Chapter Twenty
Cassidy
The train is a bust.
Luke and I practically fall over ourselves in our haste to exit in Topeka, lest we get trapped on the slow-rolling motor snake. I’m person enough to admit I was very wrong about the merits of that mode of transport.
My kingdom for a car.
Meanwhile, I’m drowning in the mortification of waking up in the lap of a man who did not invite me there. And the fact I actually liked waking up on him, with his strong arm resting on me, is even more problematic.
Last night, I told myself the desire coursing through me was a one-off. A fluke. The biological response to being touched by talented hands.
But then night led to morning, and I woke up with a sinking suspicion I’d cuddled Luke in my sleep. My body hummed all the way to the train station, like it remembered something I didn’t.
Then I dreamed things when I passed out on the train. My subconscious conjured up alternate endings to that massage that I can’t even entertain right now without blushing.
If the Kansas City Amtrak station was Mount Olympus, Topeka’s is the Underworld. It’s dingy, dark, and makes me want to seek the light. I pull up the Amtrak website as soon as we get wifi. “How do they expect anyone to see the tiny, miniscule print of transit time? They should make that part way bigger!”
I continue to curse the website under my breath as I track down the nearest car rental place, which the internet claims is walkable.
It doesn’t open for another hour and a half. Because of course it doesn’t.
We choose to waste time at a tiny mom-and-pop coffee shop called Hit the Grounds Runnin’.
“Mind if I make a few work calls?” he asks as we walk our brews to a bistro table next to a window.
I encourage him with an eager nod as we plop into our chairs. Him making boring work calls is a fantastic opportunity for me to get my head on straight and convert the strange energy brewing in my body back to normal.
Last night didn’t change anything. This morning, and any subsequent dreams, mean nothing. He is still bossy Luke, wearer of starched shirts, hater of people, listener of boring podcasts and—
“Rogelio wouldn’t want you killing yourself over this, Marcus. That’s not the intention behind this reporting system. I hate to think of you toiling away at busy work you created for yourself.” Pause. “Tell me more about that.”
I steal a look at Luke’s I’m listening expression as he leans back in the chair, the muscles of his arm flexed as he holds the phone to his ear.
“I think you’re being a little hard on yourself. There’s a huge learning curve. That’s why we have these mentorships.”
This is not the curmudgeon I met back on the plane.
“It’s not a bother at all. And I’ll reach out to Carla as soon as we hang up. I’ve worked with her team plenty of times. Let me be the liaison until you get your footing.”
I saw my lips together. Okay. I guess he doesn’t just chew calculators and populate spreadsheets all day. Apparently, he also solves other people’s problems for a living.
He dials Carla next. As good as he was at calming his coworker, he’s downright magic with this client. I never would’ve guessed pensions and retirement could be funny, but Luke’s laugh fizzes like an Alka-Seltzer tablet in water as they discuss “the finer points” of something or other. His third call is loaded with industry jargon and Excel formula talk. It is a flagrant display of competence that makes my heart hammer.
He wraps his big hand around his cup and lifts it to his mouth. A nicely shaped mouth that makes valuation and let’s bend that deadline to our will sound interesting and maybe even a little filthy—
Nope.
My chair scratches linoleum as I push away from the table. In the absence of anywhere to actually go, I lope toward the barista and ask for a pen.
Doodle on napkins. That’s what I’ll do. While Luke probably pulls six figures doing important work, I’ll draw stick figures on a tiny paper square. Fitting.
A planter box overflowing with pink bougainvillea sits outside the window. I sketch them poorly as Luke takes what he promises to be his last phone call.
My gaze flicks up from my atrocious drawing, and I accidentally catch his eye.
He falters his speech. The corners of his mouth lift into a tiny smile.
All the caffeine I’ve consumed kicks in at once. It is the height of a leap when you’re weightless, soaring, just before the drop.
A fraction of a second passes before he’s back to talking. In my misfiring brain, it’s infinitely longer.
His smile kicks open a door inside of me that needs to stay shut. The same door he was pounding on when he let me sleep on his lap.
The door that protects me from getting ahead of myself.
Fact: guys with their lives together like the Lukes of the world aren’t interested in girls like me. Successful men want someone with matching accolades to show off to their friends. Or they want some other extreme—a tame person who lets them shine, or a life-of-the-party type.
