Page 9 of The Best Wild Idea
The door closes with a soft thud.
Slipping my hands into my pockets, I walk to the car still idling in the dark, back to my life that annoys her to no end, and back to a life without him. Knowing damn well that the only thing worse than leaving her to crawl back into that empty house and bed all alone tonight is knowing that I have to come back here one year from now to blow her whole world apart.
All over again.
Chapter 2
Juliet
One year later
I debate how harshly to phrase this next tidbit of advice for the man sitting across from me. He keeps glancing over the starchy tablecloth, stretched between us, like he can tell something is off. However, he doesn’t stop doing the one thing that’s making me want to jump across the table at him — and definitely not in a good way.
I set my fork down beside my plate before narrowing my eyes in his direction.
The sound of his jaw hacking away at that poor wilted salad the waiter set down a few moments ago is damn-near murdering my soul.
Pete has been fairly receptive as far as my coaching clients go, but some habits are nearly impossible to break without a little tough love shoved somewhere in the middle of a coaching session. And, as I love to remind myself before handing a client some prickly advice, it’s my job to serve it up in spades. I’mpaidto improve their dating life, hone their seduction skills for whatever love interest they have at the moment, and, given the fact that he’s already a few weeks past theHow to Get (and Keep!) a Second Datephase of my coaching program, it’s time to give it to him straight.
No holding back.
“Pete,” I begin.
Pete’s soft brown eyes shoot to mine, and for one teensy moment, I’m reminded of the scared look in an antelope’s eyes shortly before the lion springs from the bushes in that Animal Planet special. Like the prey somehow sensed the danger coming.
Someone should have taught this poor man how to chew properly.
Today’s the day, Pete. Carpe diem.
I take a steady breath to settle the nerves coursing through me, none of which have anything to do with poor Pete here. I shouldn’t have scheduled this particular client for today, with all his habitual shark-like mashing of food, but it’s too late for that. We’re already here. And besides, the torched edges of my nervous system have more to do with today’s date on my wall calendar back home and less to do with Pete’s chewing.
Today’s date.
Ugh.
The memory hits me like an ice bath and my eyes fling open.
“Stop chewing,” I suddenly snap. Then I feel bad and throw a bleak smile out to him like a tattered life raft to grab on to before taking him down. He’s going to need it, and I’m going to get out of here before I strangle him.
His forkful of lettuce piled with greasy bits of bacon hovers between his elbows. A chunk of it falls to the tablecloth, pooling where it lands.
His jaw halts mid-chew.
I force a tight smile until the urge to muttergood boyis gone. Then I use the corner of my napkin to dab at an imaginary spot of dressing on my upper lip, carefully sealing off the valve before all my high-strung annoyance comes spewing out at this poor man.
It’s May 17th.
TheMay 17th.
And after this coaching session is over, I plan to go home, twist the cap off that big red Sharpie sitting on my kitchen counter like I’ve done every night over this past year, and make one last, final X. Two deep red slashes across today’s calendar date.
It’ll be the last one before the whole thing goes into the trash. Completing a collection of three hundred and sixty-five identical red Xs.
Then, I’ll hang up the new one I bought last week to replace it. A new calendar that won’t be covered in a steady pattern of blood-red slashes through each aggravating little box because tomorrow marks the beginning of a clean slate for me — one I both want and hate so much that it hurts. One that is both clean and empty, painful and freeing.
I’ve earned every one of those red X’s by getting through my waking hours with great precision and determination. The strength of which I didn’t know I had in me one full year ago. This little ritual started out of survival but turned into a one-dimensional trophy room, showcasing hard-earned victories: days I’ve spent living without him.
Make it one whole year, I’d told myself after standing beside Grant’s graveside, tossing that first handful of dirt onto my fiancé’s final resting place.Keep going through the motions, and when one year has passed, promise yourself to begin again.
