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“I’m real sorry. Every now and then we get some dumbass asking for something offensive or just morally messed up and have to tell them no,” he says. “Sorry you had to deal with that.”
“It’s okay. I’m okay. Really.”
Which is about when there’s a rapping on the tattoo parlor door. Because today isn’t promising to be interesting enough, apparently. A familiar, neatly presented blond woman stands on the other side. Celine. Talk about morally messed up. She looks paler than normal, with dark circles beneath her eyes. Definitely not glowing.
Apparently this bright, sunny morning is peak time for confrontations.
“You have got to be kidding me.” I stride across the entry floor, flick back the lock, and jerk the heavy old wooden and glass door open. I don’t stand back and let her in. Forget niceties. “What do you want?”
“We need to talk.”
“About?”
She takes a deep breath, her hands balled into fists. “I heard you were working here and the thing is, you haven’t officially resigned from your position at the inn. Legally, you’re still employed by us.”
I blink.
“We put you on leave when the accident happened and that’s the ongoing status of your employment. You can’t just start working somewhere else without giving us notification.” Her hand rests on the small swell of her belly. I should maybe be over it by now. Her and Ryan and the baby and everything. But the truth is, on some level, it still hurts. “That’s not right, Anna. You can’t just do that. And to go work in a tattoo parlor of all places. You can’t be serious.”
“Celine, you fucked my husband.”
She clicks her tongue. “Today of all days, surely you’re ready to move on.”
“I was, you know. Right up until you showed up here.” I cock my head. “Just take a moment and let these words sink in. You fucked my husband. You, my boss and one of my best friends, fucked Ryan, my husband.”
Her gaze rests on the ground.
“Did you really think I’d just come back to the inn and everything would be the same as it was before?” I ask. “What did you possibly hope to achieve coming here?”
“W-what do you mean? I’m just—”
“No, really. Why are you here?” And Leif’s tattoo gun is still silent. I turn and again wave a hand at him to carry on with his business. To trust me to take care of mine. As sick as this sort of thing makes me, I’m a big girl. I can handle it on my own. “Well, Celine?”
“I’m trying to tell you that you still have a job with us. A job that you loved, if you’ll recall?” she asks, voice tense, accusing almost.
“You’re right, I did. I’ll be sure to add that to the list of things you ruined for me. Because there is no possible way I’m coming back to work for you now.”
“It doesn’t have to be like this,” she said through clenched teeth. “I’m trying to help you.”
And while I’m probably being a bit of an asshole, I can’t help but feel that it’s about time I started pushing back. I’m done with being nice. Finished with saying the polite thing or nothing at all. Especially if someone is so keen on bringing the fight to me. “No, you’re not. I’m not sure what you’re up to, exactly. But it has nothing to do with helping me. I’d guess you’re propping up your ego. Doing your best to convince yourself you’re a stand-up person and all that.”
“We used to be friends.”
“As I pointed out literally thirty seconds ago when explaining my grievance about you fucking my husband, yes. We used to be friends. But we sure as hell no longer are.”
“Anna . . .”
“Did I really used to be this much of a doormat that you thought coming here like this would get you somewhere?” I ask, genuinely curious. “What else are you going to take off my hands? You already have Ryan. I’d imagine you’ll be setting up house with him any day now, huh? Moving into my former home. Then you’ll probably start pushing for the engagement ring. It’s like you’ll be living my life. Or my former life.”
At this, she turns away. Guilty as sin.
“And you’re welcome to it. You really are.”
“It’s not like that,” she hisses.
“No?”
“I came here to try and help you.”
“Thing is, I don’t need your help. And it doesn’t matter how many times you tell yourself that you’re trying to help me, it won’t make it the truth,” I say. “I’m sorry if you’re having a hard time with the pregnancy. I really am. But I’m not sorry if you feel like shit about yourself. There are consequences to what you did. I’m never going to open my arms and say that it’s all right and all is forgiven, Celine. That’s never going to happen. I am never going to want anything to do with either of you ever again.”
