Hate You, Maybe, page 17
“Hey, baby. Are you awake?”
I press a hand to my chest, where my heart’s still throbbing beneath my breastbone. “If I’d been asleep,” I say on a sigh, “I wouldn’t be talking to you.” My tone’s a little sharp. But as usual, my mother’s timing couldn't have been worse. “It’s kind of late for a chat. Is everything all right?”
“Oh, no, baby,” she chokes. “Everything is not all right.” Sniffling noises come from her end, and my shoulders go slack.
Sayla From Before knows this pattern all too well.
“What’s going on, Mom?”
“It’s Eugene,” she wails.
“What about Eugene?”
Here it comes.
“The wedding is off.”
Of course it is.
Dexter waves to get my attention, motioning toward the porch, starting for the door. The man wants to give me privacy—rule five of our cabin—but I can only slump in defeat.
My mother’s sobs are a bucket of ice water toppling over me, dousing every flame Dexter Michaels just ignited. I’ve been here so many times before. Honestly, I don’t care if he hears this conversation. Even as I think this, though, a spear of guilt pierces my chest. My mom can’t help who she is. If she could, she’d never put herself through the pain.
At least I hope she wouldn’t.
“What happened?” I finally ask, combating the urge to add this time. Meanwhile, my brain runs through a list of Mom’s Breakups Past. I’m tempted to place a bet on which category will fit this one with Eugene: His adult kids convinced him she’s a gold digger. Or the restaurant owner found out and threatened their jobs. Or one of them got fired. Or he fell in love with someone else. Or she discovered he’s already married.
“He’s just being so unreasonable,” she blubbers.
“About what?”
“He refuses to have our wedding on Christmas,” she sniffles. “He claims he doesn’t want his friends and family to be put out. As if marrying me is an inconvenience.”
“Wait.” I collapse onto my bed. “So Eugene does want to marry you. Just not on December 25th?”
“Or any holiday,” she huffs. “He kept going on and on about how his cousin planned his ceremony for New Year’s Eve two decades ago, and the guests are still resentful.”
I blow out a long breath. “So that’s it, then? You’re the one who called off the wedding? Not Eugene?”
“I’m clearly not a priority to him,” she says. “And I can’t marry someone who isn’t ready to make my wildest dreams come true. If Genie loved me enough, he’d gladly make me his wife any day of the year.”
“Oh, Mom.” I sigh. “Is it possible you’re the one getting cold feet?”
“Absolutely not. Why would you even ask that?”
“Sometimes … I feel like … maybe … you sabotage your relationships.”
Like a good fifty percent of the time, I think.
There’s a stretch of silence. “I love Eugene,” she says. “I’m just not sure he’s the one.”
“Because of Christmas?”
“Because of what Christmas represents,” she bawls.
“Okay, Mom.” I shake my head. “Can we talk more about this in the morning? It’s late. And I’m … exhausted.” This is what I say, but the truth is, I can’t listen to her anymore. I’ve heard all the stories so many times. And if she hadn’t uprooted me over and over again to suit every casual whim—let alone the serious heartbreaks—I might almost find her predictability amusing. But my capacity for compassion got drained over the years. My tank is empty right now. My mother is still the same self-centered, reckless person she’s always been.
She’s also my mom, though. And I love her anyway.
For better or worse.
Anyway, this is probably the universe’s way of reminding me that love is complicated. Emotions run high in the moment, but feelings always change over time. And a person you thought you knew turns out to be something completely different.
We end the call, and I rise from the bed, glancing out the window, where Dex sits hunched over his legs. He’s got his hands on his knees, his chin to his chest. He looks like disappointment in a chair.
I did that to him. Or my mom did. Both of us.
Team Kroft.
And no, I’m not my mother, and Dexter’s surely not Eugene. He’s not like any of the other men who have blown through our lives over the years. But he’s still my coworker. And even though we’ve known each other for years, I finally started scratching below the surface of who he really is. He’s letting me in. We’re both opening up.
