Frayed (Connections, #4)(73)

I stand up. “I’m still not feeling well, so if you don’t mind I’m going to take care of these issues from home.”

He nods. “That’s fine.”

I walk out of his office on trembling legs and go to my desk, collect my things, and make my way to the door. As I step out onto the sidewalk I realize I never said good-bye to Josie. I didn’t even notice if she was at her desk.

? ? ?

My grandmother loved to go places but hated to drive. She didn’t think it an extravagance that she had a driver take her where she wanted to go, and neither did any of us. My grandfather used to joke that she was like Driving Miss Daisy. I own that movie now and watch it whenever I want to be close to her. I stop it and rewind before it gets to the sad part, though. I don’t like sad. My grandmother had her license and she could drive; she just chose not to. She told me she liked to ride in the car and look out the window—that was why. In fact, the only time I remember her being behind the wheel was the night my father killed himself. She came to pick up River and me, but I didn’t know why at the time. It wasn’t until much later that night that my mother and brothers told me my father was dead. I blamed myself, Xander blamed himself, we all blamed ourselves for our fractured family, but we stayed close, maybe even closer because of what had happened.

My father’s death made River and Xander stronger but not me. Somewhere along the way I let everyone shelter me, coddle me even—after all, I was the baby of the family, the younger sister to two older brothers, the girl who couldn’t make her daddy happy when all he wanted was for her to play the guitar, and the young woman who got pregnant and who lost her direction at the same time. I might look like my grandmother—the red hair, the shorter stature, the curvy form—but unlike my grandmother who loved to go places and found an alternative way to get to them, I’m struggling finding my own alternative way in life.

I want so much to find that elusive direction in my life that I’m determined to make this job work even though it doesn’t. It isn’t just Tate either, it’s me too—I just don’t love it the way I wanted to. But Tate’s hot-and-cold demeanor isn’t helping at all. And now it’s Friday and the workweek isn’t even over. I have to work with him all day tomorrow. The thought makes me want to crawl back into bed. It’s been exhausting trying to push what happened with Ben aside and concentrate on work, so much so I’ve ended up sleeping most of the week when I wasn’t at work.

And just as draining has been my avoidance of my family. They’ll know immediately something isn’t right when they see me, and I don’t want to discuss what happened with Ben right now. So every time one of them calls I blurt out a reason I have to rush off the phone. With my mother and Jack in New York City, avoiding them has been easy. My brothers too. But Dahlia saw through it all when she called me last night and I couldn’t help myself—I broke down and told her a little bit about Ben—just that I had seen him and it didn’t go well. I left it vague and she didn’t pry. I thought it would be awkward, but it wasn’t. As usual she listened and gave support.

Peeking through the blinds this morning, I see it’s later than I usually get up, but I’m not sure of the exact time. I unplugged my clock because time was moving too slow. I roll out of bed and relocate to the couch. The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn draws my attention and I decide to read a little bit more. I’ve become obsessed with the boy who isn’t thrilled with his new life of cleanliness, manners, church, and school. The boy whose life on the straight and narrow isn’t necessarily for him but who sticks it out for his friend. It makes me wonder if Ben somehow relates to this character and that’s why he loves the book so much. More than anything I wish I could ask him.

A light knock on my door tears me from my thoughts, but I opt to pretend I’m not home. When the knocking turns into pounding and a familiar voice carries through the door, I can’t ignore it any longer.

“Bell, it’s me, Dahlia. I know you’re home. I saw your car in the parking lot.”

“Coming,” I call as I shuffle toward her. Turning the lock, I pull it open and see Dahlia’s shining face.

Her eyes sweep me from head to toe. “Hi, are you just getting up?” She sounds concerned. She pushes past me with a tray of coffees in one hand and a white pastry bag in the other. I step aside and cross my arms as she heads for the kitchen with determination. Today I can tell by the look on her face she’s on a mission and I’m having a hard time seeing the beauty that’s usually the first thing I notice about her.

I follow her. “Hi yourself. What brings you here on a workday?”

She sets the cups and bag on the counter and pulls out a coffee, squinting to read the side. “Do I need a reason to visit?”

I eye her suspiciously. “No, I guess not.” Although I know why she’s here.

“Well, I’m going to meet Aerie for lunch and I thought . . .” She pauses, handing me a cup. “Here, this one is yours. Extra cream and sugar.”

I smile and remove the lid. Happy to have this delicious treat in my hands, I slurp down a big gulp. “Ow . . . that’s hot.”

She laughs. “It’s coffee, Bell. Of course it’s hot. You’re supposed to sip it, not chug it.”

“I know but usually the cream makes it cold.”