The Belle and the Beard by Kate Canterbary (carter reed TXT) 📗

Of course I was still here. I had nowhere else to go, and a small issue like the absence of hot water was hardly the worst thing I'd ever encountered. I had a free trial membership to a local gym for showers—one not located off those infernal traffic circles—and boiled water for anything else I needed while I cleaned this place up.

"That's plain to see, Linden."

"Fuck me," he muttered, flipping off his hat and running a thick hand through his hair. With that thought behind him, he turned to inspect the items I'd gathered at the base of the stairs for disposal.

As far as I could tell, Midge had made it her mission to keep every copy of The Boston Globe printed in the past forty years. The flood destroyed nearly all of them. I couldn't find a reason to save the others.

"This is it? This is what you're putting out on the curb?" he asked.

"Why do you think you can carry them out any more successfully than I can?"

"I don't think I can." He reached down, scooping up two of the oversized boxes off the floor. "I know I can."

He climbed the stairs easily, as if the boxes weighed nothing, leaving me gaping after him. "I've absolutely had it with men," I grumbled to the empty cellar.

I picked through the pile, finding a small box with a relatively dry bottom, and marched up to the main floor. Linden was already outside, the boxes set side by side on the grassy wedge between the street and the sidewalk.

"This is extremely unnecessary," I called to him. "I am capable of doing it myself."

"Sure you are," he replied, passing me on his return route. "This is what it looks like when everything goes to plan."

He was out of earshot, probably hefting three boxes this time, when I whispered, "If you only knew how much this isn't the plan."

He reappeared a moment later and deposited this trip's load without incident. He met my eyes as he prowled back toward the house, an accusation simmering there as if to say, You can't do this. You can't do anything. You shouldn't even try.

By the time he'd returned, my anger was percolating. "Why do you find it so offensive that I—what?—clean out my house? What exactly is your problem?"

Linden didn't respond.

It was like he hadn't heard me or he'd decided that listening to me wasn't worth his time.

There was nothing—not a single blessed thing—I hated more than my voice being rendered mute and worthless.

I stepped into his path. "I advised you to answer my questions."

He stared down at me. "I didn't answer because I don't have anything to say that you'd want to hear."

Stepping around me, he walked into the house. My heart was thumping against my breastbone and my stomach had taken on that shaky, shivery quality I'd worked like hell to leave back home in Georgia. My good sense had taken a back seat to my very bad sense, the one that thrived on confrontation, gambles, and games of chicken.

I followed him. I had to. I couldn't leave those comments unaddressed. I'd decided a long, long time ago I wasn't letting anyone stomp all over me anymore and this man didn't get to change my rules because he lived next door.

I barreled down the stairs and parked myself behind Linden. "I'll ask you one more time. What is your problem?"

He glanced at me over his shoulder, his eyeroll undisguised. "Are we still doing this?"

"Yeah, we're doing this. You're in my basement. You can answer a damn question."

He shifted to face me, holding out his hands and letting them drop to his sides. "I'm gonna grab these last two boxes and then I'm leaving. You happy now?"

"Not in the slightest."

He tipped his head to the side as if he needed a better look at me. "Are you really upset about this? Or have you decided this is the sort of thing you want to be upset about and you play the part real good whenever you get the chance? Because it seems like you haven't experienced a true emotion since you realized you can manipulate people with those plastic smiles and fake-sugar comments."

My heart lodged in my throat. I tried but I couldn't speak around it. Couldn't form the only defense I ever had—my words.

"Yeah. That's what I thought." He bent, wrapped his arms around the remaining cartons, and left me alone in the basement.

A minute later, I heard the front door close.

I sat down on the stairs, my elbows on my thighs and my head in my hands. Nothing was working for me this week. Nothing was going right anymore.

First it was the water heater and its assorted problems. This house needed serious work and there was no way I could finance all these projects on my own without steady employment. While I did have a few offers, most of them were of the political commentator variety, but creating a talking head persona out of my on-air scandal wasn't the path for me. I wasn't even particularly good at the mechanics of television—hence the hot-mic screwup—and the idea of it made me cold. Being penned up with the other squawking politicos and scrabbling for five uninterrupted seconds of airtime was my last resort.

I didn't get into politics because I wanted to make it seem like the sky was falling as a result of every little political maneuver. I didn't come here for entrenchment and tribalism, or purity tests.

A long, long time ago, I was an idealist. A believer. I thought change was possible and that people did this work for the purpose of serving the greater good.

A few weeks ago, I was a master campaign strategist. A weapon of political destruction. I had the personal phone numbers of everyone who was anyone and I wasn't afraid to call in favors. All that in my hot little