Page 67 of Anchored

The woman at the check-in desk at Dock & Dine shows me to my table right away, a private one in the far corner with a leafy plant that blocks most of the view of the rest of the restaurant. A candle dances in the middle of the linen-clothed table, adding to the romantic setting.

I’m ten minutes early, but she assures me she’ll send Holt right back as soon as he arrives. I sip a glass of ice water and touch up my lip gloss. The waiter comes by and I order a bottle of white wine for the table. He’s back quickly, opening it and letting me taste it. Of course it’s fine. I wouldn’t know a bad bottle of wine from a good one. That’s Dad and Toby’s thing, not mine.

Fifteen minutes after Holt was supposed to be here, I’m already feeling tipsy from nervous-drinking the entire glass of wine and the waiter is back with a bread basket. I take it gratefully, needing something in my stomach to soak up the wine. I skipped lunch in anticipation of our dinner date. All the excitement of earlier today, getting ready for this date with Holt, seeps out of me with each tick of the clock.

The feeling in the pit of my stomach is all too familiar. That gut punch that comes when you realize the person you’ve made a priority doesn’t make you their priority. I’ve never felt that with Holt and it takes the breath out of my lungs to think that maybe I just hadn’t given him enough time to disappoint me. Then I feel like an asshole for being upset when he probably just got caught up at Sunny Shores.

I pull out my phone, more dread filling my stomach when I see he hasn’t texted me. So I text him instead.

Me: Did I get the time wrong? I’m at Dock & Dine.

No three little dots pop up, so I know he hasn’t seen the text yet. I refill my wineglass and touch the screen when it threatens to time out and go dark. I beg the universe to bring Holt to me so I don’t get my heart broken all over again, but the universe must be busy.

It’s officially been thirty minutes past our reservation when the waiter appears again, tugging at his collar and looking apologetic. “Can I get you anything else while you wait? An appetizer, perhaps?”

I’m embarrassed. Hurt. Confused. And a little worried that maybe something has happened to Holt. “I think I better just take the check.”

He winces but nods, dashing away from the sad woman who just got stood up. He comes back and leaves the check with a sympathetic bow. I hand him my credit card and he leaves without a word. I pay for the wine and force myself to eat another piece of bread that tastes like chalk. I don’t want to have to drive when I’ve had too much wine. Thankfully, the room doesn’t spin when I stand up and head out of the restaurant, head down so I don’t see anyone I might know or who might know me.

Back in the safety of my car, I let out a heartbroken sigh. The candles mock me from the passenger seat, from a time when everything felt vastly different. I turn on the engine and head for the cabin, determined to give him a chance to explain himself before I allow myself to feel the hurt. I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation for why he stood me up.

I must have convinced myself pretty well, because I’m startled to see his Jeep in the driveway of the cabin, along with another vehicle.

“No, no, no,” I mutter to myself. I’m already having flashbacks of another night when I came home and found my boyfriend not where he should be.

I climb out of my car and walk on shaky legs to the front door. I don’t bother knocking, I just swing that door open and face my reality with a suit of armor the last man forced me to build. There, in the living room of Grandma’s cabin, is a dark-haired woman with her back to me. She spins around at the sound of the door hitting the wall.

Macy Bechtol.

Holt is behind her, his eyes wide in surprise. He’s not wearing a shirt because the man can’t seem to keep a fucking shirt on to save his life. My brain is spinning out of control, and in that moment, I refuse to give Macy the pleasure of seeing the hurt on my face. I spin on my heel and rush back to my car, feeling like my heart is cracking right down the middle.

I back down the driveway, the car weaving left and right. Backing up has never been my strong suit, but add in high heels and heartbreak and I’m just glad I get to the street in one piece. Holt runs out of the cabin, his hands over his head, waving at me to…stop? Come back? Give him a chance to explain why he ditched me yet again for Macy Bechtol??

No, thanks.

I hit the gas and speed down the road, only slowing down when I’m two streets away and I can’t see shit with the tears streaming down my cheeks. I make it to Sunny Shores without really seeing the road, which is a scary thing that I’ll chastise myself about tomorrow when my head is a little clearer. I park across two different parking spots at the retirement community and race toward Grandma’s condo.

I hate to break up her sleepover with Harold, but my heart is breaking and I need my grandma.

Maple’s Journal

Present

Men suck.

ChapterTwenty-Six

Holt

“Mookie, cool it!” I shout over her manic barking. The thing has gone absolutely batshit crazy because of a knock on the door. I swing it open to reveal the one woman in all of North Carolina I’d prefer not to speak to.

Macy Bechtol.

Sadly, she’s actually Macy McGrath. She never changed her name back after we got divorced. Not even when she got remarried. Which I can’t really blame her. What a headache to have to change your last name and all connected documents.

“Macy?”

Her gaze dips down to take in my shirtless torso. I came straight home from Sunny Shores and was two steps away from climbing in the shower to get ready for my date with Maple when the loud knock on the door happened.

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