Down on Love Page 12

Casey tightened his grip, probably thinking she might be trying to distract him so she could dart away again, then looked over his shoulder at where she was pointing. “What?”

  “It’s another Marsdy. I wanna see it. Let go.”

  Instead, he took her hand and let her lead him up onto the sidewalk outside the post office. Sure enough, right at the corner, in the pedestrian walkway leading to a parking area behind the building, there was another spray-painted picture on the sandstone, this time one of a stick figure “climbing” out of a crack in the building, holding a bunch of flowers.

  “Oh, how cute,” George cooed. From somewhere in the back of her fuzzy brain she realized she might be sounding like an idiot. But it seemed perfectly suitable at the moment. She moved forward, but Casey stayed where he was. Their hands separated. She stared intently at the graffiti, then she reached out and touched it with a fingertip. She spun around. “It’s still wet! Hey, I’ll bet Marsdy is still around somewhere! Let’s go hunt ’im down!”

  “Goose—”

  She ran back to him, tripped a little, and lurched into him. He caught her and held on.

  “Come on. It’ll be fun! We can be detectives.”

  He sighed. “We’re not chasing Marsdy, Nancy Drew. It’s late, and he’s probably long gone, anyway. Let’s just get you home.”

  “You are no fun at all.”

  Casey herded her toward the truck. “Are you always like this when you drink?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t usually drink.”

  “You don’t say.” He propped her against the truck and reached around her to open the passenger door.

  “How come Officer Billy didn’t give you a hard time? You could be drunk too.”

  “But I’m not. And he knows I’m not stupid enough to drink and drive.”

  “Neither am I.”

  “He knows me. He doesn’t know you.”

  “Are you kidding? I’ve seen him in his footie pajamas.” George muttered, “I don’t need your help, you know.”

  “Of course not. But I promised Officer Billy I’d get you home, so that’s what I’m going to do. And don’t worry about your car. Give me your keys and I’ll drive it to the house later.”

  She moved sideways and blocked him. “You . . . you . . .” She wasn’t sure what she wanted to say. Then she blurted out, “Stop being so nice.”

  Neither of them moved, even though they were only inches apart. George felt the heat from his arm near her waist, as he grasped the door handle. Her heart rate picked up. She cursed her traitorous body and took a steadying breath.

  Casey studied her closely. “Is that what you like? Guys who aren’t nice?”

  “No,” she said in what she hoped was a scoffing tone.

  “Because that’s not me.”

  “Ain’t that the truth.”

  “What?”

  “There’s such a thing as too nice, you know.”

  “Get in the truck, George.” He finally moved her aside, a little roughly, and yanked open the door.

  “You bug me,” she grumbled, but she let herself be tucked into the passenger seat.

  He tossed her a brilliant, genuine smile as he clicked her seat belt into place. “No, I don’t.”

  “Stop telling me what I think, mister. You don’t know me.”

  Then his hand wasn’t on the latch of the seat belt, but on her waist instead, his fingers and palm pressing into her. He pinned her with his gaze, a bar of shadow in the darkness. “Oh, I know you, Goose. I know you better than you’d ever admit.”

  The heat of his hand through her blouse was like a brand. She fought through the fog that swept over her brain, eventually managing to stammer, “You haven’t seen me in my footie pajamas.”

  “Is that an invitation?”

  George was speechless.

  In the silence, Casey smirked and straightened up. Before he closed the door, he leaned back in to say, “Just stay put,” then slammed it soundly.

  George was grateful the drive to the house only took three minutes. Even so, they were the longest three minutes of her life. It was dead silent in the truck, the air heavy between them. She wanted to say something more, make the mood lighthearted again, but she had no idea what words would do that. It wasn’t lost on her that Casey wasn’t speaking, either.

  When they pulled into the driveway, Casey turned off the truck. “Let me help you get inside.”

  “I only had three and a half beers.”

  “Four and three quarters. You lost count.”

