“You what?”
“I’ve been manipulating you.” He looks down at the glass on the table but doesn’t pick it up. “I needed you to fall in love with me. I did everything I could think of—bringing you breakfast, getting you a job, helping you research your parentage—to seduce you. I delayed going to bed with you because I thought it would make you want me more. It was all a ploy. I figured you were used to a modest life, so I stopped myself from doing things in an extravagant or expensive way because I knew you’d appreciate simple, thoughtful gestures over lavish ones. I knew I could win your heart just by treating you nicely and appearing devoted to you.”
Nate reaches over for the bourbon, drains the glass, and sets it back down on the table as my heart goes cold and my body stills. As I take in what he’s said, I think back to all the times we have been together. I see his sweet texts before bedtime, the gentle touches to the side of my face, and the multitude of romantic gestures in another light.
“It was all a lie.”
“Cherry, wait—”
“No!” I yank my hand away. “You used me! You didn’t care about me at all. You just wanted to…to up your numbers? Seriously? I could have been anyone! You didn’t care who I was!”
“That’s not true!” He reaches for my hand again.
I pull away, stand, and head for the door.
“Don’t leave! Please!” Nate jumps up to follow me.
“Just give me a fucking minute!” I turn and yell back at him. “I just need a minute.”
“You can have one, but please hear me out first. Maybe I was manipulating you in the beginning but not anymore.” He quickly walks over to the desk, opening one of the drawers. “During all of this…I don’t know how it happened, but I fell in love with you for real. After that, I wasn’t trying to manipulate you. I really wanted you, Cherry. I still want you.”
He pulls a small black box from the drawer and sets it on the desk. He opens it to reveal a beautiful diamond solitaire.
“I was going to give this to you at the end of the festival,” he says quietly. “At first, I bought it because I needed a wife, but now…now I can’t imagine it belonging to anyone other than you. I love you, Cherry. I love you, and I want you to marry me.”
I stand there, staring at the sparkling gem with my mouth hanging open. I can’t think straight. I hear his words, but I can’t break through the fog in my head to comprehend them. Suddenly, I’m angry. I’m angry that he’s done this in such a way. I’m angry because this moment should be touching and romantic, not filled with mistrust and panic. I narrow my eyes and glare up at him.
“Worst proposal ever.”
I stomp out of the house.
I hear Nate calling my name as I fling myself into the car and screech the tires as I drive away, tears blurring my vision as I rocket down the street. I park the car in front of my building, race to my apartment, and immediately begin packing.
Chapter 20—Accident
I rearrange a few of the Dr. Seuss books on the children’s table and take a step back.
I’m grateful for the job at the Accident library. The work is quiet, isolated, and lonely. Though I can’t say that I like it, the feeling is familiar enough, and I’m not sure I’m ready for much of anything else just yet. I’ve sold a few pieces of furniture on the side but haven’t opened the antique shop to the public so far. Maybe I chould start opening it on the weekends in the near future, but for now I’m just glad to have the daily, mundane distraction of placing novels on a shelf and answering questions about where to find the gardening books.
Mundane.
Fear of a stagnant life and loneliness are what had driven me to seek out family and new experiences after Aunt Ginny passed, yet here I am, doing exactly what I didn’t want to be doing. I try not to think about my brief life in Ohio. I don’t want to dwell on the whole idea of belonging to a family. Clearly, that’s not going to work for me.
I finish my shift, make my way to Main Street, and turn left to head home. A brief flash of another Main Street comes to mind, one with people refusing to cross from one side to the other, but I banish the memory from my head. I don’t need thoughts like that haunting me.
As if to taunt me, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I don’t take it out to look at it. I haven’t looked at it in weeks. Only one person sends me text messages, and I know who it is. Over the past two months, I’ve ignored all of his me
ssages, but he keeps sending them anyway. I’ve considered blocking the number, but that would require me to look at the phone long enough to figure out how, and I just can’t quite get myself to do it.
As I pass the antique shop, I hear the phone ringing inside.
“Shit!”
I fumble around in my purse for the keys, quickly open the door, and rush inside. I manage to get there just as the ancient rotary dial phone stops ringing, of course. I figure the caller is probably Mrs. Mable since she’s been bugging me about a set of chairs she saw through the window. I start to flip through Aunt Ginny’s Rolodex—as much an antique as any of the furniture in here—to look for Mrs. Mable’s number.
Before I find the number, the phone rings again, startling me. I grab the handset quickly.
“Cherry? Is that you?”