This cant be goodbye, p.3
This Can't Be Goodbye, page 3
“Well, shit.” Silence lingers. Ricky picks at the calluses on his hand. “I mean, that makes a lot more sense. I just assumed you were lashing out the way you did after E disappeared, so I didn’t harp on you about it.”
“That’s why she hates me,” I mumble more to myself than to him.
I thought I needed this answer, this irritating blank spot in my past filled in. I figured the knowledge would give me closure and allow me to squash my attraction to Naomi. I’d finally quit letting her antics annoy me. But as I eventually leave Ricky’s, drive home, and watch TV in an attempt to clear my mind, my thoughts spin faster than a hamster on a wheel.
I keep dissecting how much my careless words—a complete misunderstanding—must have hurt Naomi back then. I keep replaying the shock on her face, the lone tear gliding down her cheek.
And fuck. Last week? When she hit my car? I yelled at her to quit giving me dirty looks while blaming me for the accident. Her reply comes back to me now, a flood of shame accompanying the memory.
“Should I put a paper bag over my head?” she said, harsh. “Will that make it easier for you to talk to me?”
I’m not sure if I did something else to make her hate me more since she became extra vicious this past fall, but I rub aggressively at my eyes. Holding onto hostility for this long means she was likely as into me during high school as I was into her. It means I shook her self-esteem. Maybe affected how she interacted with guys afterward. And instead of squashing my continual thoughts of Naomi James, I’ve just accomplished the opposite.
I now have no clue how to feel about the woman I’ve considered my enemy for the better part of a decade.
chapter four
Avett
I push open the door to Sugar and Sips, groggy from lack of sleep, while simultaneously edgy and nervous. I want Naomi to be here. I don’t want her to be here. I want to apologize. Explain that I wasn’t talking about her in high school. I also don’t want to rehash this mess.
She’s here, of course. The last person in line.
I swear, she knows exactly when I’m about to walk in. She must zip inside right before me, like a high-heeled ninja, ensuring I’m stuck behind her.
I don’t feel stuck today. I feel aware.
When the front door falls shut behind me and the bell above tinkles, she glances over her shoulder. Her usual smug expression doesn’t make me bristle. The hard cut of her dark eyes feels different. Instead of a villainous vixen, I see a hurt girl under her tough exterior.
Remorse hits me again, harder this time.
I never talk to Naomi in line. We ignore each other, while imagining ways to murder each other’s patience. This morning, I can’t stay quiet. I have no clue what to say, how to broach this lingering conflict that has shaped us both. I settle on reverting to teenage me, who can’t utter more than one syllable to women.
“Hi,” I say quietly.
She doesn’t reply.
If I wasn’t watching her body like the sleep-deprived, Naomi-conscious soul I am, I’d wonder if she heard me over the whirring coffee machine and the café’s acoustic tunes. Since my attention hasn’t drifted from the soft fabric of her blue wrap dress hugging her curves, I don’t miss the tiny pulse of her shoulders, the way she freezes infinitesimally afterward.
She’s likely wondering what game I’m playing. Or she’s pondering which weapon to draw from her arsenal, when to pounce and make the first cut.
Even worse? Her hair is up in a bun and the urge to trace her jawline with my lips strikes.
In the past, I’ve fisted my hands angrily, frustrated with my body’s reaction to Naomi. Today? I’m…curious.
I suddenly want to relive how I used to ache around her, desperate to ask her out but terrified to lose another person in my life. I lost her in the end, pushed her away intentionally—and unintentionally—before she could hurt me. All these years later, emotion still simmers under our messed-up history. And I’m still awkward around her.
The person in front of her steps forward, but Naomi doesn’t budge—her predictable first strike. I, however, do the last thing I ever thought I’d do in this situation.
I fight a smile.
“Don’t do that.” The high-heeled ninja strikes again, sensing my amusement from the back of her head. She swivels and skewers me with one of her perfected scowls. “I don’t appreciate you mocking me with that condescending smile.”
