Page 35 of Something Borrowed

Cal held up his hand to stave off a Melanie bashing session. He felt a bit weepy. “Yeah, yeah—that’s not exactly what I’m trying to talk about here, though. I always wanted one true love.” He winced, knowing how dumb that sounded. He shrugged. “Instead, I have a chain of people I’ve loved who didn’t love me back.”

“Because we were young and dumb and thought if we worked hard enough, loved deeply enough, self-sacrificed enough, surely they’d love us as much as we love them.” Carrie shook her head too. “It’s just not how it works. If anything, I think we were chosen because they could see we’d give and give, and they wouldn’t have to do a damn thing. Maybe we had signs on our foreheads: damaged goods, so unloved, we’ll take your scraps.”

Cal nodded. “So, no one can have a lasting relationship anymore? People used to. People had twenty, thirty, fifty-year marriages . . .”

“It was a different time, I think. Women didn’t have options, so even if you had a cheating, lying, mean jerk of a husband, you stayed—and then your kids made your 40th, 50th, and 60th wedding anniversaries into these big romantic symbols that they weren’t, they just weren’t. There’s a reason ‘gray divorce’ is a social phenomenon now. Women are tired of men’s crap.”

Right. Jammy Red Roo had temporarily jammed the fact right out of his head that Carrie was about as anti-marriage as anyone could be these days. “Okay, so no marriage . . . but will you ever date again, find a new love?”

Carrie barked a laugh. “You’re presuming that I ever had love.”

“C’mon, it couldn’t have all been fake, not for so many years, not for decades.” But from her comment seconds ago and their shared history of over-giving, well, maybe it was. That was one of the hardest things about looking back at a relationship once it ended, Cal decided, trying to figure out what, if anything, was real and how much was just delusion and wishful thinking, or your own feelings projected onto someone else.

One of Carrie’s shoulders lifted in a half-shrug. “I like to think I wasn’t living a lie for thirty-plus years . . . but then I look at what happened, how he actually was, how he is, and well . . . I don’t know. As for the rest of your question, absolutely not. Less than zero interest. I will never put myself in the position to be hurt like that ever again.”

And Cal got it. Did he ever. And yet . . .

“I just want to have someone to pour love into,” he said hoarsely. Shit, maybe he was drunk. “And have someone who will pour love into me back.”

“Aw, Callie . . .” Carrie’s sad eyes and her use of his childhood nickname revealed how deeply sorry she was feeling for him. “I hope you find that, but that’s what I’ve been telling you for months . . . you gotta pour love into yourself first. Be for yourself who you want someone to be for you.” She giggled. “Okay, I’m sloshed. I don’t know how that last bit came out, but what I mean is . . .” She launched into one of her favorite topics.

Cal had heard her “romanticize your life” shtick enough times that he got the general gist and even explained her own philosophy back to her.

“Yeah,” she said delightedly, pointing at him. “You get it.”

“You really are sloshed,” he said. Then they were both laughing, and even though he knew he hadn’t really solved any of his problems, at least he had a great sister and friend. It was more than a lot of folks had.

“Hey,” she said a few minutes later. “Did I tell you I’m thinking of getting a dog?”

She hadn’t, but the news made him happy.

“Cheers to that.” He lifted his glass. “And thanks for all this. I needed it.”

Chapter 19

Vic loved and hated how The Second Chance Shop smelled like home to her—or the home she would like to have one day—and she suspected her yearning was broadcast all over her face.

Madeline looked up from the till, but if she was surprised to see Vic, her expression didn’t give it away. Her hair was up in slightly messy space buns, and she was wearing a vintage Wonder Woman T, flared jeans, and red sequined high-top sneakers. She looked like a superhero.

“Hey . . .” Vic said, mouth dry and stomach anxious.

“Hey,” Madeline returned evenly. Like her face, her tone gave no hints about what she was feeling or thinking.

“Do you, um, have time to talk? I didn’t want to come when the shop might be busy, but if you have plans and need to split right away, I get it.”

“I’m picking up sushi at 6:00, but until then, no plans.”

Vic’s palms sweated. That gave her an hour. Surely their chat, even if it went wonderfully—which she wasn’t sure would be a thing—wouldn’t take that long. Then again, it was a good sign that Madeline mentioned the six o’clock deadline because it suggested, at least, that she wasn’t kicking Vic out immediately.

“Let me flip the sign and hit the lights. We can sit in the dining room.”

Normally, Vic loved that Madeline used the dining room, with its vintage crockery, antique china, and various sets of tables and chairs, as an informal meeting room. Today, she worried the room would be forever ruined for her if the conversation ended in heartbreak.

“I just made tea—plain old orange pekoe. Would you like a cup?”

“Please,” Vic said.

“Take a seat. I’ll just be a minute.”