Arrogant Devil(44)

“Not a very long walk,” he notes, oblivious to the fact that my mouth is open and there is drool dribbling onto the floor at my feet.

I’ve forgotten my agenda, my name, the year. The president? What’s a president?

He stops what he’s doing and turns to look at me. The profile—which was already killing me—changes to the full-frontal view, and I’m hit with the realization that I was married to Andrew for five years and never once felt weak in the knees like I do now, but that can’t be right. Maybe I’m just exhausted from my walk—all four minutes of it.

“Meredith?”

“You got a haircut.” I sound like English is my second language.

“Yeah.”

“You look different.” I’m a three-year-old, stringing beginner words together to form my first sentence.

His brow arches and he shakes his head. “What’s up with you?”

I force my attention to something else and my gaze lands on the air conditioner. Box thing make cold? Very brr-brr-freezy-freezy?

Oh, right.

I have a purpose for rushing back here, and it’s not to swoon.

“I don’t want you to do any repairs in the shack,” I declare confidently. “I do appreciate the thought.”

“Thanks boss,” he retorts sarcastically, “but last time I checked, I don’t need your permission to work on my own property.”

Then he turns and gets back to work.

I pinch my eyes closed for a second. It’s so hard to be nice to a dick. “No, I just mean…you’re not doing them on my account, right?”

There’s no pause before he replies, “Right.”

I step forward, trying to angle myself so I can see his expression. Spoiler: it’s not happy.

“So you’d be willing to go on record that you’ve been wanting to fix the place up for a while?”

“Uhh…sure?”

I exhale.

“Okay, because it’s just that I don’t need you to do anything on my account. I won’t be living here that long.”

“You’re leaving?”

“No, I just mean after payday I should be able to get my own place, get out of your hair.”

I can’t help but notice that, in the confusion over my departure, he looked disappointed rather than jubilant, but he regains his composure in an instant.

He goes back to installing the air conditioner, and I’m left standing there aimlessly. I turn on my heel and then pivot back. I have nowhere to go. I need deodorant and a bra, but I’d die before I put a bra on in front of him.

I try to make myself useful by picking up a wrench off the ground (at least I think that’s what it is). “Err…do you want my help or—”

“Yeah, can you not touch anything?”

I drop it quickly then declare I’m going to take another walk, though it’s the last thing I want to do. I’m still sweaty from the first one.

This time, while I stroll around his property, I think about my conversation with Edith at the diner. She really let it spill about Jack. It’s like she opened up his case file, pushed it toward me, and said, Here, catch up. All those secrets, all those emotions were foisted on me, and now I don’t know what to do with them. Up until yesterday, I saw Jack as two-dimensional. He was an angry, hotheaded cowboy. His main tasks in life included barking orders and wearing tight denim. Given the choice, he wanted me off his property and out of his life. He’d made that abundantly clear, and I was okay with that, but then Edith had to change things. She had to take a man I generally disliked and stuff him full of explanatory emotions.

Up until then, I could almost believe Jack had spontaneously sprouted up from the underworld one day just the way he is: jeans, hair, smoldering gaze. Edith disproved that theory. She turned him into a scared twenty-year-old kid, grieving the loss of his parents and learning to carry the weight of his newfound responsibility with the ranch. Of course he’s angry! Of course he’s stressed and short-tempered! No one’s a happy-go-lucky person after going through an experience like that.

I hate this. I hate Edith for telling me his secrets. We could have gone right on bumping heads and throwing jabs, but it’s not fun anymore. I can’t look at him the same way. I can’t go back into that shack without apologies spilling out of me. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry you had to live through that. Then I’d probably try to offer him a hug, and I know how that would go: he’d shoot his hand out, smack me on the forehead, and stiff-arm me so I’d be left swinging my arms in vain.

Therein lies the problem: just because I know why Jack is the way he is doesn’t mean he’s going to stop being that way. He still wants me off his property and out of his life. He still finds me to be a general nuisance, and I’m pretty sure he still thinks I’m a spoiled brat from California who’s never worked a day in her life. Well, guess what, buddy boy? I’ve worked FIVE DAYS NOW! So ha!

All this…this knowledge about Jack paired with Helen’s warnings about not taking advantage of him has left me feeling like things have to change between us.

I’m just not sure how.



16



Meredith



I start the week with one clear goal: to be the most productive, useful employee Jack has ever had, like if Mary Poppins and Monica Geller had a love child. On Monday, I wake up at the crack of dawn, toss my thin sheet aside, and get to work. I clear everything out of the shack so Jack can have easy access to the floors for his repairs. Then, I make sure to stay out of his way by cleaning, cleaning, cleaning. By the end of the day, the farmhouse is gleaming, and I’m confident Jack could lick any surface and come away with the lemony taste of Pledge on his tongue. Yum!