And that’s dangerous.
As if he senses my thoughts, Dex turns and meets my gaze through the window. He tips his head, like he’s checking to see if I’m done. When I nod, he hauls himself up and comes back inside. His eyes are full of concern, and my heart squeezes. He’s worried something’s seriously wrong. And I can’t be sure he isn’t right about that.
“Your mom all right?”
“It’s a long story.” I take a beat, puff out a small laugh. “On second thought, the story’s pretty short, and the ending is no surprise. But she’ll be okay. She always is.”
I was the collateral damage. I just don’t want to be that anymore.
“How about you?” The lines around his eyes soften. “You okay?”
“Sure. And as a bonus, I’m free on Christmas now.”
A crease forms between his brow. “Yeah, I don’t know what that means.”
“It means I learned a lesson tonight.”
“What’s that?”
“Not to make plans you never intend to see through.”
Dex runs a hand over his hair. “Why do I get the feeling this has something to do with our kiss?”
“For the record, I have no regrets,” I say. “I’m just glad we got that out of our system. Now, when we go back to Stony Peak, we can put all our focus where it belongs—on the SACSS visitation.”
“So that’s it, then?” He lets out a jagged laugh. “We just wake up tomorrow and forget about everything that happened tonight?”
“I think that’s for the best.”
He draws in a long breath, holds it. Exhales. “You sure that’s what you want?”
“Yes,” I lie.
“All right, then.” He pushes his hands into his pockets and ducks his head. “I suppose I’ll have to live with that, too.”
Wow. Okay.
A part of me is relieved he’s letting the subject go so easily. Still, a sliver of hurt sticks in my side. He’s letting the subject go … so easily.
Maybe this didn’t mean as much to him as I thought it did.
“Now, forgive me,” he says. “But before we go to bed, I just have to ask. What’s the verdict?”
“On what?”
“On the kiss.” His mouth slopes sideways. “You said you thought kissing me for real might be epic.”
“Oh, that.” I shrug over the ache in my heart. “Definitely epic.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Dex
I kissed Sayla Kroft.
And Sayla Kroft kissed me.
Then she admitted she’d been wanting this for a long time, too.
Too.
In that moment, every thought I’d been hiding in my brain became words leaking into Sayla’s mouth. I was helpless against the tide. I didn’t even want the waves to end. Then her mom called, and everything shifted. No more tide. No more waves.
And now, according to Sayla, we’re just supposed to go back to Stony Peak and get on with our lives as if nothing happened here. But something happened here.
When we showed up to Camp Reboot, Sayla thought of me as the enemy. She’d dug a boundary between us that was roughly the size of the Grand Canyon. And we leaped over it last night.
Then Sayla said stop.
So we stopped.
As much as I trust myself not to cross any lines, I wanted her to know she could trust me, too. I’d never amp up the pressure or take advantage of our shared cabin. That’s not the man I am. So we crawled into bed—our own separate beds—and slept.
Unlike the previous night, I actually did sleep. For hours. Like the dead. The fatigue must’ve finally caught up with me—from all the yoga and the breathing. Some rock climbing and trust falls. An obstacle course after the ropes, then a scavenger hunt, plus a trail hike. The trivia and karaoke. More yoga.
It’s been a journey.
What’s worn me out more deeply, though, all the way to my core, are these feelings I’m growing for Sayla. Not to mention the surge of fear that almost took me down when I thought she was missing. That should’ve been the first clue I’m losing control of my emotions. Luckily, Sayla got so distracted by her mom’s call, she never questioned my outsized reaction.
For that, I’m grateful.
Still, after only a few days of being around her all the time, I find myself wanting to dig below her surface. I’ve already opened up more to her than I have to any other woman. She’s seen my tattoos. I told her about Clarence. I can’t even fathom that lapse in judgment. And then the panic I felt when I thought I’d lost her dragged me twenty years into the past.
