I walk out of the green room and into the square of hallway that surrounds the stairs, which drop into the first-floor entry hall. In the area around the top of the stairs, there are several doors, leading to several areas. One of them is Marley’s quarters.
I stroll over to that door and wonder what my ex would think if she knew I’m on the other side. Fendall House is huge, and Mar’s apartment is only a portion of the upstairs. The rest of the house is mine: 1,100 square feet upstairs, and almost 3,300 square feet downstairs.
I walk downstairs and check the front porch, even though I know already what I’ll find. When I lift my bag, I feel something inside. It can’t be…
I unzip the bag and blink into its dark contours, and sure enough, I’m staring at the package of pork chops.
I can’t help a dry laugh.
Fucking Marley.
Soft on the outside, but when you push her buttons, woman is feistier than a cat in heat. She always has been.
I stash the pork chops in the freezer. I can barely cook—yeah, yeah, I lied—and even if I could, I don’t have the motivation. As I walk back to my workroom, I stop again at her door.
Don’t be a pathetic fuck.
I pad slowly to the green room, where I stare at my keyboard for half an hour, then fuck around on social media.
Nicely done, McKellan.
I check the rankings on my last release, and then just sit here as the orange, October sun slides down behind the trees, and I can feel cool air waft through the cracked window.
Finally, I give in and check my Google drive. I click a folder marked “From Hugh” and find today’s date. I forget to breathe as I comb through the snapshots. Half an hour later, I smack the Macbook shut and head downstairs.
5
Marley
I wake in a sea of…small, gold circles? I blink a few times, and the circles streaming down onto my bed make sense. Lace eyelet curtains cover the window punched into the wall directly in front of me. Morning sunlight streams through them, playing on my bedding—and on me.
I look around the room. So quiet. Still. This house is 150 years old, and it feels it. I inhale its musty, unfamiliar scent—a little baby powder-ish, with a bite of fresh cedar—and look up at the ceiling, indented in the middle, where a delicate, crystal chandelier hangs. This place has a strange vibe: both ornate and old, formal and homey. I’ve always loved antiques for just that reason.
I climb out of bed, rubbing my toes against the oriental rug’s short fibers before I reach for the remote on my nightstand, aim it at the TV I set atop an old washstand table, and navigate to my favorite morning show.
I’m only half-listening as I wriggle into a sports bra and a tank top, pull on running shorts, and tug socks onto my feet. I’m lacing up my first shoe when I hear his name. Something something, “Gabriel McKellan.” I freeze until I realize they’re talking about his most recent book-turned-movie, The Husband.
As I work my foot into my other sneaker, I listen for news of another kind: something dramatic. Tragic. Something that would match what Mom told me. But they move on to the new Blade Runner.
I’m guzzling water in the kitchen when I hear a door below me slam. I hold my breath and yep, that’s got to be him leaving. Good. He might have stopped and helped me after our run-in at the grocery store, but that means nothing. Gabe’s in asshole mode. In ex mode.
So am I.
I slide my iPhone into my armband, stick my ear buds in my ears, and start my workout playlist while I stretch in the grass. I check my watch—6:09 a.m.—before jogging to the sidewalk and hanging a right, toward the cemetery.
As I run, I think about the day ahead. I’ll get home, do my arm weights, shower, and unpack some more; the apartment is gorgeous, and furnished, but I still want to make it feel like mine. My car—a black, 2009 Accord that I adore—should be dropped off by the courier around 11. After that, I’ll run out to the nursery to get some mums for my mini porch. Around lunch, Kat’s going to stop by with food from The Chicken Salad Place. After that, I’m supposed to go to the Fate Pediatric Clinic for a few hours to look over the computer system and get my tablet, plus pow-wow with the other two doctors.
After my few hours at work, I’ll head over to Grandma Ellis’s house for an early dinner then come home to watch a little light TV, followed by an early bedtime. My first full day at work will be tomorrow.
I’m hanging a right onto the pebble path that cuts through the old cemetery when a low-hanging branch slaps me in the forehead. “Ow!”
As I cry out, something moves in the trees ahead of me.
Gabe.
My stomach sinks as he looks over his shoulder, his eyes rounding as he realizes I’m me. He turns away, and he picks up his pace. Not a little, either. That asshole runs like sharing air with me could kill him.
I watch his gorgeous body move and feel gripped by my fury. That he hates my presence so much… I cup my mouth. “I’ll catch you!”
I hear a distant chuckle. “Doubt it.”
At first I think I’m hearing things, but then he glances back at me. I see the corner of his mouth curve, realize Gabe has slowed his pace. He’s egging me on. Daring me.
It’s stupid. Absurd. Childish.
But suddenly all I can think of is the sound of that expensive running shirt he’s got on ripping in my fingers. Fucking Gabe, that motherfucker…
Spurred by my adrenaline, I tear off after him.
I chase my ex past half a dozen towering tombstones, toward a row of crypts, following the pebble path down toward the cliffs that overlook the lake. Every time I start to close in, Gabe runs harder, faster. I lengthen my strides and push my body, running like it’s life or death. As the path dips downhill, he veers off into a copse of pines. I know it’s crazy, but I follow.
Gabe is tall—6’1—and in these thick trees, his size must work against him. I’m nipping his heels.
I can hear his rhythmic breathing now, see sunlight glint off his black curls. I can see his tanned skin, the way his t-shirt sticks to the thick ridges of muscle along his back. I think I even smell him. I imagine his face as I catch his shirt and rip…
I’m lunging for him when he veers right, into a swatch of forest so thick, I’m not sure where he thinks he’s going. Still, I plow in after him. Leaves and branches slap me as I follow down a not-trail through the tightly packed trees. I can see the forest tremble as he surges forward—and then I lose him. I duck my head and push past scraping branches. Wind caresses my cheeks, rattles through the leaves.
Finally I spot him: shirtless in the swaying pines, just a few steps from the cliffs’ edge.
“What are you doing?”
“What do you want?” He looks—and sounds—strange. Almost angry.
“I got you,” I pant.
“Good for you.” He waves, a clear dismissal.
Embarrassment heats up my cheeks, at being sent away—even as I want to slap myself for calling out to him to start with.
Something ripples through his features. Exhaustion. As if he’s beyond tired of being bothered by me. “What can I help you with, Marley?”