  George opened her mouth to contradict him, realized she wasn’t entirely sure she was right and he was wrong, boggled at the fact that he had been monitoring her alcohol intake, and ended up saying nothing for a moment. Then, “I can manage.”

  “I’m sure you thought the same thing when you engaged an officer of the law in a conversation about his childhood obsession with foam bullets and almost ended up on the business end of a sobriety test. Or charged with WWI.”

  “WWI?”

  “Walking while intoxicated.”

  “Is that even a thing?”

  But he just said, “Stay there,” because she had reached for the door handle.

  “Why do you keep telling me to stay? I’m not a dog.”

  “I know that. Just—” He held out his hand, palm up.

  “‘Sit’ won’t work on me, either.”

  But Casey didn’t answer, because he was already rounding the front of the truck to get to her side. He helped her down from the high cab and walked her to the front door.

  “Need help with the key?”

  “What key?” She turned the handle and pushed the door open.

  “You really should lock your doors.”

  “Did you forget we’re in Marsden?”

  “All the same.”

  George paused, trying not to weave too much, as she hesitated in the doorway. “Did you want to come in?”

  “Do you need more help?”

  “Does tucking me in count?”

  He hesitated. “I’ll just leave you here, all right?”

  “Ah.” Her stomach clenched and she looked away, into the darkened hallway. “Of course. I believe I’ve heard this song before. Sorry I said anything.”

  “Don’t apologize. That’s one of the best offers I’ve had in a long time.”

  Not good enough, apparently, because after getting her car keys, Casey left her with an admonishment to drink at least one whole bottle of water and take some ibuprofen, and a reminder not to try to take care of the baby tonight. Pshht. No kidding. She was tipsy, not stupid. He waited only long enough to make sure she locked the front door behind her, then he was in his truck and out of sight down the road.

  George landed on her bed with a thud, and she kicked off her flats. Her laptop caught her eye, the charger light glowing green in the darkness. She sat up and took a swig of water from the bottle she’d grabbed downstairs—not because Casey had told her to. She’d known enough to do it on her own.

  She reached for her computer. She really had been lax in keeping the blog updated. And now, with the house silent and everyone sleeping—including, miracle of miracles, Amelia, at least for the moment—it was the perfect time to tend to business. From the last sensible recesses of her booze-sozzled brain came the thought that blogging while intoxicated wasn’t the brightest idea, but she was willing to chance it. She was a professional. Darn talented, in fact. A little alcohol would just make her more prolific, right? Like Hemingway and . . . all those other brilliant drunken writers. And because if she didn’t focus on something, she’d end up deconstructing her evening with Casey. She wasn’t sure if their exchanges had been good or bad. If she thought too much about it, she might decide they had been bad. And then she’d stew about it the rest of the night.

  George set aside her water and opened the laptop. She had plenty of things to talk about. Tons. Maybe she couldn’t think of anything at the moment, but she was sure something would occur to her. Any second now. Her
fingers poised over the keys, she stared at the screen until the fields blurred. She shook her head and rubbed her eyes.

  Then she started to type.

  Chapter 12

  The next morning, Casey made a point of breaking away from the farm as early as he could. He shouted to Elliot, who was somewhere else in the house repairing plaster, that he was going to run a few errands, and drove downtown. He glanced down the side street where Beers was and tried not to think about last night.

  George had invited him in. And he’d said no.

  Of course, there was no way he was going to be alone with her another minute. Sure, his body was yelling at him to make a move, but he wouldn’t dream of it, what with the state she was in. His baser instinct told him to help her into the house, close the door behind them, carry her up to her room, and . . . But if he had, he knew he’d actually have tucked her into bed. That was all. He was pretty sure, anyway. Ah, who was he kidding? Of course that’s all he’d have done.

  She’d said he was too nice. Didn’t he know it. He had the Blue Balls Award to prove it. But if his only options were to be (a) “too nice” or (b) a callous, sex-crazed ass, he’d go for the former every time. Always the gentleman, although sometimes he wished—desperately—that he wasn’t.

