Second chance romance, p.30
Second Chance Romance, page 30
“Sure,” Lise acknowledged. “But between the two of you, who’s more likely to actually murder someone?”
“Fair point.” Molly sat up straighter. “In my defense, whomever I offed would deserve it.”
“Naturally.” Idly, Lise drummed her fingers on the chair back. “Here’s what I’m wondering, Mol. You’re a self-proclaimed woman of words. How sure are you that Karl isn’t a man of words?”
Molly started laughing so hard she almost cried again.
“Karl?” she finally managed to choke out. “You think Karl ‘Pronouns and Complete Sentences Are Like Unto Death for Me’ Dean is a man of words?”
“From what I gather, he listens to your audiobooks every morning in the bakery, for hours at a time. Just to hear your voice. Endless words and sentences and pages, one after another.” There was no levity in Lise’s gaze anymore. No indication she didn’t mean every word she was saying. “Maybe he’s not an all-occasion man of words. But he might be a man of your words, Molly.”
At that, all of Molly’s amusement vanished too. Because her best friend’s endgame was now becoming clear, and—
Lise rolled on, relentless. “Maybe he needs three words from you before he can bring himself to ask for a commitment or declare his own love.”
And there it was. The suggestion that Molly reveal her feelings first. Lay her heart on the line once again, despite the battering it’d taken only two short years ago, without any verbal assurance of her devotion being returned.
“I don’t know . . .” Her throat hurt. From swallowed tears. From fear. “I don’t know if I can give him those three words.”
“I think you can give—and do give—far more than you realize, Molly.” Lise graced her with a down duvet of a smile, the expression so warm Molly couldn’t help relaxing under its comforting weight. “And one thing I know for sure? That man is freaking oblivious when it comes to spotting women’s feelings for him.”
Lise’s chair screeched on the smooth tile floor as she scooted it slightly closer. And even though the two women were utterly alone in a dark classroom, she lowered her voice to a whisper, as if sharing a deep, dark secret. “I mean, did you watch Becky make her move? Short of borrowing the DJ’s microphone and declaring to our entire graduating class that she wanted the local baker to thrust his spotted dick inside her cream horn—”
Molly wrinkled her nose. “Ugh.”
“—while she got her ladyfingers on those hot, round buns of his, she couldn’t have made her interest much more obvious. But I don’t think he even realized she was taking her shot at him.”
That was the sense Molly had gotten too, although she hadn’t been certain—and she hadn’t wanted to presume a lack of interest on his part. Because how could she know what he might want, when he wouldn’t freaking tell her?
Of course, he could say the same thing about her. Which she wished Lise hadn’t pointed out with such persuasive conviction.
“Like I said: That. Man. Is. Oblivious.” Lise’s voice returned to its normal volume. “So if you don’t express your love—preferably in words of a single syllable—he’ll never know, babe. This isn’t a situation where he suspects how you feel and can’t match those feelings, so he’s avoiding the topic. This is a situation where a man terrified of his emotions is fumbling to show them the only way he knows how, without a single solitary clue as to what emotions you might be experiencing in return or what you want from him.”
That sounded . . . plausible. Much to Molly’s consternation. Because if Lise’s explanation was correct, that meant Molly could not, in fact, wait for him to meet her more than halfway.
She’d have to step across the center line herself, with zero guarantee of what might happen next.
“I suspect the only reason he got up the courage to ask you to stay again is some intensive coaching from Athena and Matthew. Maybe Charlotte too. And then, when you didn’t agree right away, he simply lost his nerve.” Lise’s hands spread wide. “I could be wrong, however.”
Molly’s tired eyes stung, so she rubbed them with her knuckles and hoped her waterproof mascara held strong. Unlike—for example—her resolve not to make herself completely vulnerable to another man, ever.
Before she surrendered to the inevitable, though, she needed to make one last attempt at avoidance. “If he truly loves me, shouldn’t that make him brave enough to take a chance and declare his love?”
“You tell me.” Lise raised a single, damning brow. “Has your love for him made you brave enough, Molly?”
