Down on Love (26 page)

And, before she could change her mind, she’d walked out.

Just as she crossed the state line, George’s phone rang. She tucked her earpiece in and answered, once a quick glance at her screen confirmed it was nobody from Marsden.

“Yeah.”

“Hey, stranger. I got your text. Thought I’d call instead.”

George took a steadying breath. “Thanks for getting back to me, Thom.”

“Congrats on the Beanie! I always knew you could do it.”

Oh, good God. Since when?
But she just bit her tongue and said, “Thanks. It’s exciting.”

“Are you back in town yet?”

“Couple of hours away.”

“I’ve been thinking—”

“I’m sorry to bug you, but I couldn’t think of anybody else—”

“No, no, it’s fine. I’m glad to help. I’ve been trying to come up with a place you can stay, like you asked, and honestly, I can’t think of anybody who can put you up.”

How hard did you try?
she wanted to say, but she didn’t. “I can’t afford a hotel, Thom. Can’t you think of
anybody
who wouldn’t mind my crashing on their couch? What about your coworker—what was her name—Petra or something? You said she had a huge place.”

“Mm, I would ask, but she’s at her parents’ place at the Cape.”

“Even better.”

“Nnno, I don’t think she’d want a stranger alone in her apartment.”

What the—she wasn’t a stranger. Well, she was, to Petra, but couldn’t Thom vouch for her? Damn, he was being a dick again. She thought of how Casey would bend over backward to help someone . . . and then she pushed the thought out of her head. No more Casey.

“Thom, please. Can’t you come up with anybody else?”

“Well, yeah, I can think of one.”

“Great—who is it?”

“Me.”

George nearly drove off the road. “Oh, no—”

“I’m serious. You need a place to stay, and you know there’s plenty of room here. You can sleep on the futon in the guest room. No ulterior motives, I swear. Really.”

George sighed. What choice did she have? It was either that or run up a huge hotel bill on her already debt-choked credit card.

“Come on, George,” he wheedled, and her Spidey sense tingled. What was his game? Thom was never this generous unless there was something in it for him. “You’re more than welcome. Let’s let bygones be bygones, huh?” She hesitated again, and suddenly his voice took on a more challenging tone. “Unless you don’t trust me or something.”

Before she knew it, she succumbed to one of his old passive-aggressive tactics, hurrying to protest, “Of course I trust you.”
Dammit.
“All right, fine, I’ll stay there. But only till I find my own place.”

“Great. It’ll be fun, I promise.”

When in the world had it ever been “fun” to live with Thom? But maybe she should trust him. Maybe he’d turned over a new leaf. Maybe they could be adults about this—they could be friends and enjoy each other’s company for however long it took her to collect her award and then . . . figure out what she was going to do with the rest of her life.

 

Casey sat back, ran a hand over his mouth, and sighed heavily. He wasn’t sure what to make of the blog entry George had told him to read. Well, he knew what she was getting at. It was as subtle as being pummeled by one of the hundred-pound pumpkins that he’d planted early and were now looming over the rest of the crop in his fields. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if she had made up this letter as well, just to get her point across. But no. He knew George wouldn’t do that—she’d been too ashamed of the few entries she had fudged.

Whatever the origin, George’s regular followers weren’t impressed with her advice. Some wrote kind comments like “George, are you all right? This doesn’t sound like you,” and others not-so-kind ones, along the lines of “WTF, DoL? Where’s the smackdown? Where’s the ‘dump his ass’? If I wanted something this lame I’d be reading Dear Abby,” and even “This advice blows. For the first time, I disagree with you. Do not like. Come on, George, you can do better than that.” Then a healthy debate erupted over whether the woman seeking advice should confess her feelings now, wait her turn and then swoop in after the guy has his heart broken, or stay silent.

Casey stopped reading somewhere around the hundred-and-fiftieth comment, his eyes glazing over as he wondered if Celia was actually the author of this letter. And, if she was, what did it mean? He’d heard Celia and George had had a girls’ night out. Naturally he’d feared they were talking about him the whole time, comparing notes (hey, it was only natural), but once he looked beyond his own navel, he wondered what was up George’s sleeve. Whether or not the letter was from Celia, did George use her response to advise her to do this very thing—swoop in on Casey? And did she tell Casey to read the entry so he’d date Celia after George was gone?

