"You know you actually have to touch the dough to knead it, right?" Lindy says, coming back into the kitchen.
I halfheartedly began moving the dough around again as Lindy unloads the tray containing the remains of Paul's lunch.
I glance at the tray out of the corner of my eye.
The pasta was barely touched. He's not eating. I know only because I keep an eye on how much food Lindy throws out, not because I actually eat with Paul. I've barely seen the guy in the week since our confrontation. He's made sure of that.
Lindy hasn't asked me why Paul and I are at odds-again-nor has she complained that she has to bring him all of his food, when I'm getting paid to do it. I've tried to explain, but she just pats my shoulder and tells me that there's a spare room in the small house if I need it.
If this keeps up, I will need it. Hearing Paul yell every night without being able to go to him is killing me. I tried once; the door was locked.
Lindy and Mick have to be wondering what I'm still doing here. A caregiver who has zero contact with the person she's supposed to be caring for? It's only a matter of time before Paul's father comes swooping in here telling me I'm fired.
Oh, but wait. That won't happen, will it? Because then Paul won't be able to continue his pathetic existence of hiding from the world while not having to contribute a single thing to society.
Why should I care if Paul is so committed to never entering the world that he'll enter a childish bargain with his father?
I don't.
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 each day, 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 looking to rediscover my humanity-to remind myself that I'm a 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 . . . ?"
Lindy reemerges from the refrigerator, her arms full of what looks like a roast, some fancy-looking cheese, some milk, a box of butter, and some herbs. She uses her butt to shut the fridge door.
The pieces slowly click together even though my brain rejects what I'm seeing: the greater-than-normal amount of food, the use of the dining room, the fact that Lindy's doing a weird smiling/humming thing that's totally unlike her.
"Is someone coming over?" I ask.
"Yup," she says, giving a smug smile as she deposits her ingredients on the counter, and begins wiping away the mess from my lame attempt at making bread.
"Who?" I demand.
She shrugs. "Mr. Paul didn't say."
"‘Mr. Paul didn't say,'" I mimic, exasperated. "Did you even ask him?"
"Not my business. I just need to know the number of people and any food restrictions."
"It is too your business!" I say. "I'm guessing this is the first time this has happened, um, ever?"
"No," she says simply. "He used to have friends over all the time when this was their summer home and this was just a seasonal job for me. You know. Before."
"That's sort of my point. What was normal for him before isn't exactly run of the mill nowadays. Don't you think this is weird? All of a sudden he's all social?"
"There have been lots of changes in Mr. Paul lately," she says, not looking at me. "As long as he keeps moving in the right direction, I'm not going to question it."
She's right, of course. It is a good sign that he's having friends over.
It's also suspicious as all hell. Something is going on.
"All right, I'll set the table," I mutter, realizing that Lindy has said all that she's going to on the matter. "Should I assume I'm on my own for dinner tonight? I don't want you to have to cook two meals."
"You'll be eating this," she says, patting the huge hunk of beef.
"You mean, like leftovers?"
"No, I mean you'll be sitting at the table along with Mr. Paul and his guest. He said there'd be three total. Including you."
What the . . .
"Um, no," I say. "I'm not joining him for dinner. That's beyond inappropriate."
"It's not inappropriate if he requested it. Which he did. Specifically."
I'm pretty much sweating now. Something weird is definitely going on. "He thinks I'll be eating dinner with him and his mysterious dinner guest in the dining room I've never even set foot in?"
"Yup."
I cross my arms. "Not going to happen."
Lindy shrugs. "Fine. You go tell him that, then. But in the meantime, get out of my kitchen so I can work. I set out linens on the table, and after you get that set up, how about you do something about your hair other than the wet ponytail you've been sporting for the past two weeks?"
"Oh yes, by all means, let's get gussied up for Mr. Paul and his enormous wagon of issues."
She begins mincing garlic. "Okay, fine. I'm sure his friend will love that NYU sweatshirt you've worn for three days in a row with the hole in the sleeve."
I grunt, tapping my fingernails against the counter now, my curiosity all but consuming me.
"Olivia," Lindy says mildly.
"Yah?"
"I have an hour to cook my first real meal in years, plus I need to get something for Mick and myself, and your brooding is making me crazy."
"I can help!"