Page 25 of Fall For You

I focus on the bright side—this gives me the opportunity to straighten up a little, even to try and create a bit of a romantic atmosphere. I light some candles, dim the lights, pile pillows and an old duvet on the couch.

As I work, my thoughts turn naturally to a host of what-ifs. What if I could convince Jo to stay in Heartwood? What if she were willing, or cared enough, to move in here with me? What if we were really in love, and not just playing make believe? What if wecouldhave it all?

When an hour has passed and she’s still not here, I begin to get worried. I shoot her a quick text asking if she’s on her way and then watch as dots dance across my screen, letting me know that she’s writing back. The dots start and stop several times, and then…nothing.

I wait a couple of minutes and then I call her. But my call goes immediately to voicemail. Alarmed, I try again. Same results.

What in the hell is going on?

The parallels between now and the last time my world slid off the rails—back when Jo had been the one calling and texting, and I’d been the one who’d failed to answer—are too clear to ignore.

Luckily for me, Ms. Vi’s house is on the way to the hospital. So I can go there first and then, if no one’s there, I know where my next stop will be.

This is how Jo must have felt,I think to myself as I race around the apartment, turning off the toaster oven that’s been keeping the Sopapillas warm, blowing out the candles, grabbing a jacket and my keys. But then I realize that,no, she probably hadn’t felt this way. Because she hadn’t cared enough to look for me. She hadn’t cared enough to stay. She hadn’t cared enough. Period.

She probably doesn’t now, either.

It’s a sobering thought. And, for just an instant, I think about doing the same. About not seeking her out, about staying home, instead. I think about what that would look like. Me, sitting on my couch, cracking open a beer, eating my dinner, watching TV. I try really hard not to think about how sucky that will be.

Maybe she’ll show. Maybe she won’t. Maybe she’s just running late. Or maybe today’s the day I have to start learning to live without her once again. Maybe I shouldn’t care so much.

But what if she’s hurt? What if she needs me?

And that’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? Because, no matter how this story ends, if she needs me, then I need to be there for her. So, I pull on my jacket and head for the door.

Jocelyn

Hey. Where are you? Are you on your way?

I stareat Carter’s text for several moments, trying to marshal my thoughts, trying to rein in my emotions, trying tofigure out what I should say in response. But every iteration I attempt still starts with, “Hell no, I’m not on my way, you sonofabitch. How dare you even ask?” and ends (several very long paragraphs later) with me in tears, demanding to know why—Why would you do this? Why do you hate me? Why didn’t I see what was happening before now?And, most of all,Why didn’t you tell me?

I’m so lost in my thoughts that I nearly drop the phone when it starts to ring. I press ‘decline call’. He calls again. I decline that too. Then I turn off my phone and put it away. I’ll figure out what to tell him tomorrow. Right now, I just can’t deal.

The house is quiet, as it would be with only two of us here. Although probably not quite as quiet as it must have been for all the years that I was gone, leaving Vi on her own, slowly descending into madness.

My aunt’s asleep now. I sent the night nurse home when I realized that I couldn’t stand to have anyone else around—watching me as I tried to process everything I’ve learned, soaking up all the details so that she could pass it on to the rest of town as soon as humanly possible. Ugh.

And people wonder why I left home at twenty-two, why I couldn’t wait to get away.

I wander from room to room, too tired to think, too worked up to sleep, unable to settle anywhere for very long. I think I’m hungry. I can’t remember if I ate anything at all today, other than cookies. But I don’t feel like cooking. And, even if I did, I don’t know what we have. And, even if I knewthat, if I had any idea what my options are, I still probably couldn’t decide which of them I wanted to eat anyway.

For that matter, I don’t want to think about food or eating at all, since that just starts me wondering about the dinner Carter was going to cook for us, which leads to thoughts of Carter, which leads to—no, I don’t want to start down that path either.

It's hard to believe that, less than twelve hours ago, my day was going fine. Then Vi’s doctor called to reschedule her regularly scheduled six-month appointment which she’d apparently missed. That confused the hell out of me, since Carter and I had just taken Vi to her appointment earlier in the week.

Turns out she has another doctor—one that Carter clearly knew about but never thought to mention. A doctor who turned out to be just as confused as I was when I explained thatIwas Vi’s next of kin—not my so-called husband, the man who Vi had identified as her grand-nephew, the man she’s apparently given her power of attorney to. The man whose loan she’d co-signed and who now owns this house. The man who—gah! Is there any end to the ways in which he’s betrayed me and manipulated her and straight-out lied to everyone else?

I’d thought I knew all about hurt and betrayal when my parents left. I’d felt devastated, vulnerable, alone. And then I’d felt all those same things again ten years ago, when I thought Carter had ghosted me, when I ended up leaving for the coast on my own, starting life over at twenty-two. But this? With all the added loads of guilt and grief and loss and fury? Yeah, this is a whole new level of what-the-fuckery.

I jump, and momentarily lose my breath, when the pounding begins at the front door, shattering the quiet. Somewhere in the neighborhood a dog starts to bark—and then another joins in, and another, and they’re all obviously as incensed as I am. Because this has to be Carter, doesn’t it?

My first instinct is to ignore the intrusion. Maybe he’ll assume we’re asleep and stop bothering us. Maybe he’ll just give up and go away.

Ha. In my dreams.

Or maybe (here’s another thought) he’ll continue knocking, like a freaking maniac, until he’s woken Vi up—which is thelast thing any of us need. I head for the front door, scowling furiously. The knocking stops before I get there, however. Instead, I hear the scratch of a key in the lock and then the door opens, and there we both are, the two of us staring at each other, face to startled face. Then we both begin to talk at once.

“Jo? What’s going on?”

---