I shrug, going for nonchalant when I’m anything but. “All I said was hi.”
“We don’t say hi. And we don’t”—she gestures aggressively at the amusement on my face—“do this. It’s rude and annoying, and I’m not in the mood.”
Not only do we not smile at each other, Naomi doesn’t lose her cool around me. Aside from our recent fender bender, she’s icy and rigid, oftentimes insulting. This level of upset isn’t our norm.
“Are you okay?” I ask gently, even though we don’t do gentle either. Since last night’s revelation, I’ve lost all sense of normalcy with Naomi.
She clamps her jaw, and her hoop earrings quiver. “I don’t know what game you’re playing, but leave me out of it.”
Jaw set, she turns and marches forward in line, no longer bothering to annoy me by letting the opening remain, which is odd.
I’ve known Naomi long enough to have memorized the nuances of our bitter exchanges. Her volatile reaction and unwillingness to let the space in front of her linger as long as possible for maximum effect is uncharacteristic.
The sudden urge to put my hand on her shoulder surprises me. The itch to give her a compassionate squeeze like she did for me after E left and ask if everything’s okay. But her back is stiff as a board, and we’ve been enemies too long. Anything I do or say will likely be misconstrued—again. I’ll make whatever’s bothering her worse just by being me.
Still, my chest is knotted, my throat dry. I’m struggling to figure out how to make amends for hurting her accidentally when there’s so much negativity between us.
She makes her way to the counter, not bothering to hesitate with her order or pay with a mountain of pennies. She moves to the side and waits for her coffee as I order mine. When she turns and collects her order, there’s no missing the glassiness in her eyes and resolute press of her lips. Like she’s trying not to cry.
This isn’t odd. This is downright worrying.
Could saying hi and smiling at her have set her off? Is talking to me really that painful for her? Unlikely. I doubt I rank anywhere on Naomi’s People I Care About Enough to Cry Over Them list.
I open my mouth to say something again, ask if she’s all right again, but she’s walking before I gather the courage, sweeping out the door with clipped steps.
“I figured she’d make you cry before you made her cry,” Delilah says.
Delilah Moon knows a thing or two about men making women cry. She may look happy and healthy now, with her mass of curly hair tied into a ponytail, her pink Baking Queen apron adding a blush to her light skin, but she was dating E when he vanished. While I was confused and angry, shit went sideways for her. A scary, downward spiral we’ve all agreed not to talk about.
Thankfully, she found a semblance of happiness since that mess, opened this adorable shop, gradually letting people back into her life. She’s become a good friend.
A good friend with Naomi intel.
“The only thing I could do to make Naomi cry is continue to exist, but she did seem off.”
Delilah finishes wiping down a table and adjusts the surrounding chairs. “Must be that fight with her mother.”
I blow on my coffee and take a sip. Rich and robust and perfect. “What fight with her mother?”
Delilah freezes, one hand on a chair back. “Nothing specific. Just, you know…” She waves vaguely and avoids my eyes.
No, I don’t know. And judging by Delilah’s quick shutdown, she just said something she wasn’t supposed to.
Looking guilty as hell, she hurries away, leaving the scene of her crime.
More confused and unsettled, I head to work. Where I’m once again preoccupied.
Long neck. Hoop earrings. Blue wrap dress stretched over sensual hips.
Glassy eyes.
Getting licked by Samar Abelman’s new golden retriever puppy helps harness my focus. I get on the floor with Dusty, let him clamber on me and nip at my ear with his sharp, little teeth. “Keep your shoes and loose cords off the floor at home. This one’s liable to chew through anything.”
Samar crouches and receives a lick on the nose for his efforts. “My favorite sneakers are already trashed.” He smooshes his face into Dusty’s fur. “Totally worth it.”
We talk vaccinations and dog food and general puppy health, then I send my last patient and pet parent on their way. I chat with the vet tech about tomorrow’s schedule and discuss our delayed shipment of deworming meds with Claire, who is a great boss.
