I’m in Boston, but I’m coming back tomorrow afternoon. Let’s meet for dinner.
His text drags me back to the present, where I’m staring at numbers that don’t add up. I buy specific shampoos that are best for the animals in my community and I don’t want to switch to a more generic, all-purpose shampoo. But maybe I can shop around for a disinfectant that’s still as effective, but perhaps cheaper.
First, though, I need to make Hayden stop dangling his wild ideas in front of me, distracting me and making me hope things could be better.
CARA
Maybe. I’m still trying to figure out if it’s brilliant or the worst idea I’ve ever heard.
HAYDEN
Two things can be true at the same time.
I laugh at the message, feeling lighter. Then another text comes through on the heels of the first.
HAYDEN
I’m going into a meeting, but I’m leaving dinner open all week so we can get together whenever works for you.
I don’t bother to respond, since he’s going into a meeting, but the invitation stays with me as I make a note of which products I need to research and go through the process of closing up the shop for the day.
During my walk home, I know I should be considering the feasibility of the marriage idea, but all I can think about is having dinner with Hayden again. While lunch was rushed and ended on a strange note—Cara Gamble, you should marry me—I really enjoyed both of our meals together. There were moments the past crept in, reminding me that once upon a time, he really hurt me. But it was a long time ago, and this grown version of him has all the traits I fell for then, but with added confidence and broader shoulders.
And seeing him with Penelope didn’t do me any favors when it comes to reminding myself he’s a heartless jerk.
No, I absolutely should not have dinner with him again, I decide as I walk up my front steps. The marriage thing is a non-starter, as far as I can see, and spending time with Hayden just makes me yearn for things I can’t have. A fresh start. A life of my own.
Him.
By the following evening, I’m feeling steady again. I’ve managed to juggle the price increases without sacrificing quality, and Gin’s in a better mood. She thinks the matter is closed, so the iciness between us has thawed. And Hayden hasn’t popped up on my phone.
Maybe life isn’t good, but it’s stable again and that’s probably the best I can hope for. It’s what I’m used to and, as my mother said, we’ll find a way. Probably. We always have.
And then I get in the shower.
Not only is the water just a bit hotter than lukewarm, but it’s starting to run cooler as I rush through rinsing the last of the conditioner out of my hair. Even though I keep turning the cold water lower and lower, there’s no hot water left by the time I hit the button to turn off the overhead spray. Frigid water swirls around my feet as I turn the faucet off.
After wrapping my hair in a threadbare towel, I wrap another around my body and step out onto the bathmat. Then I just stand there, letting the chilled water run down my skin while I try not to cry.
I can handle putting plastic over some of the windows to keep the draft out in the winter. Every summer, we keep the curtains closed while the sun is shining and rely on breezes and fans to move the evening and night air. I’ve put up with trying to sleep in stifling humidity. I clean our gutters and mow the massive lawn we don’t use. I’ve even patched a small section of the garage roof.
But not being able to take a shower?
Gin yells my name and lets me know supper’s on the table. Since I’m hungry enough to table the total emotional breakdown for later—although I guess there won’t be any more crying jags in the shower for a while—I towel dry my hair and then walk to my bedroom in a towel that’s so small and worn, it’s barely a nod to not actually walking around naked.
By the time I get downstairs, wearing a T-shirt with no bra and cotton boxers because we’re a house of women, my mother’s already halfway through the leftover tuna casserole on her plate. It’s one of my least favorite meals, but it’s cheap and two people can make it stretch.
“I think the hot water heater’s about to shit the bed,” I say as I slide into my chair.
She nods. “We might have to get one of those shampoo-and-conditioner-in-one products, and maybe get wet, shut the water off while we lather up, and then rinse off really quick.”
“That might buy us a little time, but I think once they start to go bad, they go fast.”
“I’ll ask around and see if anybody’s selling one,” she tells me, as if people replace perfectly good hot water heaters and sell the used ones for cheap every day in Sumac Falls. “If we have to, we’ll heat water for dishes and baths until we find one.”
My fork hits my plate with a clatter, startling us both. I didn’t mean to drop it, but the idea of toting buckets of boiling water up the stairs like this house is a sixteenth century castle is so mind-blowing, my fingers forgot how to hold a utensil.
I wait for her to laugh, but she’s either serious or she’s been practicing her poker face. “We can’t…that’s not really a viable option, Mom.”
