Page 81 of When There Was You
As I push my cart through the aisles collecting ingredients, I admit it’s not wholly altruistic. This provides an excuse to lay eyes and hands on my lumberjack. Will it seem pushy? Maybe. Or weird? I don’t even know if Butch has told his parents we’re dating. But he said he wanted to see me, so… green light.
Excitement rumblesthrough me as I pack up the chicken noodle soup, crackers, ginger ale, and chocolate chip walnut cookies I made last night. The essential healingmeal. The anticipation of giving it to Mr. Foresty-eyed fills me with glee. That, and standing face to face after several long weeks apart.
I’ve got it bad.
Hey, I honored my commitment yesterday, standing on my own two feet like a big girl. What’s wrong with liking Butch? Seeing where it goes, like he said?
My vagina sends up a high five…also stoked to see a particular man. But I steer my thoughts back on track. This isn’t about sex.
I pack the car and head south. I’m in a bit of a predicament not knowing where the lumberjack lives. I didn’t want to call and ask, effectively ruining the surprise, but he mentioned living near his folks, so I’ll simply consult a phone book once I get to town and look him up. His address should be listed in the white pages. Easy peasy. Last resort: I stop by his parents’ house. Would it be totally random and bizarre to show up unannounced? With a care package, no less? By the woman they only know as a writer doing a feature on Hamilton Restorations? Yes, yes it would. I cringe, wondering again if I’m making a mistake.
But then “In Your Eyes” comes on the radio, and I crank it up and belt out the words with Peter Gabriel. I don’t need to second-guess an act of kindness.
As anticipated,the phone directory hanging in a gas station telephone booth gives me the goods. Consulting my map confirms he indeed lives close to his parents’ house. My nerves amplify with each mile closer, pulse skyrocketing when the address affixed to his oversized country mailbox indicates I’ve arrived.
He might not even be here. Maybe he’s at his folks’ house attending to their needs, or at the store, or…calm your jets, girl. One step at a time.
The tree-lined gravel drive opens to a clearing. I spot his Barracuda first and let out a stuttered breath. My gaze swings to a charming, rustic log cabin, the logs separated by beige chinking, sheltered by towering trees. Firewood is stacked on one side and my lip curls in amusement. Because…lumberjack. Beyond that stands a huge garage. Of course, Butch would want one bigger than his house. I wonder what’s in that massive structure.
I wonder more about how this man lives. Is he messy or fastidious? Typical bachelor or domesticated man? Does he cook elaborate meals or just grill everything? Sleep on luxurious or cheap sheets? Prefer books or TV? Does he chop all that wood shirtless? So many questions…reminding me how little I really know about this man.
Now that I’m here, I’m panicking again about surprising him. I’m both paralyzed and energized. There’s still time to turn around…
Get out of the car.
With a heavy exhale, I collect my care packages and make my way to the door, manic dog barks coming from inside. I notice a small, pink bicycle on the other side of the Cuda, leaning on its kickstand. It’s distinctly girlish with purple tassels dangling from the handlebars, and it looks wholly out of place. Whose is it? As I ascend the steps, I admire the wide plank boards on the porch, the swing for two, and the sculpted Labrador sitting by the door that sure resembles Hemi. But it’s hard to concentrate with those sharp, incessant barks amping up my already unraveling nerves.
You’ve got this. Just fucking knock.
Shuffling my bags, I spy the door knocker—an actual gear shifter from a manual transmission (four on the floor to be exact) and can’t help smiling at it. I clack it a few times and suck in another deep breath. There’s a stampede of feet, more scrambling, continued howls. I plaster a smile on my face andwait, hoping that’s Hemi and not an unfriendly dog planning to rip my face off.
When the door swings open, it’s most assuredly Hemi, who bounds straight for me. And standing next to him, emerald-green eyes wide, mousy brown hair wild around her cherubic face, is a little girl.
Forty-Three
“Oh…hello.” Words dissipate as I stare at the little girl…with eyes that match Butch’s.
“Hi.” She tilts her head, long hair falling to the side. “Who are you?”
“My name’s Jacqui.”
“I’m Emmy. My daddy wanted to name me Hemi, but my momma wouldn’t let him.”
The dog circles frenetically, trying to sniff my bags. Emmy lunges for his collar, holding him back. “Knock it off, you kook.” Her bare feet poke out ofCinderellapajamas, and her free hand clutches a teddy bear. She fixes those vibrant green eyes back on me. “You’re real pretty.”
I smile. “So are you.”
“Are you here to see my daddy?”
“Em, what the hell’s going on down there? Why is Hemi barking?” Butch yells from within—and my pulse rapid fires again.
“Some lady named Jacqui wants to talk to you,” she hollers.
“What?” his voice thunders.
Panic floods my bloodstream. “I shouldn’thave come,” I murmur, dropping my bags by the door and backtracking, turning just in time to avoid plummeting down the steps.
Hurrying to my car, I reach the driver’s side when Butch hurtles out the front, stumbling over the threshold. “Jacqui, wait!” His eyes blaze. Shock is splashed across his face. His hair is sopping wet and he’s naked, save for a towel wrapped around his waist, the ends clutched in one hand.