Whatever it is they want, I’m never enough of it.
His hand moves across the table toward the napkin pile. He steals one and crooks a finger, beckoning my pen.
Hypnotized, I watch the gentle movements of his hand as he writes.
He spins the napkin so I can read.
You okay?
At least his handwriting is terrible. Strangely, that comforts me. I chew my cheek and contemplate my answer. Am I okay? Sure. I’m at the kids’ table of life compared to this man, trying not to panic that watching him work was decidedly not boring, but I’m swell.
I pen my response.
Do your work, mister.
He steals it back and adds an addendum.
This time, when he turns the napkin toward me, it features a stick figure dancer. With long, stick-y hair and a smiling face. She’s either leaping or doing a split.
It is undeniably me. He even added shoes shaped like mine.
My pulse is a wild animal in my neck as I lift my gaze.
His cheeks are flushed, his hooded eyes cast down as he taps a rhythm on the table. “I should have access to that file by Friday.”
I trace the napkin with the pad of my finger, blood heating in my veins.
This is what he sees when he looks at me.
What do I want him to see?
He pulls the phone away from his ear to check the screen. “Got to let you go, Diego. Errands to run.”
I attempt to piece myself back together as he excuses himself to the restroom. Before he emerges, I tuck the napkin in a hidden backpack pocket. I can’t bring myself to leave it behind.
…
After a mostly silent walk, we arrive exactly eight minutes before the rental shop is due to open. I move toward the hours sign on the smudged glass door to ensure it matches the website.
I peek over my shoulder at Luke, who hovers as I read. His gaze snaps up.
I spin to face him, hugging my chest. “Almost nostalgic, isn’t it? Waiting in line for a car place to open?”
His mouth hooks into a half smile. “Too soon, Cass. Too soon.”
A strong gust of cool wind slices the foot of space between us, but his fond use of that nickname, paired with the mischievous glint in his eyes, warms me.
“This can’t be comfortable.” He reaches forward and untwists the straps of my Walmart backpack so they lie flat on my shoulders.
His hands don’t linger, but his gaze does. It roams my face, hitching on my mouth. It moves lower, burning my neck, my collarbone, before it darts back up again.
My heart climbs into my windpipe.
I’m shaken by a need to perform in some way, to keep those eyes on me. But I’m frozen, suspended in the moment. We sway a fraction closer, an almost imperceptible distance if I wasn’t so aware of every inch between us.
He’s still looking—
He blinks toward the boundless Kansas sky. “Uh—I had a logistics thought.”
The stampede in my chest grinds to a halt. “A logistics thought?”
“Yes.” He drags his hand through his hair. “One perk of getting a car, other than everything, is I can go by my bank in Denver and get a temporary debit card.”
Debit cards. Routes. Logistics. “Right. Great.”
I need Luke-free air.
Head spinning, I extend a hand. “Since we have a few minutes to kill, and I’m not in physical headache agony or half asleep, I’m going to check in with my people.”
He passes the phone, and I whip around the building for some privacy.
Leaning against the scratchy concrete wall, I dial the bride-to-be first. Last time I updated her via text, the caterer and florist were supposedly emailing her purchase orders detailing our new agreements. I need to ensure she’s received them and make sure she’s happy with the substitutions.
Things will still run smoothly, even if I’m not there.
The rental parking lot stretches out before me, mostly empty, and the endless horizon beyond that.
When Isabelle doesn’t pick up, I plug in Berkeley’s number. She answers with a grumbling, “Berkeley’s Den of Iniquities, how may I help you?”
“That’s how you answer the phone to an unknown number?”
“It’s a Missouri number. It was either you or a robocall from Medicare.”
“Ha ha. Did I wake you?”
“Only from the deepest sleep. Maybe we stop making a habit of these early morning calls?”
“Sorry.” I draw a circle with the toe of my boot. “How’s it going?”
“Well, I’m at your mother’s house without you, so that’s not ideal. And I’ve already ransacked your childhood bedroom and found nothing fun.”
“Joke’s on you for thinking I’d leave anything fun in the house where dreams go to die.”
She snorts. “Fair enough. Where are you?”
“Funny story. We’re in Topeka, about to rent another car.”
“Topeka?”
