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

"Yes. I am."

Linden shoved his hands in his pockets, the front of his jeans still bulging with the thickness I'd savored moments ago. He gave a quick shake of his head, saying, "That's—that's not what I expected." Before I could explain or qualify the matter, he continued. "I'll walk you home."

"You don't have to do that."

"I don't," he said, shifting to pack away the first aid supplies. "But I'm going to."

Instinct told me to fight this point but I couldn't put any words together. I pushed off the counter and stepped toward the door leading to the deck.

Linden led the way out of his house, the night darkness now heavy and cool. He maintained a measured distance between us, his hands stowed in his pockets once again. We were a few steps away from my porch, the rusty old overhead lamp still giving off a faint light and our drinks still abandoned on the floor, when I said, "It's over. My marriage, I mean. He's not part of my life…anymore."

Somehow, this had no impact on Linden. He grunted out a disinterested "Uh-huh" and skirted the perimeter of the porch. "I'll deal with the broken glass."

"You've done enough. I can clean up the glass. It's my glass."

"Not with one hand, you won't. Take the night off, would you?"

I recoiled at the idea of anyone cleaning up after me but a sudden wave of drowsiness washed over me and I couldn't assemble a decent fight. Or the energy to figure out where I'd left the dustpan.

When we reached the short set of steps at the side of the porch, the ones I'd replaced three times more than necessary, Linden turned to face me. "All right, Jasper. Listen. I'm due down in Marion tomorrow morning and I'll be on the Cape most of the day. Earliest I'll be back is five, maybe six o'clock. I'll leave the back door open. Come over and use the shower, washer and dryer, whatever you need. The Wi-Fi password is on the refrigerator. Just do me a favor and come over. No banana bread necessary."

I nearly laughed at the implication of Linden inviting me into his house only when he wouldn't be there. No awkward bathrobe moments for anyone! "You don't have to—"

"Could we press pause on your survival mode for one minute? Believe me, I know you can do everything and you don't need anyone and help is unwelcome. I get that, Peach. Loud and fucking clear."

I fiddled with the belt at my waist. "Okay." Since I could not leave it at that, I added, "There's nothing wrong with relying on myself. Men do it all the time without anyone making an issue of it. When women do it, they need someone to ride to their rescue."

He stepped back, shaking his head as he stared into the forest. "There's a difference between relying on yourself and insisting you don't need anyone under any circumstance." He waved an irritable hand at the house. "It just means you went through a fuckton of shit alone and haven't realized it's not supposed to be that way." He shot a brief glance at me. "Lock up, okay? I'll handle the glass."

For the second time today, Linden Santillian walked away from me after bullet-pointing my problems.

It was funny, really. That used to be my job.

As I watched him dissolving into the darkness, I considered chasing after him, telling him all the ways in which he was wrong and drawing a few lines in the sand. Sharing one kiss was not an invitation to pick apart my life. He didn't know me. He didn't know anything. He saw what he wanted to see, and made his faulty interpretations based on that. He didn't know the first thing about me.

But I didn't chase after him. Didn't call out with my objections. I folded my arms over my torso and went inside. A significant part of me was still floating, melting, conducting electricity, but another part of me needed to curl up into a ball and block it all out.

Still wearing today's dress, I dropped onto my bed and pulled a quilt over me. I needed a minute before washing my face and changing into pajamas. Just a minute to settle down. A minute to stop that shaky, shivery feeling from words that had sliced down to the bone.

The next morning, I watched as Linden lumbered out his front door, oversized travel mug grasped in his oversized hand. I ran my thumb over the bandage on my palm, remembering the feel of those fingers on my skin.

He climbed into his truck without so much as a glance in my direction. Not that he would've seen me anyway. The folding television table and kitchen chair I'd positioned perpendicular to the front window gave me a perfect blend of sunlight and invisibility.

I paused, my pen frozen over the notebook dedicated to lists, staring as he backed out of the driveway and drove up the street. When the truck's taillights disappeared, I set the pen down and picked up my phone from the makeshift desk.

I avoided calling my mother even when my life wasn't in disarray. I had my reasons just as she had her reasons for allowing that avoidance to grow into distance.

She lived outside Seattle with a man named Martin Mayo. He was a commercial airline pilot with thirteen years on her, she was a first-class flight attendant, and they vacationed in places like Singapore and Seoul and drove matching seven-series BMWs. That was how it was with them. High cotton.

All of which was a long way of saying my mother could help me out with money if I ever asked but I wouldn't ask. Not while I could manage to sublet my Georgetown apartment and I was able to leave my retirement account untouched. I'd raid that fund before I made a request of my mother. Hell, I'd probably sell my plasma and harvest my eggs before I asked my