Because she definitely was gone. She hadn’t turned around and come back an hour later, as he’d hoped. She hadn’t even called. As the day went on, the mood in the Down-Montgomery house had dissolved into a kind of muted chaos. Sera had gotten more and more furious at her sister’s disappearance, Jaz had gotten depressed, and Amelia had gotten whiny, as she looked for her auntie and didn’t find her.

Casey had gone back to the farm and told Darryl, certain he’d hear about it soon anyway. Of course Big D had turned right around and told everyone else on the crew. At this point the whole town knew. The people on Team George had cast him pitying looks when he went to the market that afternoon, and when he ran into Nate on the street, the older man had clapped him on the shoulder and shaken his head sadly, as if there had been a death in the family. Nora had muttered she knew all along she’d backed the wrong horse and gave Casey a free brownie sundae with his lunch.

As he leaned back in his desk chair, still staring at George’s blog but not seeing it, his phone rang. Sera.

“She’s not coming back, is she?”

“Nope,” Casey answered bluntly. “I don’t think she is.”

“It’s my fault, isn’t it? I was a bitch to her.”

“No, it was my fault.”

“Maybe we can just blame George. Since she’s not here to defend herself.”

Casey laughed a little. “We could try. But I don’t think we’d be able to manage it.”

“Okay, then, let’s blame you, like you said. I told you not to go out with her.”

“That was twenty years ago.”

“There was no expiration date on the threat. I can still beat you up, you know.”

“Wouldn’t blame you in the least.”

“Hey, it’s me.”

“Yep.”

Pause.

“Oh. I guess you saw the caller I.D., huh?”

“Yep.”

“So. How are . . . things?”

“Fine.”

“Same here.” George realized her sister hadn’t asked, but she said it anyway.

“Uh-huh.”

“How’s Jaz? And Amelia?”

“Fine.”

“How’s the work for the exhibition? Don’t say fine,” she rushed to add, but Sera ignored her.

“Fine.”

George sighed. “Okay, I get it. You’re still mad at me for leaving—”

“George?”

“What?”

“Why are you calling?”

“I’m just . . . checking in. I was thinking about everybody, and—”

“That’s nice. You’d know how we all were if you were here, but you’re not. So we’re fine. And I have to go now.”

“Wait! Um, I mean, is Amelia around? Can I talk to her?”

“She wouldn’t notice you were gone, isn’t that what you said? Heck, she probably doesn’t even remember who you are by now, so don’t worry about it. Oh wait—you usually don’t.”

George sighed again. “Okay. I deserved that. But—”

“No buts, George. You wanted to leave, you left. Again. Own it, all right? Send me a Christmas card if you think of it.”

And her sister hung up.

George sat cross-legged on Thom’s unfolded futon, among a rumpled comforter, several pillows, and numerous articles of clothing, and buried her face in her hands. When Thom stopped in the doorway, she looked up with a tight smile. A fleeting grimace revealed his aversion to all her clutter in the guest room, but his expression returned to neutral quickly.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

“Yeah. Fine.”

“Really?”

“Well, aside from the fact that my sister is punishing me from across state lines? Yeah. Absolutely groovy.”

He leaned on the doorjamb and crossed his arms. “Hm.”

“What?” She tried to keep her tone light; she was still skittish around him, unsure how to behave. Overall, she hadn’t been relaxing much since she got back, and she spent most of the time thinking that staying at his condo had been one of her poorer choices. Never mind that it had been his idea—she’d gone along with it like a spineless jellyfish, so ultimately it was on her.

Not that Thom had been unkind or anything. He’d just been . . . Thom.

“Nothing.”

“Hey, I’ve got an idea,” she said eagerly. “I’ve got a craving for some decent manicotti. What do you say we go out to eat, to that funky little place in the North End we used to like?”

“You know, I’ve got an even better idea,” he countered. “How about we stay in? I got a ton of groceries the other day, and I don’t want the stuff to go to waste.”

Ah, yes. Classic Thom—always refusing to do what she wanted, but ever so politely. She tried not to let it bother her. “Sure, whatever. That’s fine. What do you want to make?”