In response, Molly’s middle finger made a return appearance, because Karl had clearly been a bad influence on her.
“No? Then let me help you.” Lise’s words were quiet, sympathetic, and entirely relentless. “I want you to imagine cutting things off with Karl now, without ever telling him you love him. Going back to LA and never returning. And then—five, ten, fifteen years down the line—getting another message from me.”
Molly cringed, already knowing what came next.
“A text telling you he’s married to someone else.” Lise waited for that prospect to bloom in Molly’s imagination, like a growing blot of midnight-black ink. “Or, heaven forbid, an email sharing the nonfictional, entirely correct obituary for him in the Harlot’s Herald. How would that feel?”
Like someone grabbing her by the throat and squeezing. Like reading her own obituary.
Her face crumbled, and her fist against her mouth couldn’t quite stifle a sob.
Immediately, Lise’s chair gave another ear-splitting shriek as she scooched closer again. She took Molly’s hand, her round brown eyes solemn and sincere and tear-glazed too.
“I only have one more thing I need to say, and then I’m done. I promise.” She held Molly’s blurry stare, her own expression pained. “For the last two years, you’ve clearly been beating yourself up for trusting Rob. Enough to marry him and give him seventeen precious years of your life.”
Her hand squeezed Molly’s, demanding her friend’s full attention. “But babe, I’m not sure you ever did trust him. You told me once that your insomnia only got bad after your wedding, and that’s what people in the book biz call a telling detail. Part of you knew, Molly. Always. Your instincts were good. You simply didn’t follow them, for completely human reasons. The sunk-cost fallacy is some powerful shit, am I right?”
“Karl . . .” Molly had to clear her throat and blow her nose with the paper towel in her free hand before she kept speaking. “Karl said pretty much the exact same thing. Minus the sunk-cost fallacy bit, because he’s not nearly as nerdy as either of us.”
“Then Karl and I are both right.” Another fierce squeeze. “Forgive yourself, Molly. Trust yourself and your own instincts, if you can’t bring yourself to trust him. Even though I think you should trust him, because that man’s freaking gone for you.”
Her instincts were screaming at her right now. Shouting that Karl wasn’t the sort of man who’d casually fuck anyone and toss her aside, much less an old friend whose voice he’d recognized after almost two decades apart and listened to every . . . single . . . morning.
He’d worked incredibly hard to convince her to stay for the entire month. Given up sleep to ensure they’d have plenty of time together. Tried to earn her trust through bizarre corporate activities. Shared his secrets and listened attentively to hers. Made love to her like she was a miracle in human form, dispatched directly from the heavens in the exact shape of his desires.
Why would he have done any of that if he didn’t love her?
Why would he have asked her to stay if he didn’t intend to pursue a future with her?
Molly’s loud sniff echoed in the dark classroom. “Thank you for the sage advice, Lise. As mandated by the Motion Picture Association, circa 1998, it was very helpful.”
“As your fat, funny bestie, it was my pleasure. Also my contractual obligation.” Lise’s small smile faded. “But like you said, even my wisest counsel can’t fix everything. Only you can do that.” Her eyebrows rose in inquiry. “So what are your instincts telling you?”
With a heavy sigh, Molly let go of Lise’s hand and stood. “Unfortunately, I need to talk to Karl.”
“Good plan.” Lise pushed up from her own chair. “Let’s go find him.”
Molly lingered, hesitant, then swallowed her pride. “But first, I need a hug. A long one.”
“Yeah, you do,” Lise agreed, then wrapped her best friend tight in her arms and gave Molly exactly what she wanted. Exactly what she’d finally admitted to needing.
Exactly—exactly—what she’d had the courage to ask for.
27
The worst goddamn reunion in the history of this goddamn planet was winding down, at long goddamn last. Midnight had come and gone. Bez had headed out a few minutes ago. Johnathan was off to take a quick break and fetch a final resupply of their picked-over hors d’oeuvres, but Karl figured only a quarter of the remaining snacks might get eaten. He’d send the rest home with Charlotte and Johnathan.
