Ginger's Heart (A Modern Fairytale, #3)(82)

Cain gave him a look. “God forbid anyone upset the princess.”

“Can you just call her Ginger?”

“Ginger and I aren’t exactly besties,” answered Cain.

Woodman was losing his patience. “What just happened between y’all?”

Cain paused for a moment, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth before looking down at the floor in disgust. “Nothin’. Just dredgin’ up old stuff from a million years ago.”

“Homecomin’?”

Cain shrugged. “Sure. Shit like that.” He looked around the lobby. “You, uh, you got a mop? I’ll clean up this f*ckin’ mess, and you can go after her.”

“Thanks. Over there.” Woodman pointed to the supply closet in the corner of the room. He started for the doors then turned back around. “Cain . . . ”

Cain looked up, his eyes troubled, his voice stern. “Just stop. Don’t go diggin’ around, Josiah. Ain’t no treasure to be found.”

Woodman furrowed his brows, taking in Cain’s defensive stance and squared-off jaw.

“I was just goin’ to say it’s good to have you back.”

“Oh,” said Cain, looking sheepish. “Yeah. Thanks. It’s good to be, uh, good to be home.”

***

Whatever had happened between Ginger and Cain, thought Woodman as he walked quickly down the sidewalk, toward his house, it seemed like a little more than a simple dredging up of high school grievances.

First of all, Ginger hadn’t raised her voice above a polite “yes, ma’am,” “no, ma’am,” and “that’s fine” in months, but when he approached the lobby, he could see them clearly through the glass doors, toe to toe and spitting mad. And again, it didn’t seem like their conversation was about something from a million years ago. It seemed current. It felt alive. The air fairly crackled with immediacy, with fury and frustration, when he interrupted them.

Second of all, Ginger McHuid, who’d been the perfect picture of a young Southern lady since their engagement, had just tossed her cookies on the lobby floor of the Apply Valley Fire Department. Good God, he’d never seen anything like it. And he had to believe that something fiercely upsetting was the genesis of such a reaction.

And third of all, as Cain had pointed out, the vomit was primarily beer. No, all beer. And more than one.

He saw her up ahead, walking fast, head down, and he sped up as much as his ankle would allow to catch up with her. His foot, already compromised by yesterday’s dancing lesson, throbbed in his orthopedic sneakers, but he needed to talk to her. He needed to understand what was going on, so he pushed himself to move faster.

As he caught up, he grabbed her arm. “Slow down.”

“Let go,” she growled, shaking him off, continuing her breakneck pace.

“I can’t keep up. Slow down, Gin. Now!”

She stopped midstep, turned, and looked up at him. Her eyes were full of tears, her cheeks slick, and she had a wet stain on the front of her melon-colored T-shirt.

“What the heck’s gotten into you?” Woodman asked. “You barely ever drink.”

“I can drink if I want,” she said, glancing down at the stain of puke, then crossing her arms over it.

“Never said you couldn’t, but I’m goin’ to notice it when it’s somethin’ you don’t normally do, baby.”

Her eyes welled a little more, and she swiped at her cheeks. “Can we please not talk about it? I’m dyin’ from humiliation as it is.”

He took her hand gently, weaving his fingers through hers.

“No, Gin,” he said. “I think we need to talk about it.”

“Woodman,” she sighed, looking down at the sidewalk. “Please.”

“You two were screamin’ at each other when I walked in. What the heck were y’all so worked up about?”

A small sobbing sound escaped from her throat so her voice was thin when she answered, “Like Cain said . . . we were just catchin’ up.”

Woodman started walking again, this time at a slower pace, though his ankle protested with each step.

“That wasn’t catchin’ up. Don’t lie to me.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she sobbed, walking beside him.

“Baby,” said Woodman as his heart clenched with a huge and growing worry, “we talk to each other. That’s what we do. We don’t lie to each other. We may not have the most romantic relationship in the world, but I know how much our friendship means to both of us. It’s solid. It’s true. I can’t think of anythin’—not one thing—in my life that I couldn’t talk about with you. Why can’t you—”

She stopped walking and squeezed his hand, and he paused midsentence, looking back at her curiously. “Gin?”

“We could be more romantic,” she whispered. They were stopped in front of the white picket fence that surrounded Woodman’s house. Ginger looked at it, then back at him. “Make love to me? Right now?”

He’d imagined her saying these words to him a million times. Every morning. Every night. Every time he saw her. And he’d always imagined that when she did, they’d finally be in a place in their relationship where their love for each other—their romantic love—had been fully realized.