Some Sort of Happy Page 8

  I ended the call, feeling, as I always did after calling Diana, a mixture of guilt and disgust with myself. I should delete her number and quit bothering her.

  I was about to do just that when it vibrated in my hand.

  It was Diana’s number.

  Fuck. She’d never actually returned a call. Now what? Grimacing, I pressed Accept. I owed her at least that much.

  “Diana?”

  A long pause. “Hi.”

  “How are you?”

  “Fine. I…heard your message just now.”

  I closed my eyes. “Yeah. Sorry about that. I shouldn’t call you.”

  “No, you shouldn’t.” She sighed. “But I guess if I really wanted it to stop, I’d have changed my number by now.”

  “I’ve often wondered why you haven’t.”

  “I don’t know. I must like the reminders you’re doing OK.” She paused. “Are you?”

  I answered semi-truthfully. “Mostly. What about you?”

  “I’m OK.”

  “Still in New York?”

  “Yes.” She was silent again, and I worried she was crying. Fucking hell, had I not caused this woman enough pain? “Why did you call tonight?” she finally asked, and I heard the struggle in her voice.

  To punish myself. “To apologize, I guess.”

  “You can stop doing that. I’ve gotten all your messages.”

  “Does that mean you forgive me?”

  She didn’t answer right away. “For what, Sebastian?”

  Something twisted in my gut. Proposing when I wasn’t sure. Shutting you out. Refusing sex. Not making time for therapy. Not taking the meds. Overdoing alcohol. Being late for everything. Lying to you. Calling off the wedding. Breaking your heart.

  The list was so endless I couldn’t even begin.

  “Does my forgiveness even matter anymore?”

  I swallowed. “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” I parroted, although it was a fair question. Diana and I were over, after all. But I hated the thought that she’d resent me for the rest of her life. I deserved it, but deep down inside, I felt like if she told me that she was able to let it go and move on, that she was happy again in spite of the pain I’d caused, then maybe it would mean that I deserved some happiness too. That I wouldn’t have to punish myself forever. “I don’t know. It just feels right to ask for it.”

  “God, Sebastian. That apology sucked.”

  I winced, but I also smiled a little. It reminded me of something Skylar would say. “Yeah. You know me. Not great with words.”

  “That’s not true. You just don’t trust yourself to say what’s on your mind.”

  Again, I thought of Skylar. “I suppose you’re right. Maybe I should work on that.”

  “Are you going to therapy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. And you’re back in Michigan?”

  “Yes. I built a cabin on the property I own. Where I tried to make you go camping that time, remember?”

  “Oh, God. That experience still haunts me.”

  I imagined her shuddering, the shake of her narrow shoulders. “Yes, city girl. You’d hate it.”

  “Well, that doesn’t matter anymore. You can camp out in the woods all you want now. I’ll be here in my apartment with my doorman out front. And if I feel like flying off to Rome or Paris for a romantic vacation with my boyfriend, I can do it.”

  There it was—the dig at me for being scared to fly. She never did miss an opportunity. “Sounds perfect for you.”

  “It is.” She was quiet a moment. “Are you dating?”

  I paused. “No.”

  “Why the hesitation?”

  “I don’t know. It feels weird to talk about it with you. And I’m not really dating anyone. I met someone recently, but—”

  “Who is she?” she asked quickly.

  “No one you’d know. Just someone I went to school with.”

  “Oh. She’s from there?”

  “Yeah.” On the off chance that Diana knew Skylar from that reality show, I decided to change the subject. “Anyway, it’s nothing. I barely know her.” The conversation was starting to feel a little strange, so I decided to end it. “Well, thanks for calling me back. I appreciate it. And…it’s good to talk to you.” That was true. Her low, smoky voice didn’t have the power over me it once had, but I felt relief that we were finally able to have a civil conversation. And I was glad she seemed well. Maybe I hadn’t done irreparable harm.

  But she didn’t hang up. “Can I ask you a question, Sebastian?”