The crowds were thinning, minute by minute. From his spot behind the refreshments table, he could finally tell for damn sure: Molly was nowhere to be found. Probably went back to the Spite House hours ago, without even telling him.
Pretty soon, she’d be gone from Harlot’s Bay too. Because apparently she didn’t see much reason to stay, and wasn’t that shitty news a power punch to the fucking gut?
He rounded the table. Inspected the setup from a partygoer’s point of view. Trays looked neat. Tablecloth wasn’t rumpled. At least a half dozen left of each item, pending Johnathan’s restocking. Good. At least something had gone right tonight.
With a grunt, he squatted down to clean up some dropped food at the foot of the table. Also to hide his stupid smarting eyes in kinda-privacy, since Charlotte—dutiful to the end—wouldn’t budge from her self-assigned position behind the table.
When he got a hold of himself and stood again, though, her hand under his elbow unexpectedly assisted him upright.
“Thanks,” he muttered, vaguely surprised by the gesture.
She was stronger than she looked. Good grip, too.
After letting go of his arm, she swung in a tight circle, scanning their surroundings. Then nodded to herself.
“If you keep your voice to a dull roar, no one will hear us over ‘The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.’” Her brow creased. “Which is a truly odd song to play at a reunion, but that’s beside the point.”
Befuddled and heartsick, he heaved a loud sigh. “What damn point?”
“Tell me what happened.” When Charlotte’s stare met his, she didn’t look away. Didn’t flinch at either his scowl or his incipient tears. “Athena and Matthew aren’t here, and you clearly need to talk. So tell me what went wrong between you and Molly, Karl.”
Startled again, he actually focused on her. Paid attention to what probably should’ve been obvious a long fucking time ago.
Her voice was hoarse with fatigue. She looked tired too, with shadowed half-moons beneath her deep blue eyes. That shit was temporary, though. What was permanent: Those eyes didn’t belong to a naïve teenager anymore. Didn’t shine with innocence like they had when he’d first hired her. Instead, they were warm with sympathy and affection. Dark with concern and knowledge born of painful experience.
At far too young an age, she’d left carefree girlhood far behind, and while he loved her children with all his damn heart, he hated that she hadn’t had more time to believe happy, hopeful things about the world and about love. Somehow, though, she still seemed happy. Still seemed hopeful. Still seemed to be finding her place in the world—and finding love too, if he was reading things correctly when it came to Matthew’s nerdy, caring CPNP, Hector.
In the end, it didn’t matter whether Karl liked how it’d happened. Regardless, Charlotte had grown up. Become smart and strong and beautiful, in every way possible. Maybe because of her parents’ steadfast support. Maybe because she simply was a smart, strong, beautiful person and always had been.
Most of the newest, most popular items on Karl’s menu?
Her ideas. Because she’d researched and taught herself a crap ton about food and creative flavor combinations in her nonexistent spare time.
Most of the items on this very table?
Her work had helped create ’em. She’d arranged the child care she’d needed and labored capably by his side without a single complaint, after paying close attention to his instructions and soaking in anything he taught her like a damn dish sponge.
Despite his fatigue-blurred eyes, he felt like he was seeing her clearly for the first time in years. Not as a kid, not even as a protégé or surrogate daughter, but as a colleague. As a friend, whose good will and strength he could rely upon, even as he offered his in return.
And if he was with a reliable friend?
He could let down his damn guard. “You really want to know what happened with Molly?”
“I really want to know,” she said without a moment’s hesitation.
So he told her everything. Except the sexual shit, because she might be his friend, but he was still her boss, and he wasn’t going to harass her. She listened silently the whole time, nodding on occasion to show she understood what he was saying.
And when he finally finished yammering, Charlotte looked straight at him and asked a simple, quiet question. “You didn’t tell her how much you want her here?”
He fidgeted. Got blustery and defensive, because he knew where this was damn well going: the same place it’d gone with Matthew and Athena. But Charlotte just waited patiently until he was ready to admit the plain truth.
