Except I do. I care so much it that it feels like it’s almost physically eating at me. It’s the first thing I think about in the morning when I take lonely runs all by myself. It’s what I think about when I sip coffee alone, and when I have my solitary lunch. It’s what I think every time I take my big old Andrew Jackson biography down to the library, getting my hopes up that the door will be unlocked this time.
He’s shut me out completely, and a part of me wishes he’d just banish me already and get it over with. It’s becoming increasingly clear that Paul Langdon isn’t going to be the absolution I’m looking for. I came up here hoping to rediscover my humanity—to remind myself that I’m still a good person and that kissing my boyfriend’s best friend doesn’t make me irredeemable.
But if anything, my time in Maine is confirming my worst fears. I’m no good for other people. Paul may have been broken long before I came onto the scene, but I’m fairly sure that when I leave, he’ll be worse off. Almost as though I’d hoisted him halfway over the ledge toward redemption only to push him off again just as he was starting to feel hope.
All because I couldn’t just let him come to me himself.
Still…he’s acting like a damn baby about the whole thing.
Lindy appears at my side with a little sound of dismay and reaches for the bread dough that I’ve been mutilating for the past five minutes. “Okay, then. That’s about enough of your special kind of kneading.”
“I hate him.” I give the ball of dough one last slap. “I hate him!”
She uses her hip to bump me out of the way. “Well, from where I’m standing, you have a right to.”
I glance at her sharply. “You know what happened?”
“No. I never really know what’s going on with him. Or you,” she says, dropping the dough into a greased bowl, covering it with a clean towel, and then setting it aside to rise. “And I don’t want to know. Neither does Mick, because we know we’ll just end up wanting to knock some sense into the both of you. But that doesn’t mean I don’t see that by ignoring you, he’s hurting himself just as much as he is you. Maybe more.”
A little flutter of hope arises in my stomach. “Yeah?”
She gives me a knowing look. “Oh no. Don’t go fishing for intel, because that’s all I’m saying. But don’t you give up on him. Don’t you dare.”
I trace my finger though the extra flour on the counter. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do in the meantime until he comes around,” I say glumly. “Mr. Langdon isn’t exactly paying me to lurk around and destroy your homemade bread.”
“Mr. Langdon is paying you to bring his son back to the land of the living. And that’s exactly what you’re doing, even if the approach is indirect at the moment.”
“Okay, but…” I slump over, all of my weight on my forearms as I lean against the granite counter. “I’m bored, Lindy.”
“I thought you’ve been enjoying your nights out. I heard from Kali’s aunt that you guys are getting along great.”
It’s true. Kali and I have been getting along great. I’ve headed out to Frenchy’s a few times in the past week, partially because I needed a drink, but mostly because it was something to do while Paul the jackass stays locked away in his den like the freaking Unabomber or something. I even went over to Kali’s house last night. We ate frozen enchiladas, drank too much wine, and watched some really terrible television.
But I need to find something else to do with my time other than drink, mope, and try to slog through presidential biographies. I need a hobby, or a task, or…
“You could set the dining room table,” Lindy says, her voice muffled since her head’s buried in the fridge.
I stand up. “There’s a dining room?”
“Of course this house has a dining room.”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t act like it’s that obvious. Have you ever used it?”
“Of course not,” she says in that same matter-of-fact tone.
I can’t help the second eye roll. “So I’d be setting the table today, because…?”