult for me to see in. Looking closer, I spot a figure in a chair. He’s leaning back, with his feet propped up on a chair opposite. Squinting, I make out a half dozen bottles on the ground around him.
My lips twist. Maybe he’s not a bad guy. Maybe he’s running from something painful, just like me.
I feel bad for waking him up, but after the night it looks like he had, he needs sustenance.
Raising my hand, I knock quietly on the wooden door. When he doesn’t move, I knock again, louder this time, and clear my throat.
The man startles, pulling his legs off the chair and staggering to his feet. He turns my way, but I can’t see anything else. He’s just a mass of body, and he’s coming this way.
He pushes open the door, but his head hangs down like it’s too heavy to lift. His messy brown hair flops over his forehead. He’s wearing low-slung jeans and he’s shirtless. He has abs for days, the kind that ripple. If I reached out, my fingers wouldbump bump bumpover them. Good thing my hands are full. And that I have a brain. And a broken heart.
“Hi,” I say, taking care to keep my voice low. “I work for Sweet Escape and noticed you didn’t join us for breakfast this morning. Or yesterday morning,” my voice falters and I feel flustered.Way to kick the guy when he’s obviously down.“I thought you might want to eat.”
Taking a deep breath, the guy lifts his head and looks me in the eye.
No.
The universe is playing a cruel trick on me.
I feel instant guilt for admiring his abs, so to make myself feel better I look at his hand, at his ring finger, and find the ring missing. “Where’s your wedding ring?”
He says nothing. Instead he reaches out, unwraps the plastic, and grabs the chocolate croissant. He stuffs nearly half of it in his mouth, chews, and says, “I’m not married.”
“You were wearing a ring. And just because it’s gone now doesn’t mean anything.”
“I’m not married,” he repeats, eating the rest of the pastry and reaching for the second one. He walks back to the table and sits down. He looks at me while he chews, and I find it annoying. Liars don’t make eye contact like that unless they’re really good at lying. It’s even more annoying that he’s so gorgeous it almost hurts to look at him. He should grow a big green wart on the end of his nose.
He opens his mouth to say something, but I turn around and hurry back to the path at the front of the house. His coffee is still in my hand, but that’s too bad.
As I keep going down the path and into the trees, a nagging little voice reminds me who I really want to yell at. The person who should be on the receiving end of my venom is not that guy back there. He’s a proxy for Warren, for his mother, and for life in general.
* * *
Laundry calms me.I know it’s weird, but when I’m overwhelmed, I start washing.
I switch the laundry from the washing machine to the dryer, then add a new load to the washer. Setting the timer on my watch for forty minutes, I leave the laundry room and grab my running shoes from the mudroom. A quick run should help me clear the cobwebs in my head. I feel tired, uneasy, and just plain weird.
I’m positive it was my run-in with the guy in cabin seven that left me feeling this way. I’m mad at the wrong person, and I can’t talk to the people who deserve my anger.
“Hello?” a voice from the back of the house calls.
“Coming,” I respond, using my sweetened guest voice.
I tie the last lace on my sneaker and jog out from the mudroom, skidding to a stop when I see who it is.
“Is there something I can do for you?” I grit out. Despite my disagreement with his loose interpretation of marriage vows, he’s still a guest. Apayingguest.
Cabin Seven rocks back on his heels, surveying me from under dark, thick lashes. I could look in my grandma’s guest book and learn his real name, but I like calling him by his cabin number.
He tucks his hands into the pockets of his shorts and grins. “Did that hurt?” he asks.
I sigh. “You mean when I fell from Heaven?”
Cabin Seven chuckles and removes a hand from his pocket, rubbing his fingers across his chin. “No. Asking me if there was anything I needed. Being forced to help me when you’ve decided you hate me.”