  Oh shit. “OK.”

  “Why did you propose? We could have just broken up if you didn’t love me enough.”

  I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose. Fuck. I never should have said that to her. “I told you. I was trying to be the person you wanted me to be.”

  “So it was my fault.” A hard edge to her tone now.

  “No. None of it was. I’ve told you that too. I’ll take all the blame.”

  “I loved you. I was willing to put up with all your shit. And you gave up on me. On us. You humiliated me.”

  “I know.” That thought haunted me. Diana had loved me, even with all the strange quirks. What if I never had that again? Even if I hadn’t been madly in love with her, maybe I should have tried harder to make it work. “You deserved better.”

  “Damn right I did,” she said bitterly. “We had a perfect wedding planned, Sebastian. A perfect life.”

  No, we didn’t. Not for me. That life in New York… The eighty hour work weeks, the all-nighters, the tedious grunt work, the insane deadlines, the constant pressure to bill, the competitive social scene, the pressure to constantly work more, earn more, have more. You loved all that. But it was tearing me apart.

  “I should go.” I ended the call without saying anything else and went to bed, upset that I’d made the call in the first place. What the hell did I expect? I’d called off the wedding with six months to go, told her she wasn’t the one—why should she forgive me?

  Sometimes I wondered if I’d made the wrong decision…maybe I had loved her enough and didn’t know it. Maybe I should have tried harder to live with the doubt. Maybe I should be married to her right now.

  But it wasn’t Diana I missed when I got between the sheets that night. It wasn’t her body I wanted next to mine as I slipped my hard, swollen flesh through my fist. It wasn’t her smile or her voice or her laugh or her eyes or her mouth I thought about at the moment of agonizing, sublime relief.

  It was Skylar’s.

  And even though I knew I was no good for her, I also knew I wanted her too much to stay away.

  I had the following day off from Coffee Darling, and I went to bed relishing the thought of sleeping in. But, wouldn’t you know it, my body clock was used to waking up early now, and my eyes opened at six and refused to stay closed again. Oh well. I swung my legs over the side of my bed. Maybe I’ll get a nap in later. Might as well get up and get some things done.

  By nine, I’d attached all the bin pulls to the kitchen cupboards—laughing to myself when I recalled all the screw jokes from last night—taped off and primed a bathroom, and thought about Sebastian approximately one million times. Despite the slightly awkward ending, the spontaneous date had been a lot of fun.

  Besides being handsome, Sebastian was a great listener and he made me laugh. I loved how open he’d been about his OCD, how honestly and self-deprecatingly he’d told me what it was like. My heart ached for him and how tough it must have been all those years before getting treatment, especially without the support of friends. And every time I thought about the beautiful, sad words he’d written about me, I got chills.

  He’d said he wasn’t easy to get to know, and I’d meant it when I said I was willing to try.

  Would he let me?

  While the primer dried, I decided to get started refinishing an old bookshelf I’d found in my parents’ attic. My mother helped me carry it out to the driveway, w
here I’d laid newspapers on the ground.

  She ran a hand over the top, which had several gouges. “Cripes, this thing’s pretty beat up. It was my grandfather’s. It’s called a lawyer’s bookcase.”

  “Really?” I said, my ears perking up at the word lawyer. “I’m going to take off the varnish and paint it white.”

  “That’ll be nice. He’d be pleased you’re going to use it.”

  “I won’t keep it, Mom. It’s for a guest house.” I picked up the can of paint and varnish remover I’d purchased and began reading the directions on the back.

  “No, you should take it when you move out.”

  Was I imagining things, or did she emphasize the words move out? Was she dropping a hint? My eyes traveled over the words on the can without processing them.

  “Where are you thinking of going?” she went on breezily.

  “I haven’t decided yet.” I finally looked up. “I didn’t know I was being thrown out quite so soon.”

  “Honey, I’m not throwing you out.” Her tone was soothing but firm. “You’re always welcome here.”