  The big question was if he’d done the right thing, why did it feel so wrong? And why had he been on edge all morning? Well, there was that Blue Balls Award thing. He’d lain awake far too late last night because of his, er, condition. And George wasn’t making it any easier, with those veiled mentions of high school hookups and invitations into the silent, shadowed house late at night.

  Or maybe it went beyond that. He shook it off. He didn’t want to dig any deeper. Not right now. Maybe not ever. Logic dictated if he stayed away from George, he could get a handle on this. Trouble was, he didn’t want to stay away from her.

  He pulled up to the curb outside Ray’s print shop, threw the truck into park, and heaved a sigh as he climbed out of the cab. He hoped Ray didn’t start his not-so-subtle campaign to get him to date Celia again. He just couldn’t take that today.

  Casey navigated past some women inspecting the goodies in Terrie’s cart of glass-bead jewelry on the edge of the sidewalk, then tried not to trip over Aubrey, one of Marsden’s most promising teen musicians, playing a lovely piece on the cello in the shade of the print shop awning. Beside her, a heart with silver wings glowed on the brick front of the store. Another Marsdy original. He nodded hello to all of them, then ducked inside.

  “Morning, Ray,” Casey said congenially, walking up to the counter. He cast a furtive glance at Celia’s desk, saw it was empty, and a wave of relief washed over him. The last thing he wanted to deal with was Ray watching their conversational exchanges like a tennis match. Ray didn’t return his greeting, just stood there with a strange look on his face. “Uh, am I back too soon for those brochures? I can—”

  “No,” he said curtly, reaching under the counter and bringing up a small cardboard box, which he slammed down in front of Casey. “You’re right on time. As always. Here you go. Have a good day.” And Ray pushed the box toward him.

  “Whoa, whoa.” Casey caught it before it fell over his side of the counter. “Mind if I take a look?”

  “They’re fine—Celia did them.” Ray fixed him with a glare, as though daring him to even suggest any work Celia did would be less than perfect.

  “I’m not worried about Celia’s work. I just want to check the print job.”

  “Take them with you and check them later. If you have any problems, call me. Otherwise, I’ll bill you. Have a good day,” he said again, a bit more emphatically.

  “You know, Ray, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to get rid of me.”

  Again, no answer. The shop was empty; nobody else was making any demands on the guy’s time. Why was the usually painfully cheerful proprietor so crabby? Well, whatever the reason, Casey wasn’t about to be chased out of the shop. He obstinately stood his ground, opening the box and pulling out one of the glossy, tri-fold brochures right there.

  “If you don’t mind,” he said.

  Ray made a face but didn’t argue. Casey opened the brochure. Ray was right—Celia had done really great work, as usual. The photos she’d taken of the house and the farm made the place look way better than it did in real life, as though she’d brought out its potential, what it was going to be in the near future. The text trumpeted the meeting room availability and services offered, the pumpkin patch, the gallery—everything that was nearly ready. Or would be, by the time the grand opening came around in early October.

  “These are great,” he murmured. “Celia’s really talented.”

  “Of course she is.”

  Casey eyed the older man sharply. “Ray? Do we have a problem or something?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, that was convincing.” He waited a moment, but when the other man didn’t say anything, he put the brochure back in the box, closed the flaps, and hoisted it in the crook of his arm. “Okay, fine. Have it your way. Have a good weekend, all right?”

  As he turned to go, Ray blurted out, “I hear you’ve been spending time with George lately.”

  What? He turned back to the other man. “Have you, now?”

  “You two walking around town with Amelia the other day. Hanging out at Beers last night.”

  “Okay. And?”

  “Left the bar together too, I hear.”

  Casey thought it was very telling that none of the gossip included the fact that they’d been two of a large group, or that George had left alone, and he’d only followed her to return her purse. But all he said was, “I’m afraid to ask what else you heard.”

  “Why? What else happened?” Ray asked, a little too eagerly.

