Page 9 of Operator
He’s gone and I’m here.
None of which feels right.
“My room still open or did Mom turn it into a home gym?” She’d been threatening to do so for years. Usually after I pissed her off. A way to remind me that I’m replaceable.
“It’s still there. For now. Why don’t you sit down and watch the game with me for a while?”
I glance to his left and see a matching easy chair. You’d think it’s for Mom to sit next to him, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen her sit still long enough to watch a TV show, let alone a football game. No, that recliner was reserved for Ian. The thought of sitting where he sat makes my stomach convulse. I can do some fucked up shit, but even I have lines I don’t cross.
Jerking a finger over my shoulder, I say, “Thanks, but I’m gonna crash. It’s been a long drive.”
Dad’s already glued back to the screen, puffing on his cigarette, the interaction with me already forgotten. Mom disappeared, unable to look at me.
Like old times already.
CHAPTER FIVE
GWEN
The bell hangingabove the door to the diner tinkles with the arrival of another customer. My feet cry out in objection. They resemble overstuffed Christmas stockings and I ache for a long, hot bath, but I force myself to get up from the counter where I’d been pretending to marry ketchups and grab my order pad, shuffling to the door. There has to be something I can do about all the swelling.
The doctor would say I should keep off my feet, but that would mean I’d have too much time to think, and that’s exactly what Idon’tneed. More time to think. It was bad enough when Cal wasn’t here. My head was full of what-ifs and shoulda-coulda-wouldas. Now that he’s back, it’s like the past six years never happened and I’m back to looking at his window and wondering if he’s thinking about me, too.
Sighing, I look up, resigned to another couple of hours at work, and find the object of my obsession stepping inside. Of course. Sweet Creek doesn’t even have a stoplight. It has a population of less than ten thousand. As much as I’ve been thinking of him, I’ve been avoiding him even more. Nearly impossible in a small town. My hands fall to my sides, my lungs already crying out for breath—no small feat considering there’s barely room in there left to expand.
The diner isn’t much to write home about. It’s thirty years past its time for a good gut and reno and has grease caked on every surface an inch thick. The Formica countertops are worn with age and the chrome accents on every conceivable surface have long since dulled with time. But all that falls away when he ambles into the space. It’s like the world ceases to exist once he’s in it. My womb contracts down, already sensitive and achy from spending months growing a human, but this has nothing to do with my pregnancy and everything to do with the one man I shouldn’t want.
A quick glance around shows two regulars in the front booth, oblivious to the world outside of their perpetual ranting about politics. Thank God no one was here to see me ogling my late husband’s brother. The last thing I need is to incite the rumor mill on top of everything else. The scent of cigarette smoke from the back tells me the other waitress, Phyllis, has taken another smoke break. Which means aside from Johnny in the back at the grill, Callum and I are essentially alone in the cramped dining room.
I turn on my heel, wincing as my feet protest, and get a cup of coffee brewing to keep my hands and mind busy. Refusing to acknowledge that I remember how he likes his coffee, I nab the sugar and creamer bins and smack them down in front of the place he’s chosen at the counter.
“What can I get you?” I ask with false cheerfulness. My eyes skate over him like he’s not even there. Though it’s hard to ignore him. He fills up the space like a boulder shapes a river, immovable, indomitable.
“Good morning to you, too, Gwen” he says, savoring my name, practically crooning it like a filthy benediction. It’s far, far too hot in here with the cooktops going and the late morning sun. Certainly, it’s not because of the way his smile makes the creases at the corners of his eyes wink up. Huh. Those are new. They don’t look bad, in fact, they’re kind of…his voice breaks me out of that train of thought. Thank God.Get ahold of yourself. “What are the specials?”
I’d cock a hip if I didn’t think it’d hurt like hell. I settle for rolling my eyes. “The same as they’ve been the past twenty years, Cal. Are you gonna order or not? My feet are killing me.”
I have to get away from him. It’s too easy to be around him. Too easy to slip back into old habits. The urge to give in to his teasing, to tease back, is so strong it’s a physical ache. It makes me want to hate him, to have him bring these feelings back at the worst possible time. When I’m weak, and sad, and vulnerable, and he’s so solid and present and real. I want to hate him so much it makes me sick.
He lifts one thick brow. “Somebody’s perky this morning. Don’t kill me if I say this, but is it the hormones?”
My eyes narrow and all thoughts of how good he looks with the age lines around his eyes vanish. “Excuse me?”
“I said don’t kill me!”
Leaning forward, I press my hands against the counter he should be thankful is between us. “I realize the nicknamejarheadisn’t an excuse for your stupidity, but if you ever accuse me of being hormonal again, no one will blame me if I pour this pot of boiling hot coffee all over your head. Now. What can I get you besides common sense?”
Cal pauses like he’s going to dig himself farther into a hole, then reconsiders. Maybe he isn’t so stupid. “I’ll have the trash plate.”
“Great,” I bite out. I scribble the order on the pad and waddle my way back to the grill to put it in.I can feel his smile on my back even if I can’t see it. My own threatens to make an appearance, which only makes me scowl harder.
Damn him.
“You feelin’ okay, Gwen?” Johnny asks as he takes the slip of paper from me. With him comes the faint scent of grease and tobacco.
I get variations of the same question from nearly everyone in town these days. With my stomach the size of a small country, I tend to draw the eye and everyone’s concern along with it. Most days I appreciate it, but today, all I want is for everyone to stop pointing it out.
“I’m hanging in there. Thanks.”
