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His heart is buried away somewhere.
And he isn’t going to let it out.
* * *
For the next several days, Caleb returns to his former stoic professionalism, and I don’t resist or complain.
Mostly because I don’t want to be hurt or rejected again.
It’s fine. It’s not really that big a deal. Saturday night was a very small backslide. It didn’t do any real harm, but I’m not going to risk it again.
Neither the drinking nor the interrupted kiss with Caleb.
So I go through my normal routine. Brunch on Sunday morning with Davida and painting all afternoon. Swimming and then volunteer work in the afternoons on the weekdays.
On Thursday, I’ve got another art experience scheduled, and I’m relieved to see there are only two out-of-town couples signed up.
Caleb stands guard as usual. It’s harder than it used to be to have him fade into the background of my consciousness. But I do the best I can, and I manage to enjoy the interaction with retired couples who are traveling through New England together.
When I’m done, I load up the van with the easels. Both couples drove their own car, so there’s no one to shuttle back to the community center.
Caleb hasn’t said a word to me for hours. If I wasn’t sure the memory of his hot hungry expression on Saturday night really occurred, I might have wondered if the whole thing happened only in my imagination.
I’m doing my best to remain in a decent mood as we drive back to the community center and I return the supplies to the storage room. I chat with Gracie behind the welcome desk for a few minutes to perk myself up before making one more trip to the van for the last two easels.
Caleb follows. Not for an instant do I consider asking him to help me carry all the stuff.
It’s not his job. In fact, it would interfere with his job.
And the fact that his granite-statue imitation is getting on my nerves is not reason enough to act petty or immature.
Even though I kind of feel like it.
I’ve set the last two easels back in their place when a noise from across the storage room distracts me.
Shit.
Marcus.
What the hell is he doing here?
“You missed the art experience,” I say coolly, hoping to stave off any longer conversation. “I’m on my way out now.”
“I know.” He gives me one of his most obnoxious smiles—one that’s supposed to be charming. “I just got off work and thought I’d stop by. I was afraid you’d been avoiding me.”
“No.” I don’t meet his eyes. Don’t stop walking over to put the case of paints on a shelf. “Just busy.”
“I see your escort is still following you around.”
Caleb is currently manning the hallway. I’m not sure how Marcus managed to get in here without his seeing. Maybe Marcus has been here since we arrived. Waiting.
The idea creeps me out. I try not to shiver or make a face. With the same cool, aloof expression, I get the paints and brushes back in place, fold up the drop cloth, and head back to the door where Caleb is waiting.
He probably should have come in here with me. It looked like he was about to, but I wanted a little distance from him, so I closed the door in his face, and he didn’t argue.
That was my mistake.
His was allowing me to get my way.
