2 Months 'Til Mrs. (2 'Til Series) Page 4

  She felt her intestines twisting inside, a squirrelly feeling of certain dread. What if Fynn had been her last chance at the happily ever after that she wanted? What if he had taken her words completely seriously and right at this moment was already trying out his new, unattached status—updating it on Facebook even. But of course he didn’t have a Facebook page. Couldn’t care less about social networking. Didn’t like people in his business. She had broken through that crusty exterior and earned full admission to Fynn-ville, as she had coined it during a particularly over-indulgent night. There was something sexy about being the only one allowed inside a man’s head and heart and life…. Well, there was Cara, but she was just a little girl, not competition… and his love and care for her made him even more attractive to Catherine. And then there was Drew, his sister—no competition there. The ghosts of girlfriends’ past didn’t haunt Fynn. He gave his heart carefully and she had been honored to receive it… up until the day she stomped on it and handed it back…. It seemed like weeks, not hours ago.

  Maybe their time together had changed him. Before she came along he had been single for over a year—content, was how he put it. Now he acted like going five days without sex was borderline impossible, mauling her the moment they were alone each weekend. Right about now he was probably aching to get his rocks off, and it was New Year’s Eve—even Nekoyah probably had its share of revelers who were loose and easy and all too willing to give Fynn a little somethin’-somethin’ to do—

  Can I claim insanity? Say I was loopy on Nyquil? Take it all back?

  “Boo!”

  Catherine jumped as Connor came up from behind and poked her side, sloshing her scotch dangerously.

  “Watch it!” she whined, putting a second hand on her glass, her heart still thumping wildly.

  “Touchy. What? Pining for your girlfriend?” he taunted. “Or do you have a bad case of penis envy?”

  Catherine groaned. “Aunt Judy?”

  Connor nodded.

  “That woman doesn’t waste a moment. Has Mom heard the news yet?”

  “Has she come bursting out of the kitchen wringing her dishtowel yet?”

  “No.”

  “Then my guess is so far she’s been spared the circulating story of her daughter’s sexuality,” he said grimly.

  “Family is far more trouble than it’s worth,” Catherine groused.

  “Aw, you don’t mean that, sis. You know I love you for who you are. Gay, straight, confused—whatever. You just say the word and I’ll take her out.”

  She cracked a smile but it disappeared quickly again. Fynn was the only one who could truly make everything better right now.

  “You look like you lost your best friend.” Connor eyed her carefully and she was shocked by the strength of his resemblance to their dad, right down to the perfect concerned-father look on his face. She could imagine him using it to solve all of Niki’s problems as she grew up.

  “I feel like it,” she admitted.

  “The flights aren’t permanently grounded. You can fly out tomorrow.”

  Catherine took a sip of her drink to swallow the words that threatened to burst forth.

  “I hope you’re staying here tonight, though, seeing as how you’re putting a hurt on that bottle of scotch.”

  “Funny.”

  “I’m totally serious,” he warned, as if he was the older and wiser of siblings—well, wiser maybe. “Really, what’s with you tonight? You seem strange.”

  “Nothing,” she grumbled, her voice echoing in her glass as she took a sip, shuddering as it went down hard, fighting her all the way.

  “Wait… don’t tell me…. You aren’t here because of the weather, are you?”

  “Of course I am.”

  “So if you could fly out this minute, you would be on your way to see Fynn?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” She took another sip, not trusting herself with actual words.

  “Then let’s call the airport. Maybe you can go out of Newark or Philly instead. Maybe it’s only New York that’s grounded—”

  “I’m pretty sure the problem is on the other end,” she eked out.

  “No, I think the problem is right here in Chesterton,” Connor said, his eyes burning a hole through her. He’d always been able to tell when she was up to no good. Obviously some things didn’t change.

  “You think you know everything. That’s why no one ever liked you growing up,” she spat messily, feeling tipsy after just a few sips.

  “You broke it off with him, didn’t you?”

