“You can’t be you?” he challenges, and the anger and frustration in his voice is replaced with confusion and sadness. “Winnie, you will get through this. We can get through this. Your dad, my mistake, all of it.”
I shake my head. “I don’t want to.”
And without another word I turn and walk away. He calls my name once, but I ignore him and when I dare look back, just before I turn the corner to the bus kiosk, he’s gone. I feel relief. A little guilt but mostly relief. This is the right thing. He may not know it right now, but I know it. It’s the only thing I feel like I do know at this point.
I buy my bus ticket back to Maine with shaking hands, but the attendant either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. That is exactly what I want right now—what I need—to be around people who don’t give a shit. Or be around no one at all. I just need time to wallow. I don’t care how pathetic or lame that sounds; it’s how I feel.
The bus is leaving in fifteen minutes, so I hurry outside and shove my suitcase in the hold under the bus and hand the driver my ticket. As I make my way toward an empty seat, I keep my head down, which is why I almost bump into the guy standing in the middle of the aisle. At the last second I see his feet and come to an abrupt stop. I glance up and find a wall of broad shoulders and wide chest wrapped in a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the edges of some kind of tattoo peeking out of the left sleeve just below the elbow. My eyes climb higher where I find a thick beard, light brown kissed by copper, piercing silver-blue eyes and a slightly crooked nose I would recognize anywhere. Because I’m the one who broke it.
Why the fuck is Holden Hendricks on this bus?
He stares back at me and his tongue wets his plump lips as his brow furrows ever so slightly. It still angers me that someone with such a dark heart is so physically attractive. Completely unfair.
“Sorry,” he says and moves into a row so I can pass. I start to walk by when he follows me with his eyes and says, “Hey! You look familiar. Have we met?”
Seriously? I mean we haven’t seen each other in fourteen years, but still. I recognized him immediately even though he’s a few inches taller and has a beard and a whole bunch of things he didn’t have when he was sixteen, like an imposing frame and biceps as big as my head. I keep looking straight ahead, down the aisle in front of me and not at him. “Nope.”
I keep walking, settling in the window seat in the second to last row. I glance up and see he’s tucked himself into a row of seats, but he’s standing and facing backward, looking right at me. I fight the urge to stick my tongue out at him like I did the first time he was mean to me…when I was ten. Our relationship only sunk lower after that, hence the broken nose. I move my eyes deliberately away from him and focus on digging my phone out of my purse.
Ty has left four text messages, each angrier than the next.
Ty: Winnie we can’t work this out if you don’t come home. Eleven years of our life is worth some effort and you know it. Meet me at the gate.
Ty: Winnie, why are you doing this? If you were going to break up with me you should have done it years ago, when I made the mistake. And it was a mistake!
Ty: You are being selfish and stupid. Grow up Winnie and get your ass to the gate now.
Ty: If you don’t get on this plane and come back to Toronto with me, it is over. For good. And I will hate you for doing it this way.
I look at the time on my phone. Our plane leaves in ten minutes. He’s probably already on board. I sent a quick text back.
Winnie: I’m sorry for everything.
I’ve never meant four words more in my life. He cheated. He is responsible for that, but I was the one too weak or too stupid—or maybe both—to end it when I found out. Instead, I promised to forgive him, and then I never did. I couldn’t. That’s my fault.
I could go back to Toronto. I could move in with him, like I planned, at least for the first few months. I could start teaching again at my old school, first as a substitute and then hopefully back to full-time. I could pick up my old life almost exactly where it left off. But I can’t forgive him. I know that now. Maybe I always knew it. I don’t know. But since my dad died, my tolerance for pretending, for forcing myself to endure situations and feelings that I don’t want to endure is gone. I just can’t lie to myself anymore. Life’s too short.
Ty and I are over.
I’m all alone.
I glance up again. The bus driver is dropping into his seat and yet Holden is still staring at me. I glare at him, then turn to look out the window.
I spend the entire ride with my iTunes cranked in my ears and my eyes glued to the scenery out the window. The closer I get to the cottage, the better I feel. This is irresponsible, irrational and selfish, but it’s right.
When we pull into the depot, the sun is low in the sky and dusk is setting in. I wait until everyone else is off the bus, count to fifty and then grab my purse and make my way off. I want to make sure Holden has had enough time to get his bag, if he has one, and get the hell out of here. The bus driver has unloaded everything and my suitcase is on the curb. An older lady is walking toward the parking lot with her own bag and everyone else seems to have left. Good. I pull up the handle on my bag and begin to walk away.
There are a couple cabs idling by the curb, but it’s just a fifteen-minute walk down Main Street and I need to stretch my legs. The summer season is officially over, so the usually crowded sidewalks are empty…except for Holden freaking Hendricks. He’s about half a block in front of me, walking in the same direction. Why is he walking? What is he even doing in Maine? I thought he moved away or ran away or was in jail or something. There were a lot of rumors when he disappeared at sixteen, but I didn’t know which one to believe. If I had to bet, it would be on the jail rumor because he was always in trouble.
I make sure my pace is slower than his, so I stay half a block back and watch him carefully. He looks relaxed and not quite as…aggressive as he used to be. I know it’s weird to think that someone looks aggressive, but when he was a kid everything about him oozed bad energy. From the way he walked to the tone in his voice—sharp, tight, ominous—he was just not a good guy. I mean, I never felt like he would hurt me physically, but he used to tease me mercilessly. Of course he teased just about everyone, but I am…was sensitive and took it to heart.
I’m almost at my street. In a few seconds I can turn left and leave him to wherever the hell he’s going and never seen him again. There’s a truck heading west toward us and it slows and finally pulls over, into oncoming traffic, to stop in front of Holden. He jerks up abruptly at the sight of the vehicle blocking his way, shoulders back, chin out, fists clenched. Yeah, there’s the aggressive guy I knew and hated.
A head pops out the window. I’d know that greasy face anywhere. It’s Stephen Kidd. He’s a local guy and was one of Holden’s best buddies back in the day. I guess he still is. Unlike Holden though, Kidd as they call him, is someone I was scared of back in the day.
Kidd waves at Holden. “Hey, buddy! What the fuck happened to your truck? I thought it was new?”
“It is,” I hear Holden respond. “Long story.”
