Page 22 of Fall For You

Eager, or maybe desperate? I’m not sure how I’d categorize it now. I’m not sure it matters. Because I’ve reached the point where that’s no longer the case. I’m looking for different things now. It’s possible that I could even be happy here, if things were different; if I hadn’t gone and fucked things up.

Playing house with Carter feels comfortable, familiar. Doubtless because it is. And I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that it’s saved my sanity in the short run. But I know it’s not fair to either of us long term. He deserves better than that. We both do.

Which doesn’t change the truth of what I said the other night; I don’t deserve a second chance, and I will not ask for one. But, oh, I do wish I could have one, all the same.

As I’m standing here, still clinging to my lamppost, emotionally flattened by this series of revelations, the door to the shop I’m standing directly in front of opens. A familiar figure pokes her face out. A a querulous voice inquires, “What on earth are you doing? Are you all right?”

“Yes,” I reply immediately. “Yes, I’m fine.” But as soon as I release the post and put my weight back on both feet, I realizethat’s not quite accurate. “Ouch. On second thought, I may have sprained my ankle.”

“Nonsense,” Ms. Bev, because of course it’s her, says in quelling tones. “You probably just twisted it.” She glances both ways along the deserted sidewalk then waves me toward her. “Well. I suppose, you’d better come in and sit down.”

I follow her meekly into her shop, limping slightly as I do—and not missing the irony that apparentlyno onewants to be seen with me today. I’m really regretting the fact that I’d left my car at home last night. I’d been concerned that it would become too conspicuous if I kept parking it behind Carter’s restaurant. When I decided to spend the night, I’d been pleased with myself for my unexpected foresight. Now, of course, it all looks quite a bit different.

“Have a seat,” Bev says gesturing vaguely.

I glance around. On the surface, Bev’s store, Timeless Treasures, is virtually indistinguishable from my aunt’s store. There’s the same eclectic mix of all things antique, vintage, and retro. Racks of clothing; piles of dishes, bedding, and housewares; shelves crammed full of books, collectibles, old board games, toys—you name it. And furniture, too, of course. Lots of furniture. Dressers, trunks, tables, sideboards, armoires, bed frames (along with the aforementioned shelves) chairs and sofas, ottomans, footstools, and so much more.

The only thing I don’t see, however, is an obvious place on which to sit—aside from the merchandise, that is.

Not wanting to assume, I cast my gaze around again, then shoot an inquiring look at Bev—who rolls her eyes. “Wherever you like,” she snaps. “That’s what they’re for, isn’t it?”

I suppose she has a point. Suppressing a sigh, I seat myself in the closest chair. It appears to be a Stickley, Mission Style rocker, although, without looking for a mark, I can’t be sure.

Bev studies me for a moment then says, “I just made a pot of coffee. Would you like a cup as well?”

“Yes, please,” I respond—possibly a little too enthusiastically, given the speed at which Bev’s eyebrows scale her forehead. Shaking her head, she bustles away towards the back of the shop, muttering something beneath her breath. I can’t make out the words, but given the tone in which they’re delivered, I don’t think they’re complimentary.

Bev reappears, a couple of minutes later, carrying a tray that she sets down on a nearby trunk. Along with the two thick, white, diner style mugs—one of which she hands to me—there’s also a plate of home-made, pecan shortbread cookies, something I haven’t had in years. “Mm. Thank you.” The sweet, buttery flavor transports me back to childhood and I sigh in contentment. I’d been feeling hungry and severely undercaffeinated up until now, so this is a very welcome respite.

I had not really thought through what the lack of a functional kitchen in Carter’s apartment might mean for his clandestine house guests. Apparently, he hadn’t either; which leads me to conclude that he’s not in the habit of bringing women home with him.

That shouldn’t make me as giddily happy as it does.

On the other hand, I had also not expected him to kick me to the curb quite so early in the day either. He did offer me a bottle of cold brew to take with me, but that was (excuse the pun) cold comfort, and I turned it down. It’s February, for fucks sake! The sky is overcast, the air is noticeably chilly and the last thing I was in the mood for was anything straight out of the fridge.

“So, you finally decided to turn up,” Bev observes, which strikes me as somewhat unfair. “It’s about damn time.”

“I’ve been in town for nearly two weeks already,” I protest. Had she been expecting me to drop by? That was absolutelynotthe impression she’d given me when we spoke on the phone.

“I know how long it’s been,” Bev replies. “Did you think your arrival went unnoticed? It didn’t.”

No, it certainly had not, I think sourly. I can’t quite suppress a sigh of disappointment. I wasn’t exactly expecting a ‘welcome home’ party, but…a little more warmth would have been nice.

“I’ve meant to stop by, before now,” I tell her. “To talk to you. But I’ve been so busy, between taking care of my aunt, and other things, that I just…lost track of time.” Carter has also been keeping me occupied—heandhis dinner. Our plans for that are going well, too. I think he’ll be pleased by how it all turns out. But there are still a lot of things that I have yet to do. Including, now that I think about it, purchasing glassware from Bev for the centerpieces. “Which reminds me—” I start to say, stopping when Bev asks suddenly, “And howisyour aunt?”

Bev is eyeing me over the rim of her mug. I take a sip of coffee as well, as I consider my answer. “I guess she’s doing as well as can be expected. However, I think the concussion was more severe than her doctors initially thought.”

Bev frowns. “Why do you think that? Are you a doctor now?”

“No, but…” I shrug. “She’s more confused than I was expecting—even now. She forgets things, sometimes; or loses track of her thoughts; and then she gets frustrated with herself. You know; little things like that.”

“Yes? And?”

Now I’m frowning too. I’m really not sure what she’s getting at. “I spoke to her doctor about it. She said it was still too early to tell if she’s suffering from post-concussion syndrome. But I’m pretty sure that’s what it is. And that has me worried because, apparently, it can take weeks, or even months for something like that to resolve itself.”

And I’ll be stuck here. Falling for Carter all over again.

Bev fidgets with her mug for a moment, and then asks, “And what does my cousin have to say about all of this?”

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