  “Why would I do that?” Her voice pitched in shocked indignation.

  “You got scared and dumped him.”

  “Scared of what?” she challenged.

  “You tell me,” he said, satisfied that her engaging him was all the proof he needed.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But her heart was in her throat. She poured scotch on it, scorching it—felt it fall back down in place with a thud.

  “You’re self-destructive. Always have been. You don’t give a guy—good, bad, or ugly—a chance in hell.”

  “That’s not true!”

  “You don’t let anyone love you.”

  Her mouth dropped open, but she had no response. Her friends had said as much before, but she chalked it up to them being girls, who admittedly had little to no idea what men thought. To have her brother—more or less a man—say the same thing?

  -6-

  Catherine simmered alone in the soft light from the twinkling Christmas tree. It was almost peaceful for the first time all night. Most of the guests were either in the dining room picking at the desserts, or in the living room mingling, or some were even on their way home before the big moment happened—that’s what you get when you invite old people to New Year’s Eve.

  She looked at the ornaments on the tree and the empty space underneath it that was no longer hopefully empty, awaiting Santa’s gifts, but now simply bereft. Nothing was to come but a trip to the wood chipper and Catherine suddenly realized that her mother was right... it was sad to keep a tree up past its prime. Christmas was over. Why the hell have the tree up for the New Year where it would carry the juju from one year into the next? Maybe the same could be said about her relationship with Fynn. If it was inevitably going to be a thing of the past anyway, certainly it was better that she’d broken it off today rather than dragging it through its death knell into a fresh new day, month, and year that should hold promise rather than the carcass of a relationship built on a foundation of crazy circumstances. Who had they been fooling trying to span miles and time zones and reality?

  It’s not like they’d ever hammered out the details of their whole “thing”. She had been flying by the seat of her pants for eight months, on a wing and a prayer—literally. And if she was to be completely honest with herself, the whole situation didn’t sit well with her Monday through Thursday—that was more than half the week—every week! Hardly a promising relationship that was going places….

  On Monday it was gloom that met her in the morning and shadowed her the entire day as she realized she would be Fynn-less for another work week. It was enough to get out of bed and slog through the day, let alone be truly productive. Then Tuesday there was that growing certainty (some would call it dread) that her whole relationship was just a hopeless fling, something she could have for much cheaper and a whole lot less jet lag at any bar in the city. By Tuesday afternoon, more often than not, she was doing a mental checklist of pros and cons regarding the Fynn-ish situation, always ending up with the blaring truth before her: rather than gaining a boyfriend she had gained a double life—a nine-to-fiver in NYC and a stranger-in-a-strange-land in Nekoyah. On the other hand, there was that whole love thing…. By Wednesday she would find herself considering medication for depression and anxiety… and heartache. And Thursday she would be jonesing so bad to see him again that it took all her energy and strength just to remain still through work and not run pell-mell for the nearest bridge to end the wait
ing for the weekend. By that point there was no reasoning with herself about what worked and what didn’t; she just wanted his arms around her and his lips upon her skin whether it be in Nekoyah or Timbuktu, whatever it took. It was a regular hurl-your-guts roller coaster ride to Friday…. Ah, Friday… waking up with that swelling in her heart, blood rushing to regions untouched in too many days’ time, zipping through the day with a lightness of being—hopeful and excitable. And every single time she stepped out of the airport in Minneapolis, he would be there waiting, leaning against the side of his truck in a pair of worn jeans, Magnus’s happy head hanging out the rolled down window next to him. It was enough to make her swoon with delight and pent-up sexual energy. It was enough to make her forget the prior four days—which, if she was counting, was more than half of her existence for the past eight months of her life.

  This grounding snowstorm might just be the best thing that ever could have happened to their whirlwind romance. By keeping her out of his force field, she could look at things rationally—a woman knocking on the door of thirty-five needed to dot her i’s and cross her t’s when it came to her relationship status and projected future, especially if that woman aspired to more than old-maidhood. The problem with the last eight months was that her rational frequency got jammed whenever she was near him. Fynn was enough to make her forget her misgivings. Hell, he was enough to make her forget the dictates of the law of gravity or pretty much anything else.

