“You’re leaving me?!” I button my coat as the cool air takes my breath away.
“Yep.” He unlocks his car.
I grab his arm and yank on it until he turns to face me. He pulls out of my grasp and bends over to get in my face.
“I deal with bickering idiots all week. I’m trying to raise a child who feels emotionally a world away from me. The last thing I need is a manipulative woman asking for favors that are not fair to ask and then treating me like a random ‘dick to ride’ just because I have the balls to stand up to her.”
I shove him back so he’s out of my face. “I signed a contract with you. I didn’t ask for an unfair favor. I ordered business cards with my new office address. I painted the space. I had my name put on the door and I paid for my name to be added to the sign out front, all to the tune of over a thousand dollars. THEN … my landlord gets out his calculator and adds two plus two and discovers a music therapist plays MUSIC! Now I’m stuck looking for a new place because you were too damn stupid to use your brain before you took my money and signed on the dotted line.”
Wow. I just said all of that. And I didn’t have to think. The words have been waiting to come out, and I didn’t realize it until now.
Here it is … the silence. We’ve danced around this issue for weeks. I’ve tried to be playful and charming, he’s tried to be polite and accommodating. But the truth is … he’s never going to let me stay, and I’m going to hold a grudge if he makes me leave. All the sex in the world won’t change it. Not dinner. Not playing the guitar with Harry. Not lunch and a movie.
And this sucks because I genuinely like Flint Hopkins. But what sucks even more … this rental agreement and the eviction notice are my proverbial glassful of wine left on the table. It’s my trigger, and triggers hurt like hell.
“I’ll drive you home and tomorrow I’ll have Amanda cut you a check to cover the signage and business card expenses.”
I stare at his chest. I can’t even look him in the eye. “I don’t want your money and I don’t want a ride home.”
“Ellen, it’s cold. Just get in.”
I shake my head as I walk back to the restaurant. I’ll call a cab or I’ll walk, but I won’t get in his car because I just need a very long moment to find my balance again.
*
It’s a bit late for a clean break, but I catch a cab home, grab a few boxes, and drive to the office in search of something resembling closure. The parking lot is empty on this Sunday afternoon, so I park right in front of the door to make it easier to carry out my stuff.
After I get the boxes packed and my not-so-fancy desk disassembled, I call my clients for the week and reschedule them, letting them know I’ll contact them soon with the new address. If I don’t find a new place by the end of the week, I’ll make house calls. Dad will be proud.
My phone rings. I don’t recognize the number; it’s out of area.
“Ellen Rodgers,” I answer.
“Ellen, it’s Lori Willet, your dad’s neighbor.”
“Hi.” I tape up the last box.
“Forrest found your dad passed out in the yard. They just left with him in the ambulance. We’re on our way there too. I’ll let you know more as soon as we get there.”
Tears prick my eyes as I cover my mouth.
“Sweetie, are you still there?”
“P-passed out or …”
“Still breathing, just unresponsive.”
“Okay … um, I’ll be there as soon as I can get there. Call me when you know more.”
“We will. Safe travels. We’re praying for him.”
My phone drops from my shaky hands. I grab it and swat away more tears while bringing up Abigail Hamilton’s number on my phone.
“Hello?”
“Abigail …” I clear my throat and swallow back the flood of emotions. “It’s Ellen. I need a huge favor.”
“What is it, dear?”
“They’re taking my dad to the hospital.” I shake with silent sobs.
“I’m sorry. What happened?”
“I don’t know. The neighbor found him unconscious in the yard. I need to get on a plane.”
“Oh … do you want me to book you a flight?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “No, I … I need you to give me something to be able to get on the plane.”
“I don’t under—oh dear, are you afraid of flying?”
I bite my quivering lips together and nod.
“Ellen?”
“Yes,” I whisper past the knot in my throat. “My mom…” this hurts so bad “…she um … died in a plane crash.”
“Ellen, I didn’t know. I’m … I’ll … where are you?”
“At my office. My car is here.”
“Stay there. We’ll come get you. I don’t even want you trying to drive home. Just stay put. Okay.”
I nod, unable to find another word before pressing End.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Flint
“My back hurts just watching you.” Martin Hamilton laughs, leaning on the fence between our yards.
When I returned from my disaster of a date, I changed into old clothes and got to work cutting back my plants for winter. Anything to avoid the questions I know Harrison will have once he pulls his head away from his phone long enough to really register that I’m home. I wasn’t even gone a full hour. It has to be a new record for the shortest date ever.
“I don’t mind it yet. I suppose I might in a few years.”
“Nah, you’re still a young guy. I’m sure you’ve got more than a few years of back-breaking work left in ya.”
“Martin?” Abigail yells while jogging toward the fence.
“Oh lord …” He grumbles. “I must be in trouble for something.”
“Martin, I need you to drive me to Flint’s office building.”
I sit back on my heels, brushing the dirt off my legs. “No one is there on Sunday,” I say, narrowing my eyes a bit in confusion.
She shakes her head. “Ellen is there. I don’t want her driving home. Her dad’s in the hospital. I need to see if I can help her get on a plane.”
“Get her a flight booked? I can do that, I’ve got—” Martin starts to say.
“No.” Abigail shakes her head, a slight cringe of pain to her expression. “Her mom died in a plane crash. I’m going to have to give her something really strong to even get her on the plane.”
Fuck. Me.
I tug off my gloves.
“Abby, you can’t sedate her and put her on a commercial flight by herself. Are you going with her?” Martin says.
“I’m on call. I’ll figure something out for her, but for now, I need to go get her.”
“I’ll handle it.” I stand.
Martin and Abigail stare at me.
“You’ll handle what?” Abigail asks.
“Everything.” I turn and head toward the house.
They don’t say another word because they know from personal experience that when I say I’ll handle something, it gets handled. No questions. No hesitation.