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Chapter 30
Genevieve examined the oversized piece of poster board in front of her and tried with everything in her to make sense of it. It contained a rough sketch of Valentine Bay Park, where the Labor Day picnic would be held, with little boxes drawn on it representing vendor stands.
Gen’s mission (and she had no choice but to accept it at this point because who the hell else would) was to figure out which vendor should be assigned which stall.
It wasn’t as simple as just putting them in willy-nilly. Even using a system like first come, first serve was a losing proposition. The ideal thing would be to group them thematically so people wandering through would enter different “worlds” as they browsed– food world, artisan craft world, wine world, luxury services world, etc.
However, the problem she was running into– and it was a thorny one– was that, in a place as small and insular as Valentine Bay, business owners in similar industries knew each other well. And familiarity, in many cases, did in fact breed contempt.
There were long standing feuds between competitors that went back decades in some cases, and Gen certainly didn’t want some sort of brawl breaking out during her grand festival-coordinating debut because she’d had the bird-brained idea to force Old Man Barbero to spend an entire day standing ten feet away from Mrs. Slakey and they’d renewed their passionate argument about who baked the softest chocolate chip cookie– a fight that had begun in 1978 and only increased in fervor with every passing year.
And the bakers were the least of her problems. Don’t even get me started on the florists. Good God, the florists!
Normally, this sort of maneuvering would’ve been dead center in her wheelhouse. It would’ve made her brain tingle with the deliciousness of attacking the problem from every angle, working it and making adjustments until, finally, every piece slid perfectly into place.
Not tonight, though. Tonight it seemed that the longer she stared at the layout, the less sense it made.
She’d even packed up all the materials from her office, thinking that in her living room, with a pair of sweats on her butt and a glass of wine in her hand, she could relax enough to focus.
But, nope. That hadn’t worked, and now she realized that it was because the chatter and bustle of her colleagues hadn’t been the problem when she’d tried to work on it in the office, and neither was her choice of beverage. Or pants, for that matter.
The problem, whether she was sitting behind her desk or on her couch or anywhere in between, was Gavin. It was always Gavin.
There was something going on with him, damn it. And she didn’t know what it was. She didn’t know how to help him. She didn’t even know if he was going to be okay, for God’s sake.
And that? Yeah. That was not okay. Not by a long shot.
She hopped to her feet and paced around her apartment’s small living room. It wasn’t much of a real “pace” when it came down to it– she didn’t really have the room to work up a true head of steam.
In fact, instead of helping her work things out and come to some sort of internal resolution on the situation, or even figure out a way to shove it to the side and focus on work just for tonight, it made her even more agitated.
She stopped pacing and plopped her butt back down on the couch. “Well, that was freaking useless,” she muttered under her breath.
She popped right back to her feet, unable to sit still, possessed by restlessness.
She opened the fridge and surveyed the contents. Zip. Nada. Sure, there was food in there. But it was all either green and leafy, or it had to be cooked. Nothing that screamed, “SHOVE ME IN YOUR MOUTH AND FEEL COMFORTED!” In a situation like this, you really needed something more along the ice cream or raw cookie dough line. Quinoa just wasn’t gonna cut it.
She looked at her wine glass, still clutched in her hand, and briefly considered upgrading to something stronger– until a vivid, full-color replay of her spewing all over Bernice Baxter’s sweater set flashed across her brain.
So, no. Booze wasn’t the answer.
She shook her head. She knew what she had to do. Confronting Gavin and telling him that either he was straight with her or they were done was the only way forward.
She’d been avoiding it because it was a major crossroads moment, and she was afraid that things might go down the wrong path. The thought of not having Gavin in her life at all, living right here in the same town with him but not seeing him, not speaking to him…it was so foreign that she couldn’t even wrap her mind around it. It seemed empty, and hollow, and it scared her.
But, hell. This was no way to live, wondering if he was even going to be alive the next time she tried to call and having zero facts to base any kind of guess on. It was causing her imagination to go wild, and she was becoming obsessive. She’d already behaved in some ways that seemed foreign to her. How long until she didn’t recognize herself at all?
So, yeah. She had to do it. Force the confrontation. If he told her to buzz off, that would be so painful she couldn’t even fully imagine what it would feel like– but at least it would be concrete. Something for her brain to hang on to and understand. At least it would be something she could process, and then (the important part), move forward.
She grabbed up her phone and dialed Gavin before she could lose her nerve. It felt like a watershed moment. In the imaginary movie of her life that was always halfway playing in the background of her mind, she heard the Rocky theme playing under this “scene” as the triumphant soundtrack.
“Gavin Valentine. Leave a message, including your number, and I will get back to you. BEEP.”
“GOD DAMMIT, VALENTINE! You ruined my moment!” she shouted to the room at large. All the momentum in the air while the ringing sounded in her ear had burst like a balloon that had come in contact with a push-pin.
“If you are satisfied with your message, press one,” came the pleasant, slightly mechanical voice of Gavin’s message service. “To re-record your message, press two.”
“Oh, shit. Two, two, two,” Gen mumbled as she furiously swiped at the numeral. When the beep sounded, letting her know it was time for her to say her piece, she took a deep breath and steadied herself. She didn’t want her voice to sound crazy. Like, you know…as if she’d just been pacing like a caged animal and then screaming into the empty air. Or whatever.
“Gavin, this is Gen. There’s something I need to discuss with you. I’d like to meet at the Bar and Grill, if you’re free. Please let me know at your earliest convenience.”
She hung up before she fully heard back to herself what she’d said. “Your earliest convenience?” She groaned.
Shit. She’d sounded more like his landlord who wanted to have a conversation about the building going condo than someone who had, on many occasions, enjoyed quality naked time with the man.
She collapsed back down on the couch and made a cursory attempt to look at the vendor layout before giving up on it. Who was she kidding? She was going to spend the rest of the evening staring at that goddamn phone and waiting for it to ring, and there wasn’t a single freaking thing she could do about it.