  He had to bite his lip to keep from grinning. This was ridiculous. “Absolutely none of your business, Ray.” He sighed. “Come on, man, what’s the difference? I’ve known George forever. It’s no big deal.”

  “No big deal?” The other man looked over his shoulder furtively, then whispered, “You want to hurt Celia? Again?”

  Okay, on second thought, this wasn’t funny at all. “I wouldn’t—she doesn’t—it’s not—” He growled, frustrated. “You know what? Never mind, Ray. You really don’t know what you’re talking about, so—”

  More plaintively, Ray said, “I’m just saying everyone in town expects certain things from you, Casey.”

  “You have got to be kidding—”

  “You know how it is.”

  “No, actually, Ray, I don’t. And I don’t appreciate all this . . .” He flailed around, trying to articulate what he was thinking. All that came to mind was all this attention. Instead, he said, “Come on. Celia just finalized her divorce. I hear Matt put her through the wringer for years. She doesn’t need a bunch of you standing on the corner talking about her. Or me and her. That’s just—”

  “Standing on the corner? Casey, get with the times. It’s all online now.” He paused. “Don’t you read George’s blog?”

  “What? No. I—I haven’t got time—”

  “Maybe you should make time.”

  “Why?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Just . . . read it for yourself.”

  Casey wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so he just said, “I’ve gotta go. Thanks for the brochures.”

  He yanked open the truck door and threw the box onto the passenger seat with more force than necessary. What the hell was Ray talking about, go read George’s blog? Why would he do that, when he barely had time to breathe these days? Hell, the minute he got some down time, late at night, he could barely stay awake long enough to put some dinner in his food hole before he dragged himself upstairs to bed. It seemed he was always on the verge of falling over where he was standing. Going out last night had practically flattened him, and he was still feeling its effects this morning. Come to think of it, maybe that was what had him on edge. Maybe he was wrong to be irritated with Ray. Ma
ybe the guy had a point. But read George’s blog? What in the world could she have written that was so important? She’d said it was a place to make fun of relationships. She had talked about doing a piece on Taylor Swift, for God’s sake. He didn’t have time for that.

  So when he found himself in front of his computer, DownOnLove.blogblarg.com on the screen, he briefly wondered what he was doing there instead of outside helping his crew. But he started reading.

  His first stop was George’s “About” page, so he could get a feel for the site. There, alongside a brief description of her writing credentials and background, which included a stint in advertising—he never knew that—she’d pinned her first-ever blog entry so it didn’t get lost in the archive.

  So let’s get right to it: I left my boyfriend a couple of months ago. His name is . . . well, let’s call him Lucifer....

  Casey scanned her story quickly: the theoretical great boyfriend, the growing insecurity and self-blame at their failing relationship, the struggle to decide to leave.

  . . . And yes, I tried to work on it before jumping ship. But when you’re the only one who’s actually trying . . . it makes it pretty tough. I got tired. I grew insecure. I started to think it was my fault we weren’t working. I tried to be more understanding, more malleable, more thoughtful, more giving.

  And I got walked on, taken advantage of, taken for granted, and still not appreciated. I never was physically abused, let me be clear about that, but sometimes emotional abuse can be worse. After all, nobody can see that like a black eye. My point is, I was never valued, never honored, never respected. The more I gave in, the more I ended up existing just for him. The more I gave, the more he took.

  And then I started to disappear. It was then I knew I had to get out. Before I vanished altogether . . .

  Casey read more—every word, very carefully—and at one point he realized he was twitching with the urge to punch this “Lucifer” guy.

  . . . It took me a while to realize I had done the right thing. I went through a phase where I regretted my decision. But I’m glad I waited instead of running back to him, falling back into the same old mess, going back to being “less than.” At my darkest . . . it wasn’t pretty. I was never suicidal—not at all—but I was pretty down, yeah. I mean beyond the Bridget Jones-drinking-in-her-pajamas-and-lip-synching-sad-songs. It was more crawling-into-bed-and-not-moving-a-muscle-for-forty-eight-hours type of down.