  Suddenly the noise of party revelers began to swell and move, coming toward her. She looked around for a place to hide and noticed the champagne. Dammit! Those bottles of celebratory elixir made the family room the place to be right now. She glanced at the clock on the mantel, the same clock that had always pronounced bedtime now pronounced another grim fact: it was 11:55. Five minutes to a fresh and lonely new start.

  Catherine pulled her phone out of her pocket and checked the screen. No calls. She wondered what Fynn was doing at this very moment. He has another hour until his New Year begins, she reminded herself, and couldn’t help but think how that alone explained the problem in their relationship. Even if they were still a couple, separated only by the weather, she would still be entering the New Year alone. Symbolic, she was certain. Still, it would have been nice if he called. Just because we’re taking some time to be apart, to reassess, doesn’t mean he can’t wish me a Happy New Year. I didn’t say we should have no contact at all. I didn’t even say we shouldn’t see each other. I just put the brakes on. If he cared at all he’d—but he didn’t even fight for what we had! Just said, “If that’s what you want….”

  The room was full now, the entire party condensing into this one space, taking up all the oxygen. They were so happy, handing around plastic flutes of champagne—which probably killed her mother seeing as how she prided herself on all things proper, but certainly her father had put his foot down when it came to buying enough glass flutes to outfit the guests for a single toast.

  11:58

  Oh my God, he isn’t going to call me!

  Maybe he’s too busy to call. Maybe he’s partying it up out there in the middle of nowhere. Maybe I should call him and remind him that I still exist….

  She glanced around the room, watching all the couples gravitating toward each other, wishing she’d thought to call Tara this afternoon and crash whatever party she was going to instead. Certainly it wouldn’t have been a couple-y type of thing. Probably sex, drugs, and rock and roll—enjoying life for the pure fun of it. Sure there might have been some candlewax on a few nipples, too, but anything was better than this grotesque display—

  There was Connor nuzzling Lacey’s neck—yuck!

  And Thomas running a hand through Georgia’s wild mane—eew!

  And her dad stepping into her mom’s path as she busily went about her hostessing, grabbing the dishtowel off her shoulder and laying it aside to incapacitate her, gazing into her eyes lovingly to take in the moment—ick!

  And Old Mrs. Davis giggling like a schoolgirl as her even older husband whispered in her ear—ugh!

  Even Uncle Al and Aunt Judy in the middle of a pre-New-Year kiss—gag!

  Everyone was coupled—except Uncle Dick… and her.

  Obviously she was hanging with the wrong crowd. Tara was single; she reveled in it! She wouldn’t throw her perfect husband and baby and life in her friend’s face at every turn. Catherine put it in her mind that she needed to nurture their friendship now that she was single again and her other “friend” had her new BFFs—all those mother-types like Lacey who Georgia swapped recipes and coupons and gooey baby-milestone stories with. In fact, now was a good time to start.

  She picked Tara’s number off the list and held her phone to her ear, waiting expectantly for her new best friend to pick up.

  “It’s New Year’s Eve, Bee-atch—”

  “Glad I caught you,” Catherine rushed out, wanting to share her woes with the one person who wouldn’t judge, seeing as how Tara had no intention of seriously dating or marrying… ever. “You won’t believe—”

  “—if you think I’m going to spend my time talking on the phone you gotta be craz-y. We’ll catch up next year! Ciao!”

  “Mother fu—” Catherine cut off the call and sat looking at the phone, dumbfounded. She hated when people had such lifelike messages that you didn’t realize you were talking to a recording until you were already mid-conversation.

  Now she felt even more alone. Couples were sharing the moment with each other. Singles were living the moment up. And then there were the losers—can I get a holla? She was a total misfit.

