Or rather, it had crumbs on it where an apple pie should’ve been.
“Thanks.” I didn’t smile. “Did you drink my coffee, too? And have a good talk with yourself? Do I need to stay, or are we done?” I made like I was going to leave.
“Sit your ass down. Another three pieces are on the way.” Hank motioned to Beverly, who was standing behind the counter looking at him as though she’d been waiting for a sign.
I’d slept at the home last night, in my own bed, surrounded by things. I’d never realized how many things I owned. The top of my dresser was covered with stuff, I didn’t even know where half of it had come from.
Shelly’s place had been so bare. No pictures on the wall, no knickknacks, nothing unnecessary, nothing sentimental.
Just like the woman.
No evidence of me there either.
I shook my head at myself, gritting my teeth. It had been an unfair thought. She’d wanted to give me compassion. And if she loved me, I would’ve happily accepted it.
But she didn’t.
The truth was, I had too much pride. Compassion without love felt suspiciously like pity. So instead I went home, drank exactly one glass of the Aberfeldy, and read poetry.
That’s right. Poetry.
I pulled a book of poetry from one of the shelves at random and flipped to an earmarked page. It was a poem entitled, ‘The More Loving One.’
Huffing a laugh at the ironically appropriate title, I read the verse, expecting lots of how I love thee’s and thou arts. But when I reached the second stanza, I blinked, my breath catching, and I reread it again, How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
After that, I read the whole book. I swam in it. Not only because my mother had written notes in the margins, like little breadcrumbs of her thoughts and feelings, but because I discovered the desire to do the same.
But I stopped at one glass of Aberfeldy because I was also tempted to write poetry. To Shelly. From me. I was going to tell her all the ways she was amazing, epic, and extraordinary. How knowing her had taught me about having high expectations—for myself, for others—where before I’d been content to settle for simple. Because she was brilliant and brave. She was the pinnacle person in my universe. The star of my solar system.
And if she couldn’t love me like I loved her, then maybe that was okay. Let the more loving one be me.
Except, when I tried to find a word that rhymed with Shelly, the reality of what I was doing set in.
Belly, smelly . . . jelly.
Oh good Lord.
Setting the pen down, I went to bed. Woke up. Showered. Shaved. Dressed.
Which brought me to now, sitting across from Hank on a Saturday morning, trying my best not to dwell on the constant pressure behind my eyes, the knot in my throat, and the random spikes of pain in my chest.
Maybe I’m having a heart attack.
“Three pieces of pie?” I mumbled.
“One more for me, two for you.”
“And my coffee?”
“Also on the way. Anything else you’d like? A massage perhaps?”
It had been on the tip of my tongue to say, My feet do hurt. But I caught myself, resisting the urge to fall into our old habits. I wasn’t mad at my friend, not anymore. With everything else going on, now I was just irritated.
“What do you want, Hank?”
“To explain what happened and to apologize.”
I hadn’t been expecting such a grown-up response, so it took me ’til Beverly brought our pie and my coffee to find my voice.
“Fine. What happened?”
“Drill knows I got a thing for Patty.”
“Everybody knows you got a thing for Patty except Patty.”
“Yeah, well. He said he saw you two out.”
I lifted my eyebrows expectantly, waiting for him to continue. When he didn’t, I prompted, “And?”
“And I believed him.”
“So you thought you’d get me back by ambushing me?”
“No. These are two separate things.”
I took a taste of coffee and picked up my fork. “I’m not following.”
“Drill told me about you and Patty—”
“Didn’t happen.”
“—on a Monday. Then he asked if he could come fishing with us that Wednesday, said he was bringing Isaac and maybe one other guy. Distracted, I said fine. Then he shows up with Razor’s old lady instead. I went to text you, to give you a heads-up, so I walked back to the house to get better reception and you were already there.”
“Oh.” I nodded, thinking through his side of the story. “Then why are you apologizing?”
“Because I believed him about Patty.”
“Ah.”
“And when you showed up, I asked you about that instead of giving you a heads-up about Christine St. Claire being there.”
I’m sure I looked confused. “Why would he make shit up about me and Patty?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he did think he saw y’all together.”
Chewing this over with a bite of pie, I wondered out loud, “I bet he saw Jess and Duane. Since Patty dyed her hair, they look alike.”
He scratched the back of his neck. “I don’t know. He’s an idiot. Point is, he’s not going fishing with us anymore. And also, I’m sorry.”
“Apology accepted.” I picked at my pie and then pushed it away, opting for the coffee instead.
Hank looked between me and my plate. “What’s wrong with the pie?”
“It’s good. I’m just not hungry.” I hadn’t been hungry since leaving the shop the previous evening. Along with my good sense, heart, balls, and man card, Shelly Sullivan had stolen my appetite.
“What’s going on with you? What did Razor’s old lady want?”
I shook my head, looking beyond Hank to stare unseeingly at the diner beyond. “It’s not even worth talking about.”
“Something nefarious?” He wagged his eyebrows.
“Something inconvenient.” I pushed the plate of pie farther away and leaned back in the booth, frowning at my coffee.
Duane was leaving in a little over a week. If I didn’t tell him soon, I was going to lose my window. I couldn’t see myself telling him when he came back next. He’d be pissed that I’d waited so long. It was now or never.
But concentrating on Christine, what her angle was, whether to tell Duane, and where I fit in was near impossible after my exchange with Shelly last night. I couldn’t focus on much except how much I missed everything about her, and it had only been fourteen hours.
“I guess this brings us to the last order of business.” My friend’s statement had me refocusing on him.
“Pardon?”
“Know what I always liked best about you, Beau?”
“Tell me, Hank,” I responded indulgently.
“You never asked me for anything.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Growing up,” he leaned forward, pushing his second empty plate out of the way, “I was the richest kid in this town, maybe in all of Tennessee. Remember my tenth birthday party? The King brothers were nice to me for three months beforehand, hoping they’d get an invitation.”
“Those guys are assholes.”
“But you’re not. People, they’re nice to you ’cause they like you. You’re easy to like. People are nice to me because they want something. Except you. You don’t want anything.”