“I don’t know.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “You know I’m useless in the kitchen. Why don’t you figure it out, and I’ll help?”

And there were Thom’s code words. “I’ll help” in the context of cooking meant he’d open the bottle of wine. If she had her hands full and couldn’t get to the corkscrew when he was ready for a glass, of course.

She felt herself bristling, but she reminded herself she was there only because of his unexpected, sudden generosity. “Fine. I’ll get started in a few minutes.”

Thom nodded and disappeared. When he was gone, George rubbed her eyes wearily. It crossed her mind to just order a pizza. Screw his withering groceries.
Good houseguest,
she reminded herself.
Be a good houseguest.
She closed her laptop and headed for the kitchen.

The condo was utterly silent and the temperature of a meat locker, even though it was eighty degrees outside even this late in the evening. The place was spotless, too. Not like when she and Thom were together. George had always been clean, but she had a tendency to spread her stuff around and not worry about keeping the place
Architectural Digest
perfect. Instead, it had looked . . . lived in. It was one of the many topics they used to . . . have a
difference of opinion
about.

She leaned her head against the living room window and stared down at the street, the setting sun brassy on the Brookline buildings. She thought about Sera and Jaz’s home, how it had been on the verge of earning the official classification of “pigsty” until she’d scrubbed it near to death. She wondered whether Sera and Jaz would keep it clean without her there to nag them and pick up Amelia’s toys and wipe away the traces of clay Sera left everywhere.

Passing through Thom’s immaculate, modern living room, with its clean lines and nothing out of place, George was tempted to pick up a magazine from an end table and drop it, letting it fan out on the floor, just to drive him crazy. But she was being a good houseguest. So she went to investigate what the kitchen was stocked with instead.

 

“So,” Thom said in a genial tone, working his way through a plate of George’s pasta primavera, “I
am
going to be your plus one for the Beanies, aren’t I?”

George took a sip of wine to stall. When she’d first received the invitation, she’d planned to RSVP just for herself. Then she’d changed her mind and sent in a confirmation for two. For a short time, she’d indulged herself by fashioning a crazy daydream about getting Casey to go with her, but . . . no. That ship had sailed, and she’d been the one to push it out of the harbor. So she planned on going alone, but now that Thom was sitting across the small dining room table from her, smiling hopefully, she realized it would be okay to have him escort her. He’d been pretty cool these past couple of days, and she wasn’t feeling anywhere near as much animosity toward him as she used to. Maybe it was the passage of time, or maybe he’d changed. Maybe she had. Maybe her “blog therapy” had worked. Whatever, all she knew was he’d worked hard to put her at ease, and she appreciated it. Not to mention it would be darned rude of her to shack up in his condo, eat his food, use his hot water, and then go out for a night on the town without him.

“Of course you are,” she said, smiling around the rim of her glass.

“I do look pretty good in a tux.”

“Mm,” she answered noncommittally, the memory of Casey dressed up for their Taste of Whalen date clouding her thoughts.

God, she missed him. She’d had no idea how bad this would hurt. Never mind the whole altruistic thing—how she should feel good about taking herself out of the equation, leaving Casey and Celia to get on with it without her around to distract Casey. Not that she was such a hot commodity—she didn’t think
that
much of herself. Casey was just acting out some fantasy he harbored, that they could pick up where they’d left off years ago. He’d built a little nothing—a teenage kiss—into something bigger than it should have been. No better way to nip that nonsense in the bud than by ducking out entirely.

She’d done the right thing, and now she had to accept that it was pointless to give in to whatever feelings Casey had reawakened in her. She had to get back to her reality, just as Casey had to get back to his. At the moment her reality included Thom—a nice version of him. So she was going to take him at face value, without all the baggage of their past relationship and breakup. Bygones and all that, like he’d said. It’s what adults did, after all, right?

George picked apart a slice of French bread. “I really appreciate your letting me stay here, Thom. I don’t know what I would have done otherwise.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he murmured, refilling her wine glass. “It’ll be pretty easy to calculate your prorated share of the rent while you’re here.”

She laughed. Then she stopped. The mild look on Thom’s face was entirely sincere—and serious. “Oh. You’re . . . you’re not . . . joki—?”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Hey, what’s for dessert? I could really go for one of your pies right about now.”

“You always said they were too fattening.”