“Yeah.” Heat creeps up my neck. The magnitude of my train error gives me something else to focus on, other than Luke gazing in my eyes and thinking about logistics. “Turns out I misread the Amtrak website and it was going to be an eternity before we made it home. I can’t believe I actually thought we’d get home overnight. All the way to L.A. What is wrong with me?”
“Nothing is wrong with you. Mistakes happen. If a car gets you home faster, car it is.”
“I should’ve just gotten us a car yesterday. I didn’t think it through.”
“Title of your memoir, which just so happens to be my favorite book. Now stop beating yourself up. Listen, onto other important things: your sister.”
My stomach clenches. “Oh? Everything okay?”
“She’s acting weird. Admittedly, I don’t know her outside of what you’ve told me. But she was here last night dropping off a crap-ton of stuff in her bedroom. Like…a lot of stuff. She must’ve gone in and out of her room fifteen times with giant Rubbermaids.”
“Huh. Interesting. Probably just wedding props.” I frown. “Though I’d assume the venue has all that.”
“Looked like she was moving in.”
Worry slithers down my spine. “Did you ask her what it was?”
Her laugh is a brief pulse. “Don’t you think that would’ve been a bit intrusive, seeing as your sister barely knows me?”
“I sometimes forget you’re not related to us.” I stand up a little straighter. “I tried to call Isabelle before you. No answer.”
“I’ll go downstairs and check for her. She slept here last night.”
This news doesn’t quite land. “What? She’s been trying to spend quality time with her fiancé all week. Why would she sleep away from him?”
“I barely know these people and just arrived here yesterday in a Lyft. Your guess is better than mine.”
“Right. Sorry.”
Her thundering footsteps reach the receiver, followed by a brief pause. “Ah, excellent! Here’s the bride, sipping coffee and looking like a model. Putting you on speaker, Cass.”
“Hey. How are you feeling, Bells? Did you get my texts about the vendors?”
My sister’s voice floats through the phone. “Yes. Sorry. Meant to respond last night. Brain fog.”
The distant edge in her voice ratchets up my concern by a factor of fifty. I can only hope it’s bridal nerves and that she’ll be back to her usual energetic, hummingbird-esque state of being soon. “No worries. I just wanted to make sure they emailed about the replacement flowers and menu like they were supposed to.”
“Yeah. Everything looks fine. Thanks for handling that.”
I blink too fast. Fine is not the goal here. “Are you sure? Because I know with the flowers especially you had a very specific vision.”
“They’ll be lovely, I’m sure.”
She couldn’t sound more disengaged if she tried.
“And you are okay with the halibut?” I press.
“Sure. Fish is fish.”
“Bells, you’re like three days out from the biggest day of your life. What happened to the urgency? Last time we talked you were so fired up—”
“Is that Cassidy?”
“Mom?” My grip on the phone tightens. I hazard a look left and right before remembering she can’t see me.
Her voice grows louder. I imagine she’s hovering over Isabelle to yell closer to the phone. “Yes, it’s your mother, in the home where she lives. Where are you?”
“Cass is on her way. It’s fine,” says Isabelle.
“No, it’s not fine. Isabelle has a very important work presentation at two and was counting on you for a full day of prep. Not to mention tonight is dinner at the Formaggio with Rand’s family. They’re expecting you. You know how Grandma Dot is, so judgmental. If you aren’t there, it reflects poorly on me.”
“Work presentation?” My voice is so small it barely sounds like mine. “Isabelle, you didn’t tell me.”
“Because it’s not your problem. Listen, I appreciate all of you—Mom, you’re going to make me drop my coffee with your hovering—but none of this is that big a deal, all right?” my sister snaps. “It’s just a wedding.”
“Isabelle, don’t downplay the significance to spare your sister’s feelings. Cassidy, maybe if you treated this week like it mattered—”
“I get it, okay?” My back drags against the wall as I drop to the ground. “I messed up. Shoulda flown Delta. But we’ve got everything under control.”
Berkeley’s kill-you-with-kindness voice fills the line. “If I may interject, Cass is under a lot of stress herself, and they are driving as fast as they can—”
“They? Who’s they?”
I smack my forehead with my palm.
“Oh, did I say they? I meant…she?” Berkeley corrects in a rush.
