Page 98 of She Was Made for Me

“Thanks, Scott.” For the first time, I feel a tiny zip of anticipation. Maybe this will be okay. Maybe this will even be good. “I’m glad to be here.”

He motions for me to sit in the chair opposite his desk and Deb leaves, closing the door behind her with a grin. I sink onto the stiff vinyl chair, sipping my coffee while Scott taps away on his keyboard, saying nothing. He’s exactly as I remember him—salt and pepper hair that’s thinning on top, slight paunch threatening his waistband, deep-set grooves on his forehead from hours of frowning at his computer. He can’t be much older than Kyle, but he couldn’t be more different. I try to picture him with a hammer in his hand, or swimming in the lake, and shudder. I don’t see myself falling in love with this guy, and that can only be a good thing.

“Right, we’ve got a lot to do,” Scott says, interrupting my thoughts without looking up from his computer. “We’re already way behind, so the next month will be all hands on deck, yours especially.”

I frown. Exactly how many hands does he think I have?

His gaze shifts to me. “Are you up for the challenge?”

I suppress the sigh that wants to rush from my mouth. I know what this means; late nights, early starts, back to the grind. Back to life the way it was before, whether I want that or not.

Stop it, I scold myself.This is what you’ve worked for. You need to stop thinking about Kyle, about New York, and focus.

I take a deep breath, paint on a bright smile, and nod. “Absolutely. Let’s get to work.”

39

Kyle

The nail gun shoots straight through the pine, securing the board to the wall. I step back and survey my work, waiting to feel a sense of pride or achievement, but I’m still as numb as the day I arrived back in Maine, a month ago.

The first thing I did was call Muriel Murdoch to ask if she still needed the work done on her cabin. I’d recommended Dixie, another contractor I know, but he was busy all summer and Muriel was still waiting, so I jumped at the chance to work on her place, despite my earlier reservations. I knew I needed a really good project to sink my teeth into, so I wouldn’t have time to think about Violet or Rich.

I’ve made good progress on the house, but not such great progress on the other things. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about my friend, about how hurt and betrayed he must feel by my actions. The absence of his regular check-in phone calls asking me to come back to the city only amplifies my guilt. Yet I can’t bring myself to feel regret about any of it. If anything, I regret not fighting harder for Violet.

She’s in my thoughts day and night. I can’t stop replaying the time we spent together. As I’d suspected, everything in my cabin reminds me of her. Part of me wants to burn the place to the ground, much like it seems I did to my life back in New York.

I lower the nail gun and pull my tape measure from my tool belt to measure the length for the next board. It’s after seven and I should pack up and head home for the day, but I can’t stand the thought of going back to my empty cabin. I know I’ll only stare at the ceiling and think of Vi, of the life we almost had together.

I wonder how things are going for her at the new job. If it’s what she wanted, if she’s happy. I hope so, and I sure as shit hope she isn’t doing what I’m doing, working increasingly long hours so she doesn’t have to face how miserable she is. I hope she’s not miserable at all.

I get one more board up, my back protesting at the effort. With a sigh, I realize I need to call it a day or I’ll end up paying for it later. Part of me is ashamed at how easily I’ve slid back into my old habits of over-working to avoid my life, and another part of me just doesn’t fucking care.

After Violet, after the project in New York, after Rich’s parting words… nothing matters. I’ve never felt so broken. Not after doctors told me I was having panic attacks, not after I had to leave my law career and my relationship fell apart, not after running away up here to lick my wounds. Maybe because the life I’d had back then hadn’t made me very happy, on reflection. Not like I felt with Violet, working on the Fruit Street house, waking up beside her every day, walking with her through Brooklyn Heights…

I haul my toolbox into the back of my truck and drop into the driver’s seat. The sky is darker than usual. Summer is almost over and fall is creeping in, but tonight it’s made worse by a cluster of heavy rain clouds blotting out any remaining light.

I force myself to start the truck and put it in gear before slowly, numbly, peeling out and heading to the cabin. The entire drive I’m on autopilot and it’s not until I’m climbing the stairs to the screened-in porch that I realize I’ve driven home.

That can’t be good.

Inside, I kick off my work boots and reach for my phone, absently ordering a pizza. Then I clutch my phone tightly, staring at the screen.

I want to call her. I want to hear her voice, to tell her how much I miss her, that I think we made a mistake, but I haven’t heard a word from her since it ended, and it doesn’t seem fair to reach out to her now. Not when she’s on the other side of the country, in a new job, getting on with her life.

Not when Rich told me never to speak to her again.

I’m trying to respect them both, respect what they’ve asked for, but it’s not easy. I wonder if Rich has shared it with Di, if he’s confronted Violet about it, if she’s told him what happened between us—the truth of how it went down—or if he’s kept our argument to himself.

I shake my head at myself, dropping my phone and reaching for a bottle of water from the fridge.

Every day. Same damn thought loop, every day. I know it’s not helping, ruminating like this. I’ve tried to use some of the skills I learned in therapy to help with compulsive thoughts, but they’re not working. It’s not just in my head. It’s the gut-deep, heart-wrenching feeling of losing the woman I love. The best friend I’ve ever had.

My phone buzzes on the counter and my pulse leaps as I reach for it. I never get texts, but that doesn’t stop me from checking my phone around the clock.

Just in case. In case she’s reached out.

The text is an automated reply from the pizza place telling me my order is on the way, and as I set down my phone, sadness threatens to engulf me. My throat grows tight and I take a long chug of my water, wishing it were something stronger.

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