Page 83 of Good Days Bad Days
“So, do you think you might come back?”
“To WQRX?” I chuckle a little at an idea that seems so audacious to me now. “No.”
“We sure could use you. Things have been kinda tough since you left.” Her forehead ripples with an emotion I can’t identify. Mark already told me about some of the problems—money is tight, tempers are flaring, and Don is no longer the golden boy. He said Betty will soon have to choose to stay with the station and her show or leave the station with her husband.
“I’ve moved on from Janesville,” I say. I’ll never set foot in that town again no matter who offers the invitation.
Her lips twitch, and I think about the last time we were alone together—a memory that kept me brave when bombs, bullets, and troop movements were the terrible truths of my every day. I focus on a spot over her head where an old cuckoo clock leans against a wall waiting for a new set of weights.
“Greg, why didn’t you tell me you were back?”
I keep my gaze fixed above her. All I’ll see in her bright eyes is disappointment and all I’ll see on her left hand is another man’s ring. I’ve come to terms with this loss, but that doesn’t mean I like seeing her standing in front of me while she’s wearing Don’s ring and carrying his last name.
“I didn’t think it was a good idea. Letters are one thing, but ...” I shrug, leaving the rest of the sentence for her to finish. She nods as if she understands exactly what we’ve been doing the past two years, what grew between us, though unintended at first, and what we stoked with our kiss and our communiqués.
I love her more now than when I flew halfway around the world to escape my feelings for her. I love the person she shared with me through hundreds of pages of stories, thoughts, and memories. I love the real Betty, and she knows it. It’s cruel to expect me to stand by and watch. A part of me wants to call her on it, but the more rational side knows it’d only serve to hurt us both.
“I don’t know how to not write to you anymore. These past months, I feel like a piece of me is missing,” she says, a sorrowful vibrato at the end of her sentence causing a sense of panic to rise inside of me.
“Me too,” I reply, and I mean it. I let myself look at her, a lump forming in my throat. This is the end, the final curtain, the cherry on top of the melted sundae.
“Mm-hmm,” she hums in response. She senses it, too. But what else could she expect? “Well, I should go,” she says with a sigh. “I’m meeting one of my girlfriends for lunch. I thought I’d stop by and check on you, but you seem fine.”
“I am.” It’s not one hundred percent true, but it’s all she needs to know. If I let her into my heart at all, I won’t be able to let her walk out that door without begging to see her again, settling for half a life.
“I’ll see the man at the counter about the piano, then?”
“Yup. Actually, bring him this.” I retrieve the tag. She takes it, gripping the stiff paper as I hold on to the tag longer than I should. She’s so close I could lean down and kiss her, and by the needy look inher eyes, I think she’d let me. My God, I want to hold her again, let the desire swell between us, see what happens when two years of yearning are realized. But then the purse she’s been holding in front of her slips down her wrist, leaving her midsection uncovered, snapping me out of the trance.
My eyesight blurs and then focuses. I release the ticket, striding away to the opposite side of the workroom like I remembered an important project, running my hands through my hair. I’m not sure if she says goodbye, because I’m overwhelmed by what nearly happened. It would’ve been so easy to forget my resolve if she hadn’t dropped her purse, because what I saw there changed everything—more than the ring or a wedding or the label of Mrs. Don Hollinger.
Betty is pregnant.
Chapter 33
Charlie
Present Day
“Mom!” I shout, and Betty gives me a confused look but doesn’t correct me, still caught up in a conspiratorial snicker. My head swivels to Olivia. She doesn’t look nearly as entertained as Betty, her eyes focused on the road. The navigation on her phone dings and gives directions.
“Olivia. What the hell is going on?” I demand as I unbuckle and climb halfway over the seat to help Betty get out from under her blanket.
“Laura’s taking me to Ike’s,” Betty says, lying on her side, her arms too weak to push herself up.
“Ike’s? In Janesville? Olivia. What are you thinking?” I scold, frustration weighing heavily on my frame. “Pull over. Now.”
“Mom, I can explain,” she says defensively as she guides the car to a gravel shoulder.
“Yeah, you sure better.” I leap out, swing open the back door, and help Betty sit up before buckling her seat belt. I notice her new-looking pink dress and low black heels.
I’m out of breath when I get back to my spot beside Olivia. Sitting up seems to have energized Betty, and she’s chirping requests from theback seat. “Let’s roll down the windows and listen to the radio. Get the wind in our hair.”
I reach across Olivia to activate the child safety lock on the windows and then flick on the radio, scanning through the stations until I land on an oldies station. “Your Song” is playing, which seems to satisfy Betty.
“Turn around. We’re taking her back,” I say to Olivia once Betty is settled.
Olivia taps her thumbs against the steering wheel. “Let me explain,” she repeats, as though there’s anything she could say that would make this caper seem logical.
