Page 16 of Debt of My Soul

He should’ve asked if I was going to be okay before he cheated.

Snarling, I grab the sheet corner yanking it taut before tucking it into place, then move on to the next.

“I’m sorry, Mom. He’s been calling me, and I haven’t had the heart to answer.”

“Donotapologize for that weasel. I told him exactly how I feel about what he did.”

I cringe at her words. Not because I don’t appreciate her standing up for me, but because I know how close they were. Our families too. High school weekends were spent with him over at my house, both our parents taking turns driving us to dates before we could ourselves. When we graduated and purchased our own place, they’d come over for Sunday dinners and barbecues. He was like a second child to her. A son she never had.

“D-did you tell him where?—”

“Absolutely not.”

“I’m going to tell him. Talk to him, I mean. But I need to find my footing first.” It’s true. Reliving the moment I found out my almost-decade-long relationship was a farce has kept me underwater. Drowning. The only clarity I had at that moment was enough to leave. And here, the only clarity seems to be when I’m focused on renovations.

“You don’t owe him anything, Fleur Jacobs. Remember that. But he looks worn down—older. I think he wants to make sure you’re safe.”

I clamp my mouth shut, not wanting to say something spiteful. Because bitterness has been my friend; a constant companion for the past couple of months.

Replacing the fluffed pillows on the bed, I chop them before taking out my turnover checklist and double-checking everything is ready for the next guests. Mrs. Northgate mentioned they’re a newlywed couple. Go figure.

“The house is getting there. You and Dad would love it. I’ll let you know as soon as it’s finished so y’all can come down for a visit.”

She chuckles in my ear. “Y’all? Oh boy, Fleur. We would love that though.”

I roll my eyes, but I can’t wait for them to visit. Pretty sure they’ve been fighting the urge to hop on a plane and come down themselves to help me. But I’ve told them I need to do this on my own. Not counting the numerous phone calls to my dad, of course.

Adam has helped in that area. With the master bathroom almost complete and the new drywall going up in the living room this afternoon, the house is closer than I’d ever thought it’d be.

Costs more than I have, though.

I tried to cut down on labor by helping, but when the bills for tile, drywall, appliances, and lumber started rolling in, I knew picking up more hours here at the B&B was necessary. Thecredit card debt I’ve incurred is … shameful. For some reason, I couldn’t tell Adam no.

“Listen, Mom. I have to finish up a couple of rooms before I head out for the day.”

“Okay. Love you, sweetheart. We miss you.”

I catch a sniffle on the other end of the line and my heart sinks. They weren’t prepared for my leaving either. When I approached them with my choice to run to Ruin, they thought I might have lost all my marbles. Which may have been the case. Though I was dead serious, and I believe it pained them to know they weren’t everything I needed in that moment. But, as the amazing parents they are, they put my wants before their own and asked what they could do to make it happen.

After cleaning a room with particular wrappers and toys scattered all around—the couple obviously unashamed about their activities—I empty the fresh towel bin. Folding them is therapeutic and often my mind wanders while I stand there. My thoughts escape to my upcoming dinner date with Adam and the almost kiss in my kitchen.

Is it too soon?

I’m not naïve. My heart is a mess. What I told him is the truth. I’m fragile.

After patting the newly stacked tower of towels, I lock up the supply closet and head downstairs, appreciating the sweeping curve of rich polished wood beneath my fingertips.

Clanging from the kitchen gives me pause before I ease the swinging door open, its effortlessness due to Mr. Northgate keeping it well oiled.

Mrs. Northgate fumbles with a kitchen cabinet hanging by a damaged hinge.

“Can I help?” I ask.

She jumps, the white cabinet face dropping to the counter. The color clashes with the black granite. The monochromaticcolors in this kitchen surprised me the first time I entered, considering the rest of the bed-and-breakfast is more traditional. However, it’s grown on me.

“Darn it,” she mutters, then wipes her hands on her apron, moving to stir a pot on the stove. I glance at it as I walk over to the cabinet mishap, the steaming blueberries and sugar making me salivate.

Mrs. Northgate bakes desserts for all her guests as they check in. She leaves cookies, cakes, or pies out on the wet bar with a stocked mini fridge. Guests help themselves, and it’s always devoured by morning.

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