Page 19 of Something Borrowed

Once he’d driven away, Vic sank to her butt on the porch, despite the cold, smiling like a loon.

Devil started to mumble, but for once, Vic stopped the internal back-and-forth before it got carried away. She would be careful. She, of all people, knew what a hot mess she was. She wouldn’t inflict herself on a nice person like Cal. But she could have a friend. Lord knows she needed one—and she was 99.9 percent certain, shocked as she was to think it, that Cal needed one too.

Chapter 12

His social butterfly sis was busy with friends again all weekend, so once more Cal was looking at a solitary Saturday and Sunday. He didn’t begrudge Carrie her social life, however. The opposite, in fact. It did kind of underscore his own lack of plans yet again, though.

“You could come with,” she texted early Saturday morning.

“Pass,” he texted back. Then softened it. “I’ve got my regular routine to keep me busy. Thanks though.”

She sent a smiling emoji, and he knew she understood anyway. Carrie loved a crowd and small talk and noise. Cal generally enjoyed his own company, even if he occasionally craved depth, connection . . . The few times he’d taken Carrie up on her attempts to include him in pub crawls, karaoke nights, and the like, he’d come home feeling lonelier and more isolated, not less.

Going over to Vic’s and assessing her needs—the house’s needs, he meant—must’ve popped into Cal’s head about a hundred times over the weekend while he distracted and busied himself with chores, but he kept second-guessing himself.

He thought they’d both flirted a little. Maybe. But man, talk about something he was out of practice at. So, nah, she was probably just being friendly. Anything more than that, he was pretty sure that was all his imagination. But what if . . .

And as for his initial read of her that first day they met . . . He felt a bit guilty. It had been all wrong. Her mother was a handful, no doubt about it, and Vic obviously struggled with their relationship, but who wouldn’t? He needed to mind his own gate and make sure he didn’t let his messed-up relationship history color how he saw every woman that he came across, or he was going to be a lonely man. Or, rather, an even lonelier man.

Still, it was better to adhere to his normal workweek. Making an exception and seeing Vic on a weekend would tweak Carrie’s curiosity and she’d interrogate him again.

Despite his best intentions and resolve, however, he couldn’t keep Vic’s smile out of his head or stop hearing her big laugh that sometimes rang out before she caught herself, stifled herself—he thought, then frowned briefly. She really did seem to rein herself in a lot, but then again, with such a critical mother, of course she did. And he also couldn’t stop replaying their conversations. Was she really a bad cook? Did she actually love pizza as much as she claimed to? He hoped he got to find out. And her comment about enjoying watching people do work they were good at . . . It didn’t feel like a line. It felt genuine.

As the weekend churned on and Cal did laundry, including his bedding, made a menu and grocery shopped for the upcoming week, and did his weekly deep cleaning of the house, a feeling snuck up on him that he had to think through in order to recognize. Anticipation. Yeah, that was it. For the first time since Melanie, despite having dated a few women who were perfectly nice, just not for him, he felt . . . excited. Like there was something to look forward to, not just a treadmill of work and household chores, broken only rarely by an evening out with Carrie or his friends. He wasn’t a complete dope, of course. He knew nothing might come of his optimism, but dang it was nice to feel it for a change.

Chapter 13

Vic woke up crying, face wet, the outside corners of her eyes raw from the salt.

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” she whispered into the gray shadows, trying to comfort herself, but remnants of the dream sat heavy in her chest, and anxiety and fear prickled the back of her knees and down her legs. Not just a nightmare. Memories.

“That’s all done. It’s over.” But even as she said the words, she knew they were more a prayer than anything true. Would the shame she felt and deep, aching loss of what she’d thought she’d had—and been so, so wrong about—ever be over? She didn’t think so.

The day had started so lovely. Brent had a lighter-than-usual travel-for-work schedule, and he would be home for the whole weekend! A total novelty. She was at Green’s, the upscale little grocery market near their condo, picking up their favorite tidbits, already ahead of herself and reveling in the luxury of three whole days together. Maybe she’d even convince him to go out for a few hours on Saturday, to the Farmer’s Market or something. The possibility—and how she’d probably fail—made her smile. Her dear, impossibly introverted fella. No wonder he needed downtime, though. Being an introvert and having a sales job that required him to be constantly “on” and away from home was so hard on him.

She’d just selected a jar of feta-stuffed olives when a couple came around the end of the nearby bread display, bickering. The woman sounded irate, speaking in a quiet but seething voice. “Stop trying to change the subject! I’ve heard this shop is great, and I want to pick up a bottle of balsamic for Birta as a hostess gift—God knows I accommodate you enough. Why are you being so weird about stopping here? It’s on the way, and we have plenty of time. Plenty!”

Vic spotted a package of garlic-and-herb-infused crostini that Brent loved.

“I just want you to be able to relax, not worry about being late for your flight.”

Vic’s hand froze mid-reach.

“Oh, so good of you to care—now. I just don’t think it’s too much for my husband to give me some advance warning. You’ve known about this girls’ trip for months.”

Husband? What the—

Vic spun around, heart pounding. It wouldn’t be, it couldn’t be—they say everybody has a doppelganger. Maybe that was true for voices too. There was no way that—

“The kids don’t care,” Brent said. Brent, it really was Brent. “They’re happy to stay at their friends’ houses, happier than they’d be—”

Unaware she’d dropped her basket. Oblivious to the clatter and the sloshing shatter of the jar of olives smashing on the shop’s tile floor. Conscious only of the wet crack of her heart as Brent looked over at the noise, locked gazes with her, and the woman he was with ran to Vic’s side. “Omigod, are you all right? What happened?”

Even in the warmth of her blankets, Vic was shivering now. She squeezed her eyes shut. How do you control your dreams? You don’t, and Vic often relived that horrible moment and others after it, though, mercifully, not as often as she had in the early days.

Stopitstopitstop, Vic commanded—then forced a deep breath. She knew what to do.

In the shadows, she picked out five things she could see. Shoes on the floor. Purse hanging on the door. Desk chair. Laptop. She unclenched her balled fist and stared down. Five fingers.