I swore I’d never let myself endure something like that again. Loving anyone hard is a risk that comes with pain. Not loving hard is safer.
Simple as that.
Which is why pumping the brakes on whatever’s brewing between Sayla and me is probably the right thing. Responsible. I’ve got to regain some semblance of self-control. Once we leave here, we’ll be driving directly to Stony Peak. Wilford wants us to meet with the faculty to share our revised plans for the visitation. We’ll be diving right back into our old dynamic. Only in reversed roles. Getting a four-year approval from the accreditation committee has to be priority number one.
That alone will take all our focus.
So I rise at dawn and head to the porch to soak up a last moment of peace before we return to reality. On the seat of an Adirondack chair are a pair of manila folders. One’s got a few blank sheets of paper inside and a couple of stamped envelopes addressed to Camp Reboot. In the other folder, there’s a handwritten note from Bob and Hildy.
Dear Dexter and Sailor (HA HA! We still feel bad about that!)
Before reading any further, I peek back into the cabin to check on Sayla. A wild spray of blonde spreads over her pillow, but the rest of her is burrowed under the quilt. I feel a twinge of guilt, like reading their note without her is wrong. But it’s written to both of us, and she’s still asleep.
So yeah. I go ahead.
We just want to thank you both for coming to Camp Reboot this week. Our retreat can only be as good as the guests who show up, and you two sure made the most of our agenda and activities. We saw a lot of effort and growth from both of you in a short period of time. More importantly, we hope you’ll keep growing together after you’re back home.
(Fern hopes so, too!)
Before you came here, your principal asked us to report back on which one of you should receive your school’s grant money. He suggested we base our decision on who we thought would be the better team player and who might be the most flexible during what will certainly be a difficult project.
We talked about it (with Fern, too), and everyone agrees you’re both deserving.
And we plan to tell that to your boss.
Sorry we couldn’t be more helpful on that front. But maybe you’ll still feel like we were helpful in other ways. We think there’s been a positive change in both of you during your time here. Hopefully you will notice positive change, too.
On that note, we’d love for you to write back to us about your Camp Reboot experience. We hang these letters (the good ones, at least) in our office, like wallpaper, as a reminder of why we do what we do here.
To make things easy on you, we’re leaving paper and a couple of self-addressed stamped envelopes. Take your time. Only about half the people who come here write us back, so we’re used to that by now. Lol!
Fondly,
Bob and Hildy
PS: Thank you for understanding why we keep our marriage a secret.
We’ll do the same for you, rest assured. Not that you’re married.
Yet.
Well, look at that. As goofy as Hildy and Bob are, they sure do pay attention. And if they saw real change in both Sayla and me, who am I to disagree? Even Fern thinks we made progress, although I still can’t breathe into my toes.
Heh.
But besides that, they’re right about one thing: I’m not the same man I was when I showed up here Monday morning, and I think Sayla knows that, too. I hope she also sees I wasn’t the enemy she believed me to be in the first place.
At this point, I’ve got nothing more to prove to her and everything to gain from her trusting me going forward. At the very least, we can make sure the SACSS visitation goes smoothly. We owe that to Wilford. He’s a good man with the right intentions for our school. Sure, sending us here felt like a punishment at first, but maybe the guy had some idea of what he was doing after all.
From inside the cabin, water starts running in the bathroom. Then the shower goes on.
Sayla’s up.
I imagine her wild bedhead and her big, sleepy eyes and her kiss-swollen mouth. The picture is way too tempting. And I should give her a last bit of privacy anyway. So I leave the folders from Bob and Hildy on her bed and head out to load up the Buick. We still have the hour-long ride home. We can talk then. In the meantime, I’ve got to stop thinking about kissing her.
Yeah, good luck with that, man.