She’s as fastidious as me, always looking ahead, keeping a tight rein on finances and investing a portion of her earnings back into Ridgeview. Her professionalism is a reminder I need to quit this Naomi preoccupation and focus on what matters: my job, building my savings account, working toward my five-year plan.
In five years, I’ll own my own vet clinic. I’ll pay my parents back for helping me with college, buy the house I’m renting from them now. I’ll meet my future wife, someone who shares my joy of quiet nights and planning for our future.
People might call my life goals mundane or boring. For me, after the shock of E’s disappearance and the devastating robbery at college that almost had me flunking my second year, consistency and predictability have kept me grounded.
My thoughts still skitter to Naomi, as they’ve done often today, and my stomach does an unpleasant swoop. I can’t tell if it’s a guilt swoop or a worried swoop. Or a why can’t I ditch thoughts of my supposed enemy swoop. Whatever the cause, by the time I leave the empty clinic to drive home, I’m drained and tired.
I slide into my rental car, which smells like someone used to smoke in it, and pull onto the quiet road. The clinic is close enough to town to be easily accessible but far enough on the outskirts to draw business from Windfall’s surrounding farms. The drive along this gravel road is peaceful and relaxing. At least, it usually is.
Tonight, my headlights catch on a person sitting on the side of the road, clutching her leg as though hurt. By the time I slow down and recognize the woman’s regal bone structure, my heart punches at my ribs.
I’m parked and out the door in seconds, rushing to Naomi’s side. “Are you okay? What happened?”
My headlights are still on, illuminating the tears tracking her cheeks and the gash on her shin. “It’s nothing,” she murmurs, turning her head away from me. “I was running and tripped. Just need to walk it off.”
When Naomi James isn’t being vindictive, she’s as stubborn as a spiteful mule.
I place my hand gently on her back, and she flinches. The move guts me. She can’t stand to be this close to me, even when she needs help.
Sighing, I examine the gash. “That’s not nothing, Naomi. You need stitches. And why are you running in the dark at this hour?”
“Why I run or do anything isn’t your business.”
“It is when the road’s deserted and you’re hurt.”
A coyote howls from the nearby forest. Naomi tips up her defiant chin. “According to that sound, I’m not alone.”
Did I say stubborn as a mule? More like as infuriating as a child who refuses to admit she’s tired. “I’m sorry,” I say, upping my sarcasm to ten. “I didn’t realize you were a shape shifter and often hang out with your coyote pack. But that makes a lot of sense, considering how feral you are with me.”
“I’m not feral,” she snarls.
I rest my case. “And I don’t shake with frustration when you take eighty-nine years to order and pay for your morning coffee.”
Her lips twitch. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Oh, she definitely knows. Naomi for sure has a running list of my weak spots. It’s probably written in blood. Which means there’s only one way to convince her to accept my assistance.
“In case you were wondering, I’m exhausted and hungry, and the last thing I want to do is linger here another minute. The mere idea of lifting you into my car has me annoyed.” Because I’m not sure wrapping my arms around Naomi will help me kick thoughts of her. “So I can either leave you here and heave a huge sigh of relief when I drive away from your bloodied body, which may or may not get eaten by your coyote brethren, or you can ruin my already long day by letting me help you.”
She brushes loose gravel off the area around her bleeding cut. She picks tiny stones from her palm. When I’m on the verge of going caveman on her and tossing her into my smoke-smelling car against her will, she says a disgruntled “Fine.”
“Fine, what?”
“Fine, you can drop me off at home.”
I still want to apologize to her for our teenage misunderstanding. I also want to throttle her stubborn neck. “You need stitches, so I’ll be dropping you off at the hospital.”
Something flashes in her eyes. A hint of fear? “I can’t go there. Home is fine.”
“Jesus, Naomi. What’s the big deal? If your mother’s working tonight, you won’t even have to wait.”