  “But?” I shook the can. Violently.

  “Well, don’t you think you should have a plan?”

  “An exit strategy? I’m working on it.” I pulled off the cap, hoping she’d leave me alone to work. When she didn’t, I began spraying.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my mother cross her arms. She was petite and curvy, like Natalie and me, albeit with a few extra rolls around the middle. Only Jillian got our dad’s long, lanky frame and dark hair.

  “Are you going back to New York?”

  “I don’t know yet, Mom. I just said I don’t have a plan.” I tried not to sound as annoyed as I felt.

  “Well, do you have a deadline in mind? For having a plan, I mean?” she pressed.

  I stopped spraying and faced her. “Do I need one? If I’m not welcome at your house, just say it.”

  “Sky, don’t be silly. I said you’re welcome. My children are always welcome. I’m only trying to help you think ahead. You don’t want to live with your parents forever.”

  I realized that she also meant I don’t want my adult daughter living at home with me forever. She and my dad were probably used to their privacy and routine by now. As if that wasn’t enough, she went on.

  “And what about a job? It’s nice you’re working with your sister, but is that really what you want to do, work at a coffee shop?” She held up her hands. “If it is, that’s fine, but—”

  “I get it, Mom.” I turned back to the bookcase. “I’ll come up with a plan.”

  “OK.” She turned her own dazzling beauty queen smile on me. “Dinner’s at six thirty, don’t forget. I’m making fried chicken,” she said proudly. “Nat, Dan, and Jilly are coming too. Won’t that be nice?” She patted my shoulder and headed back into the house.

  Sure. Another family function where we can all compare the Nixon sisters. Which one of these is not like the others?

  Usually I looked forward to family dinners, but my mother’s words had cut deep. For the past couple weeks, I’d done a pretty good job avoiding the hard questions, but clearly I couldn’t go on like this forever. If only I had some kind of calling, like Jillian’s to be a doctor, or a dream that was achievable with hard work and dedication, like Natalie’s shop.

  As I scraped off the old varnish, I tried to think of jobs I’d enjoy going to every day, something I could get excited about. My mother was right in that coffee shop employee wasn’t really on the list. And as much as I loved the farm, agriculture wasn’t really my thing either. I’d enjoyed the job at Rivard, but there was no way I’d get that position back. I was too ashamed to even ask for it. But maybe something like that…something fun, something that allowed me to work with people, something that allowed for creativity and spontaneity.

  Christ. That is the vaguest fucking job description ever. You suck.

  I did. I did suck.

  By the time I’d taken off the varnish, eaten a quick lunch, and plugged my dad’s sander into the extension cord I’d run from the house, I was convinced I’d never be happy and I should just face the fact that I was a twenty-seven-year-old loser with a pretty face and not much else.

  And even that wasn’t going to last forever. Thirty was around the corner, and then forty, and then fifty, and then sixty…decades of wrinkling skin and cracking bones and sagging flesh. But would there even be anyone who cared? My romantic history was as crappy as my job history—I wasn’t even sure I’d ever been in love.

  I was still brooding about it when Sebastian’s truck pulled into the driveway an hour later. Immediately my mood improved.

  “Hey,” I said, telling myself to walk, not run, toward him as he got out. It’s not like he was offering a life preserver to my drowning ass. “What are you doing here?”

  He shut the truck door and leaned back against it, hands in his pockets. The sunglasses on his face hid his eyes, but he was smiling. “I came to see you.”

  My insides danced a little. “How’d you find me?”

  “I went to the shop. Your sister told me it was your day off and said you might be here.” He glanced over to where I’d been working. “Am I interrupting?”

  “Not at all. I need a distraction, actually.” The kind that happens without pants.

  “Want to show me what you’re working on?”

  “Sure.” Trying to keep my thoughts clean, I led him over to the bookcase and explained what I was doing. “It was my grandfather’s bookcase.”

  “Even better. You have a connection to it.”

