It's Not Over (Fair Lakes 1)

He gives me a confused look. “We are. What are you feeling?” He points to the menu.

Well, fuck. “Bacon cheeseburger, and fries,” I say, placing the menu back in its holder.

“Ah,” he says, sitting back in the booth and crossing his arms over his chest. “You thought I was getting all soft on you.”

“It’s been one of those days.”

The waitress comes to take our order before he replies. “You decide what you’re going to do?”

“Can we not do this again?”

He holds his hands up in surrender. “Hey, I’m just trying to help my buddy out.”

“Okay, what exactly do you suggest?”

“Considering finding a new pu… companion,” he corrects himself, “is out of the question, your only options are to be a miserable fuck or fight for her.”

“Tell me, ole wise one, how do I fight for her when she won’t return my calls?”

He shrugs. “Go see her.”

“Stalk her, that’s your answer? Terrific. I’m doomed.” The waitress drops off our food, and we both dive in.

“I don’t know, Harrison. What I do know is that you need to figure your shit out. Work is suffering, you’re suffering.” He gives me a pointed look. “Man up and make a decision. Commit to a plan and make it happen.”

The waitress brings us fresh beers, which is a good time to change the subject. “You find a truck yet?” I ask. He’s been looking to buy a new truck for a few weeks now but can’t seem to find what he wants.

“Nah, just been looking. I’m going tomorrow to drive a couple. You want to come?”

“Sure.” It will do me some good to get out of my apartment and not be at the office either.

“Hey, there,” a sultry voice greets us. Looking up, I see a blonde bombshell. She’s stacked, curves for days, and she’s on the prowl.

“You guys want to join us for a game of pool?” her redheaded friend asks. She too is a looker.

Chase looks across the booth at me and raises his eyebrows, challenging me. “Sure, just let us finish up here.” I grab my beer and down it. “Let me pay the tab, and we’ll be right there.”

“I’ll be waiting.” The blonde rakes her fingernail, which is bright red and pointy, down my arm. Nothing like Winnie’s rounded and white-tipped nails. Talk about sexy as fuck. Nothing hotter.

“That’s what I’m talking about.” Chase holds his fist out for me to bump as soon as the ladies are out of earshot.

“It’s just a game of pool,” I remind him.

“It starts with a game of pool. Next thing you know Harrison’s got his groove back.” He wags his eyebrows.

“Fuck off.” I slide out of the booth and go to the bar to pay our check. I order Chase another beer, but I switch over to water. No way do I want to make the mistake of taking one of them home with me or me going home with them. That’s not what I want.

I want my wife.

“Water?” Chase laughs. “You going soft on me, Drake?” he asks.

“You’re on my team.” The blonde pushes her double Ds out for me to get a better look. It’s so predictable it’s comical. Winnie and I used to people watch on the nights we were here. She would have a field day with blondie.

By the end of the first game, I’m over it. Blondie keeps rubbing her tits on my arm, my back when I’m leaning over the table. Her voice is like nails on a chalkboard, and I’ve had all I can take.

“I’m heading out. Thanks for the game.” I walk my cue stick over to the rack and put it away.

“No,” she whines. Yes, she whines as if she’s two. “I thought maybe we could go back to my place,” she says in her baby voice while sticking her lip out, pouting.

Newsflash, ladies: guys don’t like the idea of fucking a baby. It’s not sexy, so don’t do it. It’s a sure-fire way to kill any hard-on he has going. As for me, she doesn’t do it for me. Her hair’s the wrong color, her eyes too. Her tits are too big, and those nails… She’s not Winnie, that’s for damn sure.

“Sorry, I have an early day tomorrow.” I grab her hands that are clutching my shirt and remove them.

“I thought you were going car shopping with me?” Chase asks.

Fucker. “Yeah, I need to go into the gym beforehand. There are a few things I need to do before Monday.”

“Oh, I love a man who works out.”

“He actually—”

I hold up my hand, stopping him. “Sorry, I really need to go. Chase, call me when you’re ready.” I turn on my heel and walk as fast as I can out of the bar. I hear Blondie yell in her whiny voice for me to come back, but I don’t bother to stop and address her. I need out of here. I don’t know why I let Chase talk me into this. I’m not ready, and I’m not sure I ever will be.

