Page 23 of Returning Your Love
It was a quiet hour between us before he dropped me off at home with a quick, “See ya later.”
I didn’t even get a chance to respond before he drove off, my camping gear at my feet.
Chapter 8
Chaz
Ilied about that client but had more than enough responsibilities at the shop to warrant the early return. Having taken most of Friday and all of Saturday off, I’d gotten behind. Could barely afford the loan and utilities on both properties never mind pay someone else’s salary. Yeah, hiring a helper probably meant we could finish up more jobs in a month, but I’d never been good with numbers. Didn’t have the brains to figure out a budget that would keep us afloat long enough to get ahead.
So I continued plugging along.
Working my ass to the bone.
Hearing shit when I got home late at night.
Out of guilt over almost crossing a line that would break my vows, I asked my wife to go on a date the following weekend. She’d blinked, taking a few seconds to process my words before hesitantly agreeing. I insisted on going to Dig-In where she used to wait tables—because they didn’t serve alcohol.
Tense silence settled between us as we sat at the table glancing over menus we’d both long-since memorized.
I went with my usual burger with Swiss and mushrooms, and she ordered the Cobb salad with extra ranch on the side.
“Miss this place?” I asked, hoping that topic of conversation wouldn’t lead to a fight.
She shrugged, glancing around the retro diner that looked like it’d been zapped straight from the fifties to now. At least Old Man Ron had replaced the red vinyl bench seats like his daughter Addy had pushed for. Back in high school whenever we’d worn shorts, our bare legs had gotten scratched by the rips and fraying duct tape her dad had attempted to fix the seats with.
“I needed a change from the same old, same old.”
I nodded, having heard the reason for her applying for a new job at the bakery/cafe downtown. Scone Haven had less on their menu and tables, but Shelly for some reason had thought the tips would be the same.
She hadn’t listened to my input—what did I know of numbers anyway—and had made the switch because she’d been bored. Now, the struggle to pay bills had gotten worse.
“Those cranberry-orange scones you brought home yesterday were one of the best Kel has come up with,” I said, trying again to engage my wife.
Kelly Powell was an out-of-towner who’d bought the bakery a few years earlier and had turned it into a better-than-Dunks stop for every single person in a twenty-something radius of Pippen Creek.
Shelly nodded her agreement and sipped her water, still looking around the diner rather than giving me her attention.
Uneasy silence snuck in, leaving me shifting on the bench.
Why did shit have to be so weird between us? What had happened to that close friendship we’d once shared? The ability to bullshit and laugh about anything and everything?
I played with the straw in my Coke, swirling the ice around my cup while we sat, both of us quiet and obviously uncomfortable with each other’s company.
That whole “growing apart” thing people used to justify divorce hadn’t ever made sense to me. I got it now though. Too bad splitting up wouldn’t work for us. We were both financially stuck with no other options on the table.
Addy approached with our meals, and I sat back as she placed my burger and fries in front of me. “Enjoy. Let me know if you need something else.”
I nodded, eyeing my food while reaching for the ketchup.
“She didn’t even say hi to me,” Shelly muttered while drizzling her salad with dressing.
Rather than reminding her she’d left without giving a two-week’s notice and probably burned the bridge between her and Old Man Ron’s family, I bit into my burger.
“Could she be any more of a bitch?”
I glanced around, hoping no one heard my wife. “Shell, lower your voice,” I muttered once I swallowed.
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