  “Yes.” I clasped my hands together and rocked back on my heels. “What are you up to today?”

  He shrugged, dropping his eyes to the ground a moment. “I had to go into town for a few things, but it’s such a nice day, I thought maybe I’d put together those chairs I bought last night and sit on the patio this afternoon.”

  “Sounds nice. It is beautiful today, supposed to hit seventy-five. Can you believe it? In May?” Invite me. Invite me. Invite me.

  He ran a hand over his short hair. “You mentioned wanting to see the cabin. I thought maybe—”

  “I’d love to! Just give me one minute, OK?” Turning around, I went to unplug the sander when I panicked. I faced him again, my lower lip caught between my teeth. “Wait. You were going to ask me to come over, right?”

  He laughed, his face lighting up. He looked so different when he smiled! “Yes. I was.”

  “Whew. OK, good.” I put away the tools, and Sebastian helped me move the bookcase into the guest house, where I snuck away to quickly run a brush through my hair and rinse with mouthwash.

  Not that I was planning on attackissing him again. But maybe he’d take the lead—I’d just do my best to let him know I was interested without being too forward.

  “I like your house,” he said when I came out of the bathroom.

  “Thanks. It’s my parents’ house, technically.” Recalling the conversation with my mother, I frowned.

  “You don’t like living in it?”

  “No, it’s not that. I just don’t…you know what?” I sighed, shaking my head. “Let’s not talk about it.”

  His mouth fell open. “You don’t want to talk about something?”

  I slapped him lightly on the arm. “Ha ha. No, I don’t. So let’s go, I’m dying to see your place.”

  “Yours is much fancier,” he said as we walked outside. “Mine’s going to look very bare to your eye.”

  I’d like your ass bare to my eye, I thought as I followed him to his truck. “Hey, do you want me to drive myself? That way you won’t have to bring me back.”

  He opened the passenger door for me. “I don’t mind bringing you back.”

  “OK. Thanks.” I climbed into the truck, feeling his hand brush my lower back. My entire body jittered with excitement, and I felt like a kid who just learned school is canceled for the day. There was some kind of new current between us—I couldn’t put my finger on i
t exactly, but I thought it had to do with the difference in him…he was so much more relaxed than he’d been at the end of the date last night. Did this mean he was up for seeing where this might go?

  I told him to take the long, winding drive around the orchard before heading back out on to the highway, and I pointed out all my favorite spots on the farm—the best trees to climb, my favorite shady spot for reading, the perfect hiding places for hide and seek or ducking chores.

  “You must have missed all this when you moved away,” he said, turning onto the main road. “Sounds like you really love it.”

  “Yeah, I do. And I did miss it.”

  “Think you’ll stay here for good?”

  “Probably,” I said, staring out the window at the familiar landscape—the rolling hills, the orchards and vineyards, the old red barns with their peeling paint, the new faux chateaux of stone and brick. “What about you?”

  “Staying. At least, that’s the plan for now.”

  I asked him if he’d liked living in New York, and we both agreed it was great in some ways and difficult in others. He confided that the pace of big city life and the demands of his job probably contributed to his relapse. “I like the outdoors a lot,” he said, a little wistfully. “Hiking, fishing, camping. And I didn’t get the chance to do those kinds of things very often. Plus my ex-girlfriend wasn’t into them.”

  I was surprised he mentioned her. “A city girl, huh?” I questioned, totally curious.

  “Yeah.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him rub one finger along the stubble beneath his lower lip. After a moment, he went on. “Actually, she was my fiancée.”

  I risked a sideways look at him. “Wow. It was pretty serious then, huh?

  “Felt like it. For a while.”

  “What happened?”

  He shrugged, his jaw stiffening. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Sorry.” You brought it up. Feeling unfairly chastised, I turned my attention out the window again.

  A minute or so later, I heard him sigh. “Sorry.”

  I looked at him but said nothing. A moment later, he spoke up.