“Said please when I asked, but . . .” After scrubbing his hands over his face, he dropped them. “No. Guess I didn’t.”
“And you haven’t told her you love her?”
“She hasn’t said she loves me either,” he pointed out immediately.
Other than his mom and sisters, no woman had ever told him that. And for the longest time, that absence—the lack of those words—had hurt him more than actual insults. More than most of his breakups ever had. At least until Molly had returned and showed him what actual love looked and felt like, and he’d finally understood.
His exes hadn’t declared their love because those relationships weren’t love.
Molly didn’t have that excuse. Although . . . she might have others.
“Hmmm.” Stretching her back with a faint hiss, Charlotte waited while he helped a partygoer. Once they were alone again, she asked, “Does Molly have any reason to be skittish with men?”
Apparently he and Charlotte were thinking along the same lines.
“Yeah.” Her father’s second life wasn’t his secret to share. Her divorce wasn’t particularly privileged information, though, from what he could tell. “Together with an asshole seventeen fucking years. Marriage ended badly. Got divorced two years ago.”
Charlotte winced. “So she’s understandably wary.”
“Yeah,” he repeated, and braced for the inevitable.
“I . . .” She spoke cautiously at first, testing out each syllable before she continued. “I know you’re a sensitive soul, Karl, but—”
“Holy fuck, not this shit again.” With a heartfelt groan, he stabbed a finger in her direction. “If you compare me to a chocolate egg, Charlotte, swear to Christ—”
“—maybe you need to be the one who leaps first, even though it’s scary,” she added more hurriedly, ignoring his interruption. “Because you love her, and if you let her leave without telling her, we both know you’ll regret it. Maybe forever.” She laid an encouraging hand on his shoulder. “You still have one more full day together. You’ve got time to gather your words and your courage, then make your declaration.”
Woman wasn’t wrong. Which blew.
“Hmmph.” Tugging irritably at his bow tie, he glowered into the far distance. “I’ll think about it.”
Silence. Lips pursed into a skeptical line, Charlotte raised her brows at him.
“Wasn’t lying. Thinking about it now, actually.” His main conclusion, after a quick glance at his phone display? It was way too late to have such an important conversation tonight. Such a goddamn shame. And now: time for a distraction. “Also thinking I’m pretty sure Johnathan fell asleep on the toilet again.”
That kid could nod off anywhere. A real talent, assuming he didn’t have sleep apnea. Should Karl open a browser window and get more information on that? As opposed to planning a terrifying heart-to-heart with Molly?
“Probably. If he’s not back in five minutes, we’ll check on him.” Charlotte let her hand drop from his shoulder. Didn’t step away, though. “Hey, Karl?”
Midway through a Mayo Clinic rundown of sleep apnea symptoms, he paused. Looked up at Charlotte again. “Yeah?”
“Thank you,” she said softly.
His brows drew together. “For what?”
“You’ve never shared something so personal with me before. I didn’t . . .” Biting her lip, she took a moment before continuing. “I didn’t realize you trusted me that much. So . . . thank you for telling me what happened with Molly, and thank you for listening to what I said in response.”
What the hell?
“I’ve always trusted you. Just knew you had a full plate for someone so young. Didn’t want to burden you with my shit too.”
She looked shocked. “Really?”
“Yes, really.” He glared at her. “Jesus H. Christ.”
Still wide-eyed with disbelief, she spread her hands helplessly. “I know you care about me and my kids, obviously. But I guess I assumed you thought of me as kind of a dumb kid too. Your personal albatross, until some other workplace took me off your hands.”
Jaw dropped in absolute bewilderment, he couldn’t do anything but gape at her.
Her lips curved into a wry, faintly bitter smile. “I mean, I was a teenage mom two times over. Then I kept quitting a good job to try to work things out with someone who clearly wasn’t ready for a family. I’m not exactly . . .” She paused for a moment. “How might Athena put it? I’m not exactly an exemplar of great decision-making.”