Chapter 4

Winnie

Three weeks later

* * *

I glance down at the phone in my hand, reading the text message for a third time.

* * *

Harrison: I miss you. Hope you have a wonderful day.

* * *

I don’t respond to this one, like I’ve opted not to for all the previous ones. Dropping the phone back on my desk, I run my hands across my tired face. That message makes nearly three-weeks straight of similar messages. Sometimes they arrive in the morning before I wake, some hit my phone sporadically throughout the day, and a handful reach me just before I go to sleep. The man knows my routine, probably better than I know it.

He’s also persistent as hell.

When the man sets his sights on something, he refuses to give in until he’s accomplished his task. At one time, it was one of the many things I loved about him. Now, I wonder why that determination stopped. When I was ready to leave, he didn’t stop me. Sure, he may have said he didn’t want to go—didn’t want to divorce—but his actions lacked the gumption I know he had. It was like, deep down, he wanted the separation. The divorce. Even though I really didn’t. I wanted him to fight. I wanted him to fight for me as much as I wanted to fight for him. I started off slipping on the proverbial boxing gloves and getting ready to duke it out to the finish, but when those nights remained as empty as our bed, I just… gave up the fight.

The bell rings, letting me know I’m about to be hit with fourteen preschoolers, all anxious to tell me their weekend plans. My plans? I’m hoping to fall asleep tonight and wake Sunday morning. Tomorrow is a day filled with dread, though not for the reason you may think. The calendar lets me know it’s my thirtieth birthday, a day that most people celebrate and hate just the same, but it’s more than that. It’s a reminder of my failures. The life I had planned but didn’t have the ability to follow through. Our plan.

The plan that will never come to be.

I push all thoughts of Harrison and our marriage out of my mind and stand to greet my students. As soon as I do, the nausea sweeps in, and I feel a little lightheaded. I sit quickly, setting a shaky hand over my stomach. This flu bug is going to be the death of me. I’ve been feeling crummy for several days, though I’ve never spiked a fever. My stomach protests just about everything I put in my mouth, and I can’t seem to shake the bone-deep fatigue that accompanies whatever strand of sickness I have.

As a preschool teacher, I’m accustomed to sickness. I live it, practically daily. I’ve been puked on more times since school started this year than I care to even admit aloud. Young kids are still learning the signs of trouble looming, and often, by the time I’m made aware, it’s too late. The vomit is flying.

They forget to tell you that part when you’re in college and student teaching.

I meet them at the doorway, anxiously pushing aside the nausea. Pulling a mint from my pocket, I stick it in my mouth before the first student comes down the hallway. “Good morning, Allie,” I say brightly to the cute little brunette.

“Hi, Mrs. Drake,” she replies eagerly.

I wave her inside, ready to greet the rest of the class and ignoring the pang of

longing I get every time someone says my name. Mrs. Drake. Technically, it’s Ms. Drake now, but little kids don’t seem to understand the difference, and I’m not really in any position to teach them that variance. Sure, I could have taken my maiden name back, but when the judge asked—and I knew she was going to—I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t go back. It was like I was erasing Harrison completely, eradicating every aspect of him from my life. He may not have been there physically, but by keeping his last name, I was able to hang on to a tiny sliver of what we used to be.

The rest of the students make their way down the hallway toward our classroom. Two boys push at each other, knocking into a quiet little redhead with long pigtails. She doesn’t say anything to them—she rarely says anything at all—so it’s my job to make sure the boys understand that horsing around isn’t permitted inside the school and remind them to apologize to little Emily. Her father passed away last year, and the little one hasn’t been the same since. I’ve spent many moments on the phone with her mother or visiting with her in person to assure that we’re doing everything we can to help Emily learn and grow as a person, and hopefully, come out of her shell soon. It’ll take time, and only the child knows the schedule.

“Good morning, Emily,” I say sweetly and quietly as she gets ready to pass through the door.

“Hi.” That’s all I get. That’s all I ever get for a greeting.

Closing my eyes, I get ready for my day. I push aside the looming sickness, the sadness I feel when I think about my ex-husband, and the despair that engulfs me for little Emily. That one right there is what makes my heart race in overtime. It’s part of the reason I pushed Harrison away when I did. We had a plan, and that plan was to transpire by my thirtieth birthday.