An hour later, I cast a quick glance at the passenger seat. We’ve been driving for a while now, and Sayla has yet to say a word. She’s busy gnawing on her lip. Picking at her cuticles. So I return my focus to the road. I happen to know it’s easier to talk about hard things without making eye contact. My mom and dad used that tactic on us kids all the time.
Get us in the car. Get us talking.
“You all right?” I ask.
She shifts in her seat, and I can feel her eyes boring into me. “I was just thinking about Bob and Hildy’s note,” she says. “Do you really think they won’t say anything to Wilford about us … being a couple?”
“I think they’ve got a vested interest in keeping quiet,” I say. “Plus I think they genuinely liked us. Then there’s the fact that we aren’t. A couple, I mean.”
“Exactly.” From my peripheral vision, I can tell she’s nodding. “Not a couple.”
“If I’m being honest, though”—I hitch my shoulders—“I don’t really care what anyone else thinks about us. Or about me. As long as I know the truth.”
“Yeah, same,” she says. More nodding. “I don’t care what other people think about me either.”
“Heh.” I let out an amused breath.
“What?”
“I can’t believe you just said that with a straight face.” I eye her sideways. “You care about other people’s opinions more than anyone else I’ve ever met.”
“You really think so?” Her brow creases. “Wait. I just proved your point, didn’t I?”
“That’s not a bad thing,” I tell her. “I like that about you.”
She sighs. “Stop.”
“Stop what?”
“Being overly nice to me,” she says. “Things are going to be complicated enough when we get back to school, with the role change and the SACSS visitation.” Her voice gets quiet. “And the whole FRIG situation.”
“Yeah, see, that’s the thing. I don’t think the FRIG situation has to be complicated.”
“Ha!” Guess it’s her time to be amused. “Well, you’re wrong.”
“We’re both adults, Sayla. We presented our best arguments to Wilford weeks ago. Bob and Hildy didn't exactly weigh in with a definitive answer. So maybe it’s time to let the chips fall where they may. He’s going to pick one of us. That’s a fact. And whoever wins will get to move forward with their plans, and the other one will just have to get over it.”
“Easier said than done.”
“Not if we don’t make it hard.”
Her shoulders hunch. “It’s just that the theater is in way worse condition than the gym.” She releases a long sigh. “Your whole department’s in better shape. Your booster club fundraises more. You have higher ticket sales. And you earn money from the concession stand. So if you also end up with the FRIG, too, I’m not sure I could … just get over it.”
I bob my head, hating the sadness in her voice. The last thing I want is for her to feel resigned to disaster. “I’d understand if you couldn’t forgive me at first. And I’d just hope maybe you would someday.”
“What if my side gets the money?” she asks. “Have you thought about that?”
“Of course I have,” I say. “If we can’t renovate the gym or any of our playing fields by next fall, Stony Peak’s teams will definitely suffer. We may lose a coach or two. Players want the best facilities. Coaches want the best players. But we’ll survive. We always do.”
Sayla squirms. “That option doesn’t sound good to me, Dex.”
“Yeah. Me either.”
“It’s not even about winning anymore,” she says. “I don’t want either of us to lose.”
“Same.” My voice is gravel. “But we can’t split the money. That’s part of the conditions of the grant. And the truth is, half the lump sum wouldn’t do justice to either of our projects. We’d just be slapping Band-Aids on gushing wounds that need surgery.”
“Speaking of which.” She digs in her bag for a bandage to wrap around her thumb, and my heart aches at the outward evidence of the anxiety on her insides. I just want to take the stress away from her, but I can’t. When she’s done, she looks over at me again. “So what do we do now?”
I think for a moment. Shrug. There really is no easy answer. “I guess we hold our breath, hope for the best, and agree to accept the outcome no matter what happens. Or …” I let my sentence trail off.
“Or what?”
“Or one of us could defer to the other.”
Sayla’s upper body goes ramrod straight, like she’s wearing a coat hanger under her sweatshirt. “Please tell me that wasn’t your goal all along.”