  The tensed energy in the room was hard to miss. Did these people really think that everything would be different in thirty seconds’ time? She’d learned the error of that thinking when she was still in single digits. New Year’s was a letdown. Nothing miraculous happened. She wanted to yell, Get a life!

  Catherine reached for the only thing she had left to steady her for the approach of another year, grabbing the locket that hung from the chain around her neck. Its weight was foreign still, shocking her when she moved with its palpable presence. It had only been a week since Fynn had given it to her, picked it out himself and put a picture of her and her little sister inside. Behind her back he had called her mother to get that picture so he could give her a Christmas gift that would honor their love and Josey’s memory. The tiny, tarnished butterfly ring that had been on her chain before was still there, stored safely inside the locket. It was the most touching gift she’d ever received, so meaningful because it was Josey, not a silly toy, that had actually brought her and Fynn together last spring. And now that toy, Caramellie’s sundae house, was with Cara, where it belonged. And the ring was inside the locket, where it belonged. And the locket was around her neck, where it belonged. And she was here, completely out of place.

  “10… 9… 8… 7… 6… 5… 4… 3… 2… 1… Happy New Year!”

  Saturday, January 1st

  -7-

  “Rise and shine!” Elizabeth Hemmings sang out, yanking the shades in the room and startling Catherine to attention.

  Oh my God, I overslept! I’m late for school! Did I do my homework? What the—

  But she wasn’t a teenager anymore; she was a grown woman. A grown woman with a hangover and a perpetually busy, alert, and high-functioning mother. She groaned, closing her eyes on the room that was only sort of her childhood room. The same furniture occupied it, but her teenage-girl personality had been stripped from the space long ago.

  “I can’t believe you slept like that,” her mother chided.

  She was still wearing the clothes from the party and lying crossways on the bed, atop the comforter—shamefully.

  “It’s nine o’clock. The day is wasting. There is plenty of time for sleeping when you’re dead,” Elizabeth noted, tidying and straightening an already tidy and straightened space. The only things out of place were Catherine’s clothes she’d worn here last night. “Are these dirty?” She picked up the pants and t
op, sniffing at them as only a mother would sniff someone else’s clothes.

  “I don’t know,” Catherine moaned, feeling the weight of her scotch decision in her head like she had sprouted an anvil tumor overnight.

  “What is this?” Her mother scratched at a darkened splotch on the sweatshirt, touching the questionable stain with a scientist’s inquisitive nature.

  “I don’t know,” Catherine said without even venturing a look.

  “I think it’s ketchup,” Elizabeth said plainly. “Did you have ketchup, Catherine?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “This is not a hard question,” her mother challenged. “I need to know what the stain is in order to treat it properly.” Elizabeth Hemmings took great pride in her laundry, treating all clothing items—dirty or clean—with the utmost respect. Everything was folded on the way into the hamper and then again after washing on the way into the laundry basket. All stains were pretreated. Bleach was used in calculated doses. Fabric softener was used or withheld with precision. Ironing was more than a chore; it was a passion. Her family had the cleanest, crispest, most perfect laundry on the block. Her skills were the envy of her church group.

  “Ugh—I had some fries in the car on the way down,” she admitted begrudgingly. “I guess I might have dropped ketchup on my shirt.”

  “It’s bad enough to eat while driving, but dipping and driving?” Elizabeth held the dirty laundry to her chest like she was faint at heart.

  “I put the ketchup on the fries, Mother.”

  “I should hope so. Although you should really stop to eat…. Not that you should be eating french fries right before dinner anyway. You could have spoiled your whole meal.”

  Catherine rolled her eyes and felt the shooting pain in her head in response. Obviously scotch impaired the exasperation reflexes.

  “Well, get up and make yourself presentable. I’m doing a load of laundry. I’ll add yours to the pile.” She folded the shirt and pants and then sniffed at the dishtowel on her shoulder, her face twisting in displeasure. She folded it too and added it to the perfect pile of dirties.