He shrugged. “Once in a while can’t hurt. So how about it?”

“It’s late, Thom. And a pie takes a while.”

“Aw, I was kind of looking forward to it.”

She forced a smile. “Maybe tomorrow, okay?”

 

“The red one. Definitely the red one.”

George glanced over her shoulder and felt her face grow hot. She’d been standing in front of the bedroom closet for at least fifteen minutes, staring at the two dresses on hangers hooked over the top of the door and splayed flat against the dark wood, side by side. She’d been trying to decide which one to wear to the awards ceremony, and although she had only a couple of hours left, she still wasn’t able to choose. She thought it would be an easy decision; they were both attractive, but very different.

She’d picked up the newest option at Neiman earlier in the day. That was the red one Thom seemed so interested in. She knew he’d prefer it; it was modern, sparkly, and slinky—just his taste. She could barely breathe when she tried it on, and it defined her every curve so boldly she almost felt naked in it. It was pretty, she had to admit, and goddamned expensive, to boot. But it wasn’t a done deal.

Because hanging right next to it was the pale blue dress she’d worn in Marsden, on her date-that-wasn’t-a-date-that-turned-out-to-be-a-date with Casey. She reached out and ran a hand over the delicate, pleated gauzy fabric, remembering the cool, humid air that night, the burble of the creek by the Love Tree, the feel of Casey’s hot hands burning through the fabric to sear her skin, the way his lips on her throat made her knees buckle.

“No, definitely not that one,” Thom said, snapping her out of her reverie as he joined her in the room—the first time he’d set foot over the threshold since she’d come back. “I mean, it’s
okay,
but this other one is
hot
.”

“I don’t know . . . isn’t it too, you know—”

“Yeah. Hot. Like I said. That’s a good thing.”

“I was thinking . . .” And she fingered the blue dress again.

Thom took hold of the gathered skirt in both hands and fanned it out. “Mm, no. It wouldn’t look as good on you as the other one. And what is this all along the bottom? Dirt? And are those pine needles?”

George grabbed the dress from him and brushed at it frantically, trying to remove the remnants of Creekside Park—from the dress, and from her memory. “I was just thinking it’d be more . . . You know what? Never mind. You’re right. I’ll wear the red one.”

“That’s my girl.”

George expected Thom to give her a reassuring smile and make himself scarce, the way he had for the past few weeks, but instead he turned to her and twisted a lock of her hair in his fingers.

“So I was thinking . . .”

“What?” she asked, her voice throttled.

“This thing tonight.”

“Yeah?”

“Maybe . . . it could be a real date, not just friends?”

George swallowed, and it felt like there was a walnut stuck in her throat. “Are you saying you want to get back together?”

“I’m saying maybe we should . . . try again.”

“Really?”

“Really. Okay? Be my girl again?”

George tried to speak. The walnut stayed stuck. She started to wonder if she was going to suffocate unless she could dislodge it. She licked her dry lips, but before she could say anything, Thom chucked her under the chin and headed for the door, looking pleased with himself. She suspected he already assumed her answer was yes.

“You’d better get ready,” he tossed over his shoulder. “It’s getting late.”

And that was how George found herself, surprised and, quite frankly, more than a little numb, physically and mentally, in some ballroom at the Copley Plaza, shoehorned into a long, tight red dress that would be better served on some size zero starlet attending the Academy Awards—or, if she were brutally honest with herself, perhaps a porn star attending . . . the Pornies, or whatever awards were handed out to those types of movies. And she was standing beside the last guy she’d thought she’d be with ever again.

He was talking to some hipster computer geeks who won some other award—she thought she heard them say something about a tech review site. Thom was acting like he knew what they were talking about, which wasn’t as much fun to watch as it should have been. George wasn’t really listening to their conversation; she was more hypnotized by the young men’s ironic outfits—thrift store prom tuxedoes from the seventies, one tan with brown piping, the other powder blue with navy piping, both with ruffled shirts and bow ties.

Thom was looking much more dapper, in a stylish, shawl-collared tuxedo, an extra large break in his pants so they pooled around his shoes. Like he was trying to emulate Brad Pitt or something. Still, he was garnering lots of appreciative looks from the ladies (and some men), so he must have been doing something right.