Page 25 of The Wrong Guy
I kinda wonder if she thinks the desk is actually Jed, or if she’s simply pretending. With Francine, there’s no telling for sure.
“Good job, Wren.”
I dip my chin in acknowledgment of Ben speaking, but don’t truly accept his approval. His praise usually reassures me, giving me a boost to keep at whatever I’m doing. This time, despite my proactivity this morning, the compliment doesn’t feel earned, not after the Oliver fiasco. That’s another thing I figured out during my midnight moment of clarity. Ben would never pull some legal-spread-eagle shit during a case. Now is not the time to play attorney privileges with Oliver.
I’ll stick to professional, focused, and politely civil. That’s it, nothing more.
The same holds true for Jesse. I know what I want, and I’m not going to settle for less. I don’t want a casual, uncommitted man who’s only after sex, no matter how amazing that sex might be. And not someone who wants me only when he thinks someone else might.
Baby. He fucking called me baby.
“It’s okay, we’ll get it all worked out,” Francine reassures me, mistaking my fresh anger for frustration over the divorce situation.
Heading back down the stairs, I tell Ben that I’m going to grab some lunch and offer to pick him up something too. “Nah, I’m good. Thanks, though.”
I worry he’s not eating enough sometimes, especially since I know Margaret made his lunch every day since they got back from their honeymoon all those years ago, and she’s no longer here to do it. I’ll probably grab him something anyway. If he doesn’t eat it for lunch, he can take it home and have it for dinner with his nightly beer.
I walk the few blocks over to the deli on the downtown square, greeting people along the way. It’s definitely not my imagination that I’m getting more than a few curious glances. Are people wondering about Jed and Chrissy’s divorce or Township? Or have they heard some rumor about Jesse and me? Maybe Mrs. Capshaw did hear me banging on his door and told everyone I showed up late at night in my pj’s. Or Oliver and me?
My break is only serving to make me angrier ... with myself. This is not who I am. I’m “Don’t Fuck With Her” Wren Ford, not “Gossip Girl” Wren, and I’ve worked hard to earn that reputation.
By the time I get to the deli, I’m scowling at everyone, and though I get a couple of friendly looks, they’re efficiently put off by my apparent willingness to be a full-fledged bitch today.
All except for one person. Avery Ford, my sister-in-law.
“Why so grump-a-potamus?” she asks, bumping my shoulder playfully with hers and offering an easy, warm smile.
We were initially in school together, but hung with different crowds, so we were never friendly then. It wasn’t until my brother Winston started dating her in college that we became friends. She’s quite literally the best person you’ll ever meet, sweet as can be with a heart of gold. I’m not sure what she sees in my brother because he married way, way up, and that was after he climbed several rungs on the ladder of maturing beyond teenage dirtbag.
“Work,” I answer, knowing it’s too clipped and short and instantly feeling guilty. Avery doesn’t deserve my bad mood.
Plus, it’s not fair to complain about work to Avery. She’s a nurse who takes care of her grandpa, so she literally works all day, every day. When she gets a rare break, she works fill-in shifts at a nursing home. She’s the last person to whine about work to, but she takes it in stride.
“I’ve heard,” she teases, wiggling her shoulder at me. “But I’d love to hear more.”
She’s keeping things light, which I appreciate more than she’ll ever know. And though she’d love to hear the latest scoop, she’s too kind to push for any information I don’t share freely. “You and the rest of the town.”
I slide my eyes left and right, and when she follows the move, she sees as well as I do that the whole deli is listening in on our conversation, hoping I’ll let some morsel slip out that they can spread around like wildfire.
But Avery is a good friend, and will go to bat for her people. Louder, she tells me, “Yeah, Grandpa Joe’s been doing well. If I could just keep him regular. I’ve tried everything ... prunes, Ex-Lax, and one of those fizzy tonic waters from the pharmacy. That one gave him gas worse than a dog. But he’s still plugged up like a tub drain. Might have to call a plumber to do a little whoop-de-do on his butt.” The last bit gets a finger swipe through the air that makes me cringe in Grandpa Joe’s honor. “It’d serve him right for sneaking all those oatmeal cookies. He knows he’s only supposed to have two a day.”
I’m smiling before she’s half-done with her story, laughing by the end of it. As far as I know, Grandpa Joe hasn’t had a bit of trouble with constipation, and he’d tell you if he had. I don’t think he knows the meaning of the word secret or private. Or people don’t talk about that at the dinner table. He’s unfiltered in the best, and worst, way.
“Who can blame him? You do make damn good cookies.” I wink, going along with her story because it’s definitely turned people off from eavesdropping. Quieter, I whisper, “Thanks.”
Avery steps up to the counter and orders two turkey sandwiches to go, one for her and one for Grandpa Joe. I lean over, adding, “Make it three and it’s my treat.” I hand the cashier my card before Avery can argue.
“Aww, thank you. That’s sweet. You know what I think you need?”
“A massaging showerhead with ten speeds?” I suggest when the cashier steps away to grab our food.
“Maybe, but I was thinking a girls’ night. I’ll text Hazel, kick out Winston and the baby for a little bit, and we can get together at my house tonight.” Her place is an automatic choice because of Grandpa Joe. She can’t leave him alone, so if there’s not a night aide to keep watch over him, she won’t go anywhere. “I’ll make cookies and pop a lasagna in the oven.”
She won’t take no for an answer. But she’s probably right—a night with Avery and Hazel is always fun, and will hopefully be just what I need to forget about all this craziness with Jesse and Oliver and the divorce.
I hold up a pinkie finger, offering, “Only if you promise that Grandpa Joe bit was fake. I can’t listen to him talk about poop over dinner. Again.”
She laughs and grabs my pinkie with her own, shaking. “Promise. He might try to have you look at a spot on his testicles, though. He’s decided he’s got mesothelioma because of a late-night lawyer commercial, and no amount of telling him it’s a lung cancer caused by asbestos will convince him otherwise.”