Page 67 of The Affair
“But I like the enthusiasm! Just keep it up until five, okay?”
“Okay!”
I managed to keep my energy up and stayed motivated all day, greeting customers with a renewed sense of enthusiasm, and when closing time came, I bolted out of there, firmly intent on doing exactly what I’d told Candace I’d do.
But as they said…
Things didn’t always go as planned.
* * *
I wasn’tsure if we had been born with self-doubt or if it was something that had rooted itself in us slowly, growing over time, sprouting buds when we were at our lowest and withering during times of strength.
When I left the antique store that night, I had every intention of marching up to Sawyer’s door and telling him exactly how I felt.
Better yet, I planned on showing him. But I knew he was still sick, so I set aside my physical desires and decided to repay his kindness and take care of him instead. Then, when we talked everything out and he was back to tip-top shape, I’d make sure to revisit that kiss. But this time, there was no way I was stopping.
Of course, before all of that good stuff happened, I had an errand to run in town.
The grocery store and I had become a bit estranged since my mother’s exit from my life. For the most part, I came here when I needed things like coffee creamer and frozen dinners. Yes, I’d become sort of a hermit, but perhaps that was something I could change.
Change.
It was a word I’d become afraid of; Candace was right about that. I was terrified to do anything that could upset the status quo, including taking a chance on a man who could break my heart.
But I had to try; otherwise, I really would become a hermit—a bitter, old woman who survived on frozen dinners and watched Netflix to fulfill my emotional needs.
I knew I didn’t need a man to survive, but damn if I didn’t want one.
And I was pretty sure I knew which one this time.
So, down the soup aisle I went. I fetched a few different types, not knowing what kind he preferred. Usually, one went with the typical chicken noodle when one was sick, but maybe that wasn’t his jam. What if he was more of a split-pea kind of guy?
By the time I got to the register, I’d picked up at least ten different kinds of soups, three types of breads, a couple liters of sodas, and a dozen doughnuts.
To say I’d gone overboard was an understatement.
As I eased into my car with enough soup and bread to feed a large family, I briefly considered going back in to grab a bottle of wine but decided against it.
I looked like enough of a hot mess as it was without adding alcohol to the mix.
I would come to regret this decision later on in the night.
Driving out of town, I felt the familiar flutter of nerves return whenever I thought about seeing Sawyer. Nerves mixed with a heavy dose of anticipation and trepidation.
Daylight saving was still a week or so out, so although it was after five, the sun still hadn’t sunk into the hemisphere. Driving down the road, I could spot Sawyer’s house long before I came to the shiny green mailbox that indicated his turnout. The familiar glint of his red truck caught my eye as I saw it parked along the shed.
But it wasn’t the truck that had me swerving to avoid his house entirely.
No, it was the presence of another car entirely.
I was driving, so I couldn’t scope it out as thoroughly as I wanted, but what I did see was enough to make me drive on past, taking my ten varieties of soup with me.
Standing outside his house was a perfectly healthy-looking Sawyer, his wavy brown hair blowing in the breeze as he stood, facing a woman in a tight black skirt. His hand—the same hand that had held me less than twenty-four hours ago—sat on her shoulder.
I wanted to look away.
I wanted to turn around and demand answers.