Her eyes go watery. She drops her gaze. “I can’t see my mother tonight. Just drop me at home, okay?”
The vulnerability and pain in her voice is unmistakable, as is this renewed swooping of my stomach. This hollowing isn’t a guilt swoop. It’s an I hate that you’re hurting swoop, which confuses me even more.
I clear my throat. “Lucky for you, I’m good with sutures and the clinic isn’t far. Let’s get you into my car.”
Without waiting for her to snarl again and tell me she’d rather get devoured by wild animals than accept my assistance, I wrap one arm around her back and steady her with my hand on her hip. The warmth of her against me is instant, my thighs flexing with awareness. She’s wearing a tank top and tiny running shorts, both fabrics thin and clingy.
More than my thighs flex.
Once she’s on her feet, she tries to put weight on her cut leg and falls into my side. “You suck at holding me up.” She may be insulting me, but her tone’s more pleasant than I’ve heard in years.
I tighten my grip on her hip, can’t seem to control how my fingers press into her. “You suck at waiting in line.”
She laughs, then schools her face. “I don’t think letting you near me with a needle is a good idea.”
“You can hold a scalpel to my neck while I suture you. I know you fantasize about slicing my jugular.”
“I don’t.” But her shoulders shake with barely suppressed amusement.
“You do.”
“No, really, I don’t. It’s more of a beheading, and I place your head on a stake outside my house.”
I laugh outright, always on a seesaw of emotions with this woman. Hate. Attraction. Guilt. Worry. Amusement. Once we’re both in the car, I turn the ignition.
She wrinkles her nose. “Since when do you smoke?”
“Since never.” I turn the car around and head back toward the clinic. “But some novice driver rear-ended me, and this is the crap rental car I’m stuck with.”
She doesn’t smile at my joke. She looks downright hurt, which isn’t exactly fair. She’s the one who made a crack about spiking my sliced-off head.
I grip the wheel so tight my fingers pinch. She focuses on the passenger window, the two of us riding the rest of the way in the type of silence that has me squirming.
At the clinic, Naomi, of course, tries to get out of the car on her own and almost falls on her face. Stubborn Witch of Windfall. Instead of letting her hobble to the clinic entrance, I walk over and lift her into my arms, cradling her against my chest.
She sputters and smacks my shoulder. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Being a gentleman.”
“The last thing you are, Avett Lewis, is a gentleman. Put me down.”
I don’t put her down or walk forward. She’s hurt and frustrated. The last thing she needs is to deal with more drama, but as I hold her against my chest, my mind fills with the misunderstanding she’s lived with all these years—overhearing a guy she maybe liked telling his friends she was unattractive—and I can’t wait another second before apologizing.
A cooler breeze drifts through the quiet parking lot. I adjust her in my arms, holding her closer. “You hate me because you think I insulted you in high school.”
She stiffens, her chest barely rising. “I don’t want to talk about this.”
“Well, I do. It’s been a seven-year misunderstanding that needs to end.” When she doesn’t reply, I take a breath and forge on. “That conversation you overheard, my rude insults—they weren’t directed at you.”
She angles her face toward me, her ponytail swinging with the move, bringing us almost nose-to-nose. Her nails, which could double as talons, dig into my shoulders. “I was there, Avett. I heard what you said and saw that piece of poster you tore apart.”
Such a disaster of a day. “Yes, I ruined your posters. I was in a messed-up place and wasn’t thinking about much besides myself. But that rude stuff you overheard? The paper bag and whatever? I thought the guys were talking about Cameron Diaz, not you. I only found out last night that my stupid remarks turned into the Everest of fucked-up misunderstandings.”
“You’re so full of shit.” Those talons dig deeper.
Of course she doesn’t believe me. She caught me with the evidence of my actual misdeed stuck to my jacket. Or maybe something more happened I don’t know about. I apparently don’t remember important details about our interactions. Still, I can’t control my mounting frustration, the urge to shout at her for years of antagonism. “I’m not lying.”