“Are you driving with someone?” Mom asks. “Who?”
“A friend.” I suck in a breath, choking on dust. “A friend is making the trip with me.”
Wrong answer.
“Wait a second. You’re on a joyride? Why didn’t you just say that from the start? Makes a hell of a lot more sense than everything else you’ve told me about this trip.”
“It’s not a joyride.” The rising tide of anger threatens to spill over. She willfully misunderstands me. Misinterprets me at every turn. “I met someone while traveling, and we’re splitting costs, trying to get there as fast as possible.”
“How dire is your financial situation if you’re splitting costs with strangers?”
“Mom!”
“Cass, I think—yup, you’re breaking up. Oh no!” Berkeley cries. “Hello, hello?”
The call cuts off and my screen fades to black.
I tip my head back and exhale.
Tunnel vision is a funny thing. For a while there, I almost believed fixing the wedding problems would fix everything else. That I’d arrive home and things would be fine. Tolerable, at least.
I almost forgot that some things can’t be fixed. And in Mom’s eyes, one of those broken things is me.
Now, all I can do is race home and try to forget that truth all over again.
…
Luke circles the cherry red Mustang convertible. “Of all the cars, you want this one? Is this the most practical choice?”
I shrug, my shoulder feeling like it weighs a thousand pounds. “Nothing matters. Might as well get the nice car, since this week is…” I bite my lip, trapping the uprising of emotion before it escapes. “But if you think it’s silly, I’ll go back inside and exchange it for a Camry or something.”
“No, no. If this is what you want, this is what we’re getting.”
I nod once.
He reaches for the car key in my hand, catching me off guard. I drop it in his palm.
“You okay, Cass?”
“I’m fine.”
And if I wasn’t, talking about it would unravel me, and the last thing I need right now is to spill even more of my guts to this man who has already had to peel me off the walls during a hailstorm, massage the ache out of my head, and calm me down at multiple stops on this disaster sprint.
Because that would mean I need support, which I don’t. I should be able to handle all this stuff on my own, and I am.
And doing a bang-up job at it, by Mom’s estimation.
I curl up in the passenger’s seat, wishing I was tired enough to sleep. Or that it wasn’t too cold outside to put the top down.
Resting my head against the window, I fix my gaze on the cerulean sky. “Let me know if you want me to take over.”
“It’s okay. I’m happy to drive.”
“What, scared I’ll crash into a stalk of wheat?”
Luke glances at me. “Of course not. Why would you say that?”
“I don’t know. Never mind.”
And with that, we both fall silent.
I replay the conversation with Isabelle, Mom, and Berkeley in my head on a loop as fields whir past. Time dissolves in a blur of browns and blues.
Before I make the conscious decision to speak, my mouth is running. “Last night, you said something in your sleep about your mom.”
Scrubbing his chin, he lets out a long sigh. “I’m heading home to see her. She’s…not well.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
His knuckles are white on the wheel. “Thank you.”
“Do you two get along?”
As soon as the words are out, I realize how ridiculous the question is. Luke is the poster child for Ideal Son. My mother would love to have a kid who drives under the speed limit and works an impressive job I had to Google because it’s out of my depth.
Of course he and his mom get along.
He makes a sound like he isn’t sure how to answer. “For the most part.”
“What’s she like?”
“She’s very funny,” he says, a faraway tint to his voice. “And one of the most loyal people on Earth. When she’s at her best, she’d do anything for me, my sister, or her grandkids. She once fought someone in a movie theater on Christmas Day when they told my nieces to quiet down.” A laugh falls out of his mouth. “Got us all kicked out, but still. That was a good day.”
I straighten in my seat. That was way more than his usual one-word grunt of an answer. “Do you spend a lot of time with her?”
“Since moving to Raleigh a few years ago, I only see them five or six times a year. When they need me, or if our house needs work. I get there when I have to.”
The pieces of my heart rearrange themselves into a pattern I’m not sure I recognize. “Luke…”
“Hm?”
“You hate planes and fly across the country every two months, or more?”
The muscles of his neck work as he swallows. “No big deal. It’s what you do for family.” He steals a look at me. “Makes certain parts of my life harder, though.”
“Which parts?”
“I don’t have a lot of time for…uh, working out.”
Every toned inch of him offers a silent rebuttal. “Oh?”
