I stand and brush my hands on my shorts. It’s actually a small house. One bedroom. One bathroom. One large living area with an open kitchen. There’s only one place left to search.
“I’m just putting it out there. My two cents.” Who am I kidding? He doesn’t need to take career advice from someone who gave up on hers. “One last place to check. If you don’t mind?”
He gives me a subtle shake of his head. “I don’t mind.”
Taking a few steps, I stand in the doorway of the bedroom and gaze inside. My stomach does back flips, my palms start to sweat again.
The bed is made. New white sheets. The expensive kind. I check the nightstand drawer and find chapstick and reading glasses, neither of which are mine. No Simply Sinful. I don’t know whether to be petrified or relieved.
“Find what you’re looking for?” he says when I step back into the living room.
He’s sitting on the back of the couch with his long legs stretched out ahead of him, his arms crossed. His eyes are hooded and his long lashes casting shadows on his sharp cheekbones. His attention lingers on my beauty mark and I start to get a little hot and bothered, my heart beating a little harder. Heat glides over my skin and pools in private places. This thing has always been a curse. Damn you, Athena.
I thought I was done being taken in for a pretty face and a hot body. This is exactly what got me into trouble with Jaime in the first place. This needs to stop now.
“No. Not yet,” I mumble. Shaking out of whatever spell he’s casting, I head for the door. If I stand a second longer in his presence, I’ll quickly turn into me at thirteen again.
“We should exchange numbers.” At my expression, eyebrows raised and eyes wide, he adds, “In case something happens with Aidan and I’m not around.”
I rattle off my phone number. It’s a wonder I can even remember my name in his company. “Thanks for letting me look around.”
“Anytime,” I hear him say as I shut the door behind me. Gospel truth, I think I hear a burst of laughter. Then again, I could be imagining it.
Chapter 6
Life goes on. Not as I planned it, but it goes on nonetheless. And that’s a good thing––better than the alternative for sure.
Nowadays, there’s a ton of work to be done online for a non-profit to thrive. I don’t have the time to manage all our accounts, so Mona handles Facebook correspondence and Twitter. She also does most of the ordering of supplies and feed and handles the sales from the Mother Goose Rescue merchandise online store. My job is to post updates and pictures on FB, Instagram, and Tik Tok. And yet, no matter how much time we devote to it, we never seem to catch up. Which is why you gotta multitask.
As I’m prepping lunch buckets and simultaneously trying to post a few pictures of Hazel and Pepper’s progress, I accidentally switch onto my personal Facebook account. There’s a bunch of missed alerts. Then I remember I muted them. I’m still FB friends with everyone in the L.A. Fire Department, all of whom are required to be EMTs themselves, and although most are close friends of Jaime and he got them in our separation, it’s not like I’m going to unfriend them just to avoid news about my ex––an ex that I have less than zero feelings for.
That’s why I’m not surprised that he regularly pops up on my feed. Except there’s nothing regular about the next post I see. In fact, it’s so irregular that when I click on it, my stomach drops.
A picture of Jaime at Joshua Tree stares back at me. He’s hugging a tall woman with long reddish-blonde hair and matching golden Labs sit at their feet. They look happy. She’s holding up her left hand where a small round diamond sparkles in the sunlight.
I remember what it’s like to be part of a happy couple. Vaguely, that is. Most of those memories have been stomped out under the heel of a size thirteen fireproof boot.
One dog wears a sign around his neck that says: She Said…
The other wears one that says: Yes!
Am I supposed to infer from this bullshit that there was a possibility she’d say no? Is there a third dog somewhere off-camera wearing the unfortunate No sign?
Rage boils over into a steady, simmering flow. Not because of the unexpectedly fast engagement. They could have ten babies by tomorrow and my blood pressure wouldn’t stir; I fell out of love with him years ago. It’s far worse. Far, far worse. The anger comes from seeing the dogs. Because this is the same man that didn’t want any pets when we were living together. Not even a damn fish. And now he has not one but two dogs.
We’re never home.
We work late hours.
We won’t be able to travel.
I want it to be “just us” a little longer.
He used every excuse there is and I went along with it because who wants to believe that the person they love is a manipulating bastard.
I hit speed dial.
“Jaime’s engaged.”
“Hold that thought.” I hear a muffled, “Stephen, I’m going to lunch. Put all my calls through to my cell…” A beat later, as I’m pacing the threshold of the barn, “Tell me every delicious detail. Is she a dirty hooker?”
“Worse. She’s one of those wholesome types.”
“He’s so predictable. God, I loathe him and his air of superiority.”
“I’m sending you a screenshot,” I tell her and send the picture over.
“I think I just threw up in my mouth. Well, you know what they say, one woman’s trash is another woman’s treasure.”
Jessica is not a fan of overtly sentimental or romantic displays of affection. In fact, much to her very large family’s chagrin, she’s often said she’s eloping if she ever gets married because she doesn’t want to share what should be a personal moment with a bunch of “booze and buffet freeloaders.” Her words not mine.
“It’ll never work,” she continues after seeing the screenshot.
“Why would you say that?” I ask, truly at a loss to understand how she can tell from this picture. “I mean other than your general anti-Jaime sentiments.”
“Because they’re too much alike,” she says with complete authority. Then a muttered, “Gross, they could be kissing cousins.”
Upon closer examination of the picture, I realize she’s right. Similar hair color. Similar tall athletic build. They even both have similar freckles covering their matching angular faces.
Huh. “True. But what does that have to do with anything?”
“Tita always says you can’t marry anyone who’s anything like you. If you’re short, you need to marry tall. Fat needs to marry skinny. An introvert needs to marry an extrovert. Otherwise, the kids come out messed up or something––missing a chromosome. It’s the only reason she let my dad marry my mom. She’s short, fat, and dark and he’s a tall, skinny, pasty Mexican.”
Laughter bursts out of me. “You can’t be serious?”
“Hello, you’ve seen my dad a million times. Have you ever seen him outside without a hat? He gets a sunburn on a rainy day. My brother calls him Powder.”
The laughter has me crying. At least she knocked me off my train of rage. “I’m talking about the other stuff.”