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Caleb
Itakelongerin the shower than I had planned. Not only is there a physical reaction to my houseguest that I need to take care of, but I also take the opportunity to remind myself of the reality of the situation. I close my eyes, brace my hands on the tiles and let the hot water soothe the ache in the back of my neck. Water flows around my brows, into my lashes, and down over the ridge of my nose.
She is a guest.I repeat in my head. And this is temporary. She’s not going to stick around.
Something in my libido tries to rise in argument, pointing out that Lizzie is planning to stay in the Forge; that she’s intending to buy a large property as a physical manifestation of that promise.
I’m not convinced.
Promises don’t mean anything…
I’ve heard enough of them in my life to know that words are no guarantee of anything. They’re a mere shadow of an idea until someone actually puts them into motion.
Plus, I only have to look at Lizzie to know she won’t be here long. There’s no one like her in East River Forge, and with good reason. Women with her looks, of the wealth I assume she possesses, always want more.
And need more.
More job opportunities, more growth, more gym memberships. Artisan coffees, museum exhibits, abstract galleries. A constant churning ball of entertainment. Ever-changing and ever-engaging.
My teeth grind together and I feel the rivulets of water detour around my jaw and down along my neck.
There’s nothing wrong with people who want more from their lives, with the people who feed the fire in their gut with new and exotic experiences. It’s a way to live. But it’s foreign to me.
It’s not a way that fits with the stoic life of East River. Where the focus lingers backward—to history and to continuity. Where you find joy in the easy familiarity of a repeatable daily life.
As much as Lizzie might like the idea of small-town living and may even believe herself to be truly in love with the Jessop house… She’ll grow bored of East River. Of its single bar, its post office, and the only gallery being Laura Farris’ collection of old photos. Photos documenting the evolution of toilet basins in the area since 1823.
She’ll grow bored of the people, I add.
I shut off the water with a heavy hand and grab a towel to attack my hair and skin.
No more daydreaming, I decide. After thinking it through, I know there’s no way Lizzie Lucas will become a permanent fixture in town. No matter what she might think.
Which means I need to stop fantasizing about any ideas of possible attachment. I am a man of continuity. Of permanence. And I’m not about to settle my habit-driven heart on a woman who’s not going to stick around.
People always leave.
Back to reality, buddy,I tell my reflection after wiping the steam from the mirror. And the reality is that all Lizzie Lucas wants from me is a warm shower and some sheets to sleep beneath. Alone.
Lizzie
“Okay,” I look over the pots and pans, ticking off tasks on my fingers. “Potatoes, meat,” I flick a finger toward the measuring jug now filled with an onion and mint gravy. “Sauce is done.”
Dinner will be ready in only twenty minutes, and every dish and pan that doesn’t still have food in it is now in the sink, being steadily consumed by bubbles.
When I hear the shower sputter and stop, I quickly station myself at the sink, grab a sponge and start working it over the chopping board and utensils. After giving Caleb the shock of his life earlier with an upside-down living room, I can’t really afford for him to discover his kitchen in disarray on the same evening.
“One disaster strike at a time, Liz.”
Though right now, I feel more like I’m the disaster, rather than the messes I’ve made. Or at least my presence is.
Caleb Walker had practically been bullied into letting me stay that first night. I had nowhere to go. The heavens had opened in a tumbling rainstorm and my feet had been rubbed raw. There had been a suitable number of circumstances that had tied his hands.
Letting me stay another night went beyond normal generosity.
Even if he had been intending to rent out his spare room, I am definitely not the person he’d been expecting—or wanting—to play landlord to. He’s made that abundantly clear.
An ember of humiliation flickers in my gut as I remember the shock on Caleb’s face outside the old house. I’d told him that Jace had inferred a sexual relationship between the two of us, and he’d been completely shocked that I wasn’t more offended. Clearly, the very whisper of romance with me is abhorrent to him.