“Yeah.” He flicks the blinker on and off but doesn’t change lanes. “Or much of a personal life.”
My heart pounds too fast as my brain latches on to those last two words. “Personal life?”
His hand drifts to the gear shifter, and he shoots me a searching look. “Yeah. I don’t always get to do what I want.”
If I poke too hard, breathe too hard, he might retreat back into his emotional shell. I bite back the powerful urge to ask for every detail about this personal life.
So I nod, begging for him to keep talking with my eyes.
It’s nonsensical to want to know the inner workings of his life. But oh, do I ever.
He turns his attention back to the road. “Anyway, I work to afford what everyone needs. Sixty or so hours a week, usually. My boss, Rogelio, entrusts me with a lot of stuff to help prepare me to run my own consulting firm someday. When I’m not working, I’m in California, or hanging with Groot, the feral neighborhood cat I’ve been slowly bribing to become mine with toys. Glamorous life.”
“Groot the cat.” Unreasonably cute. “Are your bribery attempts working?”
“Slowly. He likes his new cat gym. And since I built him a slotted ramp, he now spends a lot of time on my porch.”
“I’d say that makes you a proud cat parent.” I turn over the phrase in my head. “What about your dad?”
His voice takes on a serrated edge. “He’s a technicality. Left us all when I was seven. He had a hard time with the realities of our family.”
“Something tells me you’re being very generous in these descriptions.”
“He married his coworker and bought her a house across the country. Never heard from him again. Rogelio was friends with my dad. They went to college together. When everything went to shit, Rogelio stuck around even though he didn’t have to. It would’ve been easier for him not to. But he cut ties with my father and became sort of a surrogate father for me and my sister. He also bailed my mom out of jail twice.” A muscle in his jaw jumps. “I don’t usually talk about this stuff.”
I swallow a large gulp of follow-up questions. I’m so glad he’s opening up at all I’m afraid too much will spook him. If he doesn’t talk about this stuff with people, I desperately want to get this conversation right. Be what he needs.
“You’ve mentioned your mom.” He tilts toward me, pupils so small against the sunlight that the striations of his irises come to play. “What about your dad?”
“He’s complicated. Loves the crap out of me, and I him, even though having a relationship with him comes at great personal cost to me and my fraught homeostasis with Mom. She can’t stand the man. Dad’s great fault, as I see it, was not giving her the life she dreamed of and then granting her a divorce.”
“So you two are close, but your mom doesn’t approve?”
“We had weekly phone calls my whole life, and we wrote letters. Dad’s always been a pie-in-the-sky dreamer, completely disinterested in keeping up with any Joneses—AKA Mom’s polar opposite. They do not get along. She bursts into flames at the sound of his name. It’s contentious.”
“Ouch. Will he be at the wedding?”
Crap.
The one rung I’ve climbed on the ladder back to a decent mood breaks beneath my foot. I forgot I need to call him and get his ass to the wedding, probably because I’ve been busy trying to get my own ass there. Another thing I said I’d do for Isabelle. I can’t mess that one up.
Though after my last phone call, I’m starting to wonder if I’m capable of doing anything without messing up.
The cold memories of that conversation with Mom snuff out the warmth in the car. I wish I could crawl back into the bubble of deep conversation with Luke—a powerful and destructive desire in its own right. In a day’s time, he won’t be there to turn to.
God, that stings more than it should. And it makes me feel even more foolish for wanting to turn to him at all. It’s like clinging to smoke.
He’s being nice. I’m getting attached.
I need to get back to my reality.
I dial Dad’s number and listen to a long series of rings on speakerphone. His voicemail picks up. In lieu of a normal outgoing message, “Hound Dog” blares.
Luke raises a brow my way.
“Dad, it’s Cass.” This will be a tricky conversation. I don’t want to start it with his answering machine. “I’ll call back.”
“Should’ve called him sooner,” I murmur under my breath as I slump back into my seat.
Several quiet minutes pass.
“We’ll get to Fort Collins just under the wire, around four thirty. The bank branch closes at five.” He pauses for a minute, like he’s waiting for something. “You sure you’re okay?”
It’d feel really good to talk about my mom. Talking is usually my default.
But in the interest of not spoon-feeding him how much of a disappointment I am, I choose silence for a change.