The Plan (Off-Limits Romance, #4)(20)

Marley stares at me with her wet eyes. She laughs. “This isn’t what I thought you’d say.”

“It doesn’t matter now,” I tell her, feeling brave, “but just for honesty, I was in love with you since freshman year, Mr. Smiley’s class. I wasn’t that drunk either, that night on the trip. Actor,” I say, holding up a hand.

I watch the shock play over her face. “Really?”

I nod.

“You have been in movies,” she says in a breathless, giddy tone. “You weren’t wasted?”

“I was just as unmoored as you, if not more. I was working on a drinking problem that whole school year. You drew the short straw, getting hitched to me. I wasn’t capable of taking care of anyone back then.”

In one heartbeat, her whole face changes. Her mouth pulls into an “o” and her eyes fill with pain. “But Gabe, that means…” She shakes her head. “If you were an alcoholic, that means I left you—”

“Drunk,” I say. “You left me drunk. Just like you should have.”

Before she can give me more, I lift a hand and make my exit.





Part Two





“They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered.”



–F. Scott Fitzgerald





1





Gabe





It’s been five days since I broke a twelve-year-old tradition. Instead of waking up and running, I wake up do the yoga video my buddy sent. Or, in the case of this sunny, Thursday morning, hop onto the second-hand bicycle I bought the other day and pedal to the bakery on Main Street. I bike home with my prize and polish off three strawberry crullers in the front parlor.

Cora paces a circle on the rug, shooting me a confused, resentful look.

“We’ll run in a little while, girl.”

While I wait for noon to come, I read the cards I had put off and send some thank-you emails from a desk in the piano room. I ignore forty-something Facebook messages and dozens of emails from friends and readers, no doubt reacting to the Page Six story. With gritted teeth, I answer an email I’ve been ignoring since Tuesday: the one from my personal assistant, Wills.

‘I can’t believe you didn’t tell me, mate. Anything I can do?’

I set him deleting condolence messages from my social media accounts.

Then I sit back and listen—to the ceiling. Marley usually works from eight to six, but earlier, before I went out to grab breakfast, I was pretty sure I heard her up there. Nothing now. I wonder if she’s at home sick. Little kids will do that to you.

At that thought, I feel sick myself. I redirect my thoughts by going into the bedroom I’m using as my weight room. It doesn’t matter what Marley’s doing, I remind myself. That’s why I switched my run time so it doesn’t coincide with hers. She and I exchanged some kinder words that night I helped her up the stairs, but things between us are no different than they were before.

We aren’t friendly neighbors. We aren’t friends or lovers. For the duration of the time we’re both living here—which I hope will be brief—I need to avoid her. No more Mr. Asshole, but I can’t be Mr. Nice Guy again, either.

I do my work out, tighten a loose doorknob in the formal dining room, and wander upstairs to my writing room while I wait for the call. I’ve got big news coming, I hope. Maybe good news. I’m not much for praying, but I send one up as I scroll through my work in progress. It’s not very good so far, but I can make it better. I just need to focus. Who could do that while they wait on something like this?

After a few times checking my inbox for an email from my lawyers, followed by a gut-twisting peek inside my “From Hugh” folder, I trudge downstairs, stretch in the hallway, and then pull on a pair of shades. I can’t disguise myself fully, but the shades do seem to help. I’ve cut down on the looks of recognition I get on the street almost entirely. So far, no in-person condolences, and no Fate Tribune write-ups.

I’m descending the front porch stairs, Cora bounding on my heels, when I look up and there is Marley.

Marley on the sidewalk with her hair around her shoulders, the hot pink tips fluttering slightly in the wind. Marley in a yellow polka dot dress, holding a giant pumpkin up against her belly. As she struggles with it, sunlight glints off her lime green glasses.

Her gaze swings up, and when it widens at the sight of me, she drops the pumpkin and it cracks against the sidewalk. Pumpkin guts go everywhere, and Marley wails.

“Oh, no! Pete!” She drops to her knees, her spread hand hovering over the pumpkin’s stringy, orange guts. “Aw, dammit!”

I can’t help the chuckle I try to suppress.

“Shuddup.” She shoots me a baleful glare. “This is your fault, McKellan.”

I laugh, despite myself. “How do you figure?”

“You distracted me.”

I take a few steps down the front walk, putting me closer to her. “Did I?”

With a glance at me, Cora prances over and begins to lick the pumpkin from the sidewalk.

“Ooooh.” Marley rubs her head. “Hey, pretty. What’s your name? Oh my…you are a pretty baby…” She scratches Cora’s neck, and Cora’s tail goes haywire.