Page 74 of Good Days Bad Days
“Agreed.” I wipe at my brow, eager to get out of this place with or without Mark. “So. You coming?”
“Let’s go,” he says, forcefully moving past me, beelining through the crowd toward the empty dining room. I go to follow him but allow myself one look back. Betty is watching my exit. Behind her, a path clears through the wild mass of dancers, like a predator swimming through a school of fish. It’s Don Hollinger, without his jacket, his sleeves pushed up, and his jaw flexed and firm. He reaches Betty and spins her around. I bristle and hesitate, watching for any signs of distress. Part of me wants to go back, take the microphone, and spillthe truth to the crowd cheering for him, but as Betty comes out of her rotation, she’s laughing.
“Damn it. Let’s go,” Mark shouts across the abandoned banquet hall.
“Coming,” I say, not looking back to check on Betty and Don or anyone else in that room. Whether I believe her displays of happiness or not, I can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped or love someone who doesn’t want my love. It’s not right for me to convince Betty she isn’t happy.
“She’s not worth it,” he says when I slide into his car, the spring night air chilling my sweat-drenched shirt and back. “They rarely are.”
“I know,” I say, staring out the window at the sprouting fields as we speed back toward Janesville, not believing a word either of us says.
Chapter 29
Charlie
Present Day
“I’m sorry that took so long. I hope you found something in the fridge ...” I call out to Olivia, tearing off my sweatshirt and sweatpants as soon as I get inside the house. I need to get out of these tainted garments, spoiled both by blood and by the fight with my dad.
Right now, I want to put on my pajamas, have dinner with Olivia, and text Cam the information my dad told me about the name on Mom’s 1971 marriage license. There’s clearly more to the story and more I need to know before my interest will be satiated. There are two more boxes of films, and I’m sure they hold some answers and probably will spark more questions, but I don’t know when I’ll get to them.
Using my toes, I flip the pants off the living room floor into my arms, preparing to scurry to the bedroom, when a low cough mixed with a laugh comes from the kitchen. Startled, I swerve around to see Ian standing in the corner by the painted gray circular pedestal table. He’s dressed in a full suit—blue single-breasted jacket with a white shirt unbuttoned at the collar and a tan belt. In his hands he holds an oversized bouquet of white tulips. His beard is neatly trimmed, and hishair is cut in a tight taper up to a sharp part on the right side, held in place with pomade.
My heart skips a beat like it always used to when I saw him on set, before he asked me out for drinks seven years ago. Who am I kidding? The heart thing never went away. I’ve always been insanely attracted to my husband, even when I don’t want to be.
When Ian’s formal attire registers, I squeal and clutch the crumpled sweats in front of me, remembering I’m standing in the hallway in my underwear.
“Ian! What the hell are you doing?” I shriek. His rich laugh fills the room, and he doesn’t even pretend to avert his gaze.
“Olivia let me in. Call me crazy, but I thought you’d be dressed when you walked in the front door ...”
“Olivia. Of course.” I roll my eyes, saying her name like a curse word. Her meddling is growing untenable. “Where is she?”
“Took an Uber over to visit your mom, I think. Also mentioned something about going out with one of the nurses afterward, a local girl.”
“Let me guess. She said she’ll be out late, and she knew about—this.” I gesture at his impeccable hair, pressed suit, polished Italian leather loafers.
“She dressed me.”
“She’s lost her mind,” I mutter, unsure of my next move. “Turn around. I need to change.”
“Do I have to?” he asks with a flirtatious smirk.
“Ian McFadden. Yes. Turn around.”
“Yes, ma’am.” His southern upbringing comes out, and I can’t help but smile. Once his back is to me, I run into my room, but inside I find another surprise. A red dress in a clear garment bag hangs from the overhead fan, and a shoebox sits on the bed. “Shit.”
My phone buzzes. The messages are from Ian in the living room.
Ian:The dress was my idea. Let me take you out.
Ian:Please.
The gown is a beautiful halter dress with a pleated skirt. Not cheap and my exact size. I lift the shoebox lid and peek inside. The shoes have six-inch heels, and I think of all the times I’ve dressed up and stood beside Ian, held his hand, felt proud to be his wife.
My left hand is still bare, my heart still sore, but instead of tearing the dress down and telling Ian to back off like I would’ve a week ago, I caress the silky material and consider the offer. Ian made a mistake, but unlike my parents, he didn’t give me away. He apologized, he begged for forgiveness, he showed up here. He is choosing me. I think of Olivia, the twins, and all the years we’ve given to one another, and type a response.
Charlie:Where are you taking me?
