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“Yep. Trev is keeping Emilie so I can go.”
He walked out the doorway, but then leaned back in. “Cami invited Lorelai.” And with that bomb dropped, he was gone.
“Fuck!”
Chapter 25
~~ Lorelai ~~
I watch my phone every second for the last hour of work instead of adding the office supplies that were just delivered to my inventory spreadsheet. I don't know which I’m more nervous about, Mrs. Corbyn’s inevitable critique or a call from James. No. I decide it’s definitely a call from James.
The classroom teachers already have a rotation for manning the pickups. Most of them are so familiar with the parents’ cars that the children are already waiting with their backpacks and lunchboxes by the time the parents sign them out. I think there’s no reason for the parents to even have to come in, and I add that to my list of things to think about “after”.
Mrs. Corbyn’s office is the only one with a window looking out on the front, and she has the security displays in her office, so I can’t even watch to see when James comes to pick up Emilie. I fiddle and check my phone and fiddle some more. I’m relieved when Darla from the two-year-old class peeks her head in to give me the all-clear and I can head out.
By the time I make the final turn onto the main road downtown, I’ve abandoned all the affirmations I learned in therapy. I’ve convinced myself that even if James saw my number tucked into my email signature with the other contact information, he wouldn’t bother to contact me. I’ve said all the horrible, self-deflating things I can think of to convince myself not to wish, not to hope.
I skip dinner, and I’m lying face down on my bed at the B & B. I was able to dismiss the idea of James as a fantasy if I didn’t see him, but now that it’s time to discover his reaction to my presence in Bearberry Bay, I’m terrified.
I must have dozed. I wake to the light coming in my window dimmed so much I think the streetlamps must be switching on. My phone chimes and buzzes at the end of the bed with a text notification, which happens so much more often now that I’m in a group chat with the lovely ladies I met at the bakery.
I inch the phone closer with my foot, then stretch down to snag it without moving from the hollow I’ve made in the memory foam.
Oh. Shit. It’s James.
Yes, I stole his number from Emilie's file. But just so I’d see his name before answering. That doesn’t even register as a minor infraction in my book.
“It’s James. Can we talk?” it says. My body freezes.
Then, “I know it’s late. Sorry.” My brain freezes.
A half-second later another message. “Just got Emilie out of the bath. My neighbor can sit with her if you’re free to meet.”
Oh.
He wants to meet.
In person.
After the mental beating I gave myself on the ride home, I’m nervous now.
I start to type, but my fingers lock up. I don’t know how to be casual. I want to say, “fuck, yes”, or “just say where and when”, or “please touch my skin”. I know I should send none of those!
I must’ve hesitated too long. Another text comes in. “It’s okay if you can’t, or don’t want to.”
And another right after. “I guess I don’t have any right to ask.”
My heart tips sideways with the thought that I must have left him feeling awkward with my delay in responding. I type “Yes” before I really know what I’m doing and hit send.
I stare at my one-word answer. Ugh. Stupid.
“The Thai place near you should still be open.”
Another chime. “Or do you prefer a bar?”
“The Thai place is fine.” I send back. I know the one he means. It’s across the square, just a minute or two to walk there.
My phone chimes again. “30 minutes?”
