Rusty Nailed (Cocktail, #2)(80)

And so we did.

I let every pickle fly, but without the yelling. It’s so much easier to talk when there’s no yelling.

It’s also easier to talk when you’re being brutally honest. And he was too, which I appreciated.

“I can’t believe you thought I was quitting my job. I could never stop doing what I do,” he said.

“But you canceled all those trips.”

“Yeah. But I was always going to head back out on the road.”

“But after the reunion, you—”

“You need to understand something. Going back east clarified some things for me, in a good way. I want a home again, and I want a family someday. That’s not going to change. And for the record, I’d never have a discussion with Ruth about something like that without first talking about it with you,” he said, taking my hand. “There’s a lot of things we probably should have discussed before we jumped into this house thing. I just got excited, I suppose. It’s something I’ve missed for a long time.”

“I got excited too. And I love the house, don’t get me wrong. There are just all these expectations that come with a step like this, and I guess I just got overwhelmed. I knew how much this meant to you, how big a deal this was for you. I just didn’t know if I could measure up to what you wanted.”

“I ran away from my past for years because it was too hard for me to deal with. Now I’m letting some of the good stuff back in. But the really good stuff is all with you, babe. The rest of it is just a pile of bricks. You want to get rid of the house? Done. You want to live in a hut on the beach in Bali? Done.”

“I think I said get laid on a beach in Brazil —”

“Done,” he breathed, his eyes dancing.

I looked at him, my dream boyfriend.

“I love that house. We’re not getting rid of the house,” I said, and leaned in. “And I do want a nursery—just not now. Is that okay?” I asked, suddenly very very serious. Jesus, this was big-time stuff.

“It’s more than okay. Who said anything about now, anyway?”

When I started to answer, he squeezed my hand and whispered, “Please don’t drag poor Ruth back into this.”

“I owe her an apology.”

“Probably.”

“And I owe you an apology.”

“For what?”

“For not trusting you enough to tell you what was going on. I should have. I just didn’t want to ruin things. Who could complain when things look so perfect?”

“Better to complain than have a fight in a parking lot in the rain, don’t you think?”

He had me there.

“I owe you an apology,” he said, his brow wrinkling. “You were right, I should have fixed that window.”

“Simon, no. I was mad and I never should have said—”

“No, it’s my fault. But I’m going to find him, I promise.” I nodded, my eyes full again. “C’mere.”

I went around to his side of the booth and let him pull me onto his lap. He held me tight, and I kissed him. And then we left to go find our cat.

? ? ?

The next morning we called the Humane Society, the ASPCA, our vet in the city, and even the pet hotel. The word was out. My cat was lost.

Team Clive was out in force all day, traipsing all over the town. We talked to neighbors, made sure everyone knew whom to call if they caught sight of him.

Simon and I walked together as we searched on until dark, holding hands and flashlights and calling his name until we were hoarse. It wasn’t the only reason my voice was hoarse; I couldn’t stop crying. I tried not to let Simon see, because never had a man felt more terrible about forgetting to fix a window. And when he saw my sadness, it made it worse for him. So I limited my tears to gas station bathrooms and kneeling down to pretend to tie a shoelace over and over again. Stolen moments of panic to keep a strong face. We’d find him. Of course we’d find him.

But then it was the second day. And the third day. Then a week. I spent my nights lying awake listening for the click click click of that stupid hangnail, which would mean this was all just a silly nightmare and I’d wake up with Clive curled into my side. I’d listen for an angry caterwaul by the back door that was saying, “Hey, lady, you weren’t dreaming. I really did run away, but I’m home now, so let me the hell in—it’s freezing out here!”

I watched as the flyers got weatherworn and tattered. We put up new ones. And they got old too.

The worst part was that I kept imagining the worst possible outcomes; it was like my brain was trying to decide what it could handle by showing me phantom glimpses of what might have happened. To see if I could handle it, I suppose.

Clive cold and wet and trying to figure out how to get into a trash can to find something to eat.

Clive approaching a stranger and being chased away with a broom.

Clive flattened out underneath a tree while being circled by two or three other cats. He had no front claws to defend himself with; he was a pampered house cat that slept on a pillow and was served catnip on demand.

I was back at work; I had to. Because being busy helped; because I loved my job; and because the Claremont was finally ready to launch.

The house was really starting to take shape, and things with Simon and me were as well. We talked more than we had before—not just about the silly day-to-day things that made us laugh, but about the real things too. We cleared off more and more of our mental shelving, talking about what really matters and what kind of a life we wanted for ourselves. Don’t get me wrong, there was plenty of the laughing and the sexy, because that’s who we were. But we were evolving. Imagine that.