Page 37 of The Fall Back Plan
But no. A loaded moment in my kitchen yesterday morning because he brought me coffee isn’t evidence to assume he suddenly has feelings enough to worry about my safety. He has to mean it’s because knowing someone in a scary situation makes it worse for him. That makes way more sense, and I’m glad I realized that before jumping to an embarrassing conclusion.
I lean back in my chair, forcing my body to look relaxed. “Thanks for reassuring me. I feel better.”
A pause, then he nods. “Sure. Whatever you said to Shane worked. I truly don’t believe he’ll cause you trouble again.”
“Agreed.” I stand and regret it immediately. For one, my knees aren’t all the way steady yet. For another, it puts me much closer to Lucas than I meant to be. I can’t step back in this small office without making it obvious that I’m retreating. “I better get out there and show my face so Mary Louise and Ry don’t worry.”
He straightens and turns to open the door.
The fact that the view is as good going as it is coming doesn’t matter.
It doesn’t.
It’s my new mantra.
Because despite all the conclusions I’ve reached about my emotional availability and my priorities in the last five minutes, some maverick part of my brain is trying to make me go rogue.
I don’t have room in my heart for Lucas Cole right now, and it better get the message—quick.
Chapter Eighteen
Jolie
Ithoughttheworstpart of my day would be the split second I thought Shane Hardin was pulling a gun on me.
Believe it or not, I’m wrong.
We’ve got a decent crowd for a Wednesday night. For the last week, I’ve been leaving closer to 11:00, when the crowds thin. Right now, it’s 7:30, and it’s hopping. A group of women my age have come in, about twelve of them, most of them flashing wedding rings. They’ve got Tina and Precious running hard, and from what Precious says, they’ve come over after the PTA meeting at one of the elementary schools. Not Brooklyn’s.
And right in the middle of them sits Sloane Oakley. Or whatever her married name is. She looks the same as ever: the kind of pretty money can buy. Perfect, subtle highlights. Well-practiced makeup, not too heavy. Tastefully dressed in riding boots, a plaid pencil skirt, and an expensive-looking sweater.
My stomach clenches, and I remind myself that these days, I’m also the kind of pretty that money can buy, and there’s nothing for her to pick on. Maybe she wouldn’t if she could. Maybe she’s changed, even if her position as the nucleus of this group of women makes me doubt it.
Sometime in the weeks since opening the Mockingbird, I lost the fire in my belly for payback. But I don’t know if I’ll ever stamp out Teenager Jolie, who at least wants all her bullies to know that she’s done well.
I watch them for several minutes from across the bar after they take their seats, staying at my corner table and keeping an eye on them. But subtly. I don’t want any of them to turn around and catch me gawking.
What Ishouldfeel is satisfaction that so many women with disposable income are in here ordering our boutique cocktails and glasses of our nicer wines. I slip into the office after they order their first round of drinks, and the sales number makes me smile.
But what I mostly feel is . . . young? A need to stay unnoticed, just like I did whenever I could in high school. I want to keep an eye on them, so I know exactly where to be to avoid them.
I force myself to resist the instinct, just like I had to do a few hours ago with Shane. When they start ordering their second drinks, I’m so twitchy inside that I can’t take it anymore. “You are not this person. You outgrew her. Thank her for the job she did and be the Jolie you are now.” I say this aloud but quietly.Ineed to hear it; no one else does.
Tonight, I’m wearing a black sleeveless sheath, fitted and designed to wear under suit jackets, but it works well as a dress on its own. I’m also wearing boots because they’re one of the best things about fall. I may not be a pumpkin spice latte fan, but every other stereotype about girls and fall? Definitely me.
I draw a steadying breath and head over to the bar to join Ry. The women are seated at tables near it. I want to prove to myself that I can be in their vicinity and not wilt. Or regress. I walk past them. They’re on my left, and I smile at the table to my right.I’m doing this. I’ve got this. I’m a bona fide grown up.
“Gappy?”
It’s Sloane’s voice. I’d know it anywhere. Sweet as an Oakley apple, but where other people might hear mischief in it, I know it’s the rot of meanness.
For a second, I falter. But that’s not my name, so I ignore her and join and Ry behind the bar. “Hey,” I say, as he’s muddling mint leaves for a mojito. “Numbers are looking good. How about I handle tap orders?”
“Sure, cuz.”
“Gappy.”
I look up to find Sloane standing right in front of me. “Sorry, who?”
