“Umm-hmm.”
He walks down the steps, then turns back. “Say, Abby? I hope you had a good time tonight, in spite of me being an ass.”
Holding the door open, I say, “I did.”
A slow smile spreads across his face. “So, are you maybe a little glad I talked you into it?”
“Don’t push it, Wright.”
“Gotcha.”
I go inside, feeling sleepy and relaxed after a long day. I find myself chuckling about Liam and his stupid song while I brush my teeth. When I look in the mirror, I see a woman who looks happy and the reason for her smile shocks me a little, as does the knowledge that I haven’t thought about Isaac since I walked into the pub. I wipe the smile off her face as a small act of contrition.
Chapter Thirteen
The truth will set you free, but first it will piss you off.
~ Gloria Steinem
Today I turn forty. Yuck. Shit. Fuck. Who wants to be forty? If Isaac were alive, he would have thrown me a lavish dinner party. He’d have invited all our friends, spent the last two days in the kitchen, and sent Lauren and me to the spa for the day while he executed the preparations to a T. I would have spent the entire day philosophizing about age and the beauty myth and gratitude and a whole bunch of other bullshit with Lauren, until I felt much better about this unwanted milestone.
But instead, other than accepting a few phone calls, I’m going to pretend it’s not happening. The calls will come in this order: Lauren, who is also on Eastern Standard Time. She’ll likely have sent a card in the mail, which will be a few days late. Then my parents will call so I can hear how they can’t believe their daughter is the big 4-0. Yeah, because it’s aboutthem. My mother will lather on some ‘time flies by and you should really come see your family’ guilt. Yay. Happy day. My brother Chad’s ‘over the hill’ jokes will come in around midnight via text, after his wife, Tammy reminds him it’s my birthday.
Instead of a spa day, a beautiful evening with friends, followed by some fabulous birthday sex, I’m going to do some yard work, then binge-watchScandaluntil I fall asleep.
I suppose I should be grateful that the minutes don’t tick away here like they did at the apartment. Instead, they disappear like clams into the sand. I’ll be spending my big day with Colton, who will have no idea I’ve just turned ‘ancient.’ He’ll arrive on his bike around eleven in the morning and continue with the tedious job of ridding this entire property of weeds. After three weeks, he’s still pulling weeds and his parents are still paying for it, which I have to say, I’m starting to feel a bit guilty about. (Just not guilty enough to put a stop to our arrangement because…weeds).
Liam has made good progress inside, giving me hopes of having my little corner of the world all to myself sooner than I originally thought. This is a good thing because I’m starting to enjoy hanging out with him more than might be advisable. There’s something about his easygoing nature and the way he makes me laugh, that causes me to completely forget how much I don’t like other humans. I find myself getting sucked into ridiculously enjoyable conversations that leave me looking forward to the next one, which is one-hundred percent against my beliefs.
He’s almost finished the master bedroom and en suite, which means the new flooring can finally be installed. I’ve decided on a light taupe carpet to replace the scruffy old green one that currently fills all the bedrooms, the staircase, the living room and dining area. The dining area and kitchen will have hardwood that matches the finish of the floor in the office, and the bathrooms will have ivory porcelain tiles. Once those are all in, this will feel a lot more like a home and less like a flophouse. I won’t be sleeping on a double mattress on the floor, but will have my new queen bed to snuggle up in at night. For my fortieth, I’ve splurged on a cabin-chic bedding set with a light gray and ivory plaid pattern, and a throw pillow with a moose silhouette for a touch of fun. I’m going to have a pillow-top mattress to sink into for the first time in my life, now that I don’t live with a man who insists the firmer the better. I found a reclaimed wood headboard at the same store where I bought the chairs. It’s sitting in the garage waiting to be unpacked and set up.
The paint fumes are gone from my office, and every time I walk past it, my gut clenches. I need to start making money instead of spending it. Each morning starts with the best of intentions. I promise myself I’ll sit down and write after breakfast, but inevitably, something more urgent pops up, like a flowerbed I really should tackle while it’s nice out or a wall I could paint myself instead of paying Liam to do it. I’ll write after lunch. Then after supper, but I can’t very well leave a sink full of dirty dishes, now can I? By the time I turn out the light above the sink, I’m so tired from another day of working in the sunshine and fresh air, I walk right past my little office without looking, on my way upstairs. Then I read until I’m sleepy, which takes all of about four minutes.
Isaac doesn’t appear in my dreams, or if he does, I sleep too soundly to know he was there. When I woke this morning, the realization slapped me over the head. I can’t remember the last conversation we had. The thought has tortured me since I got out of bed even though I try to convince myself it’s only because I’m sleeping so soundly. I haven’t lost him. He’s still here.
But what if he isn’t?
My mood grows worse when I receive an email from Lauren which includes a link to a Publisher’s Weekly article titled: Barrington Publishing Announces New Historical Romance Division. The subject line is “Just Sayin’...” and in the body, she wishes me a happy b-day and says she’ll call later when she gets a chance. Abby three years ago would have been super excited to talk to her about the possibility of working with Barrington. Abby today deletes the email and promptly tries to erase it, along with the accompanying sense of nausea, from her mind.
I then go in search of today’s excuse, which arrives in a FedEx van. Ooh! What if it’s a big birthday gift from someone who loves me?
I slide my Crocs on and hurry out to greet the deliveryman, who has just opened the back of the truck. He’s shockingly pale and has wild black hair that makes his head look far too big for his painfully thin body. I stare for a second, a little taken aback as it occurs to me he resembles a Q-Tip that’s just been used to wipe off heavy eyeliner.
He smiles down at me. “Are you Abigail Carson?”
“Yes,” I say, giving him a friendly smile.What is it? What do you have in there?Something fun for me?
He snaps his fingers as a look of recognition crosses his face. “You’re that American widow from New York, right?”
My smile fades, and I consider bursting into tears just to fuck with him. But I don’t. Instead, I nod and say, “Mmm-hmm.”
“Cool. I have a delivery of greenhouse windows for you.”
Oh. Windows. Great.
The top half of his body disappears into the truck, and he pulls out a cardboard box. “Where would you like it?”
“Here is fine,” I say, pointing to the ground.
