That must be it.
Must be.
So why do I feel a sense of unease?
I make a final visual sweep as I exit the lobby. George is standing next to the open bus doors and he smiles at me as I approach. He’s been trying to make a move on me all week. Well, on Daisy. I feel like an asshole for rejecting him. I know he’s got to be confused about the cold shoulder I’m giving him when as far as he knew he was on good terms with Daisy. I hate feeling like I’m in the middle—even if it was a casual thing between them. It makes me feel responsible for his confusion when I’m not. Or maybe I am, since I’m the one delivering the rejection. Daisy said it was just sex between them, but he did switch tours with someone else to be here—to see her.
So maybe he likes her more than she knows. Or maybe he just wants to get laid. What do I know?
Maybe Jennings just wanted to get laid?
Jesus, Violet, I silently lecture myself. I’m the one who just wanted to get laid. That’s what started this mess. I wanted a simple no-strings-attached one-night stand. I’m the one who smiled at Jennings and told him I was a sure thing. I’m the one who ran out the door the next morning.
I cannot be upset if he disappears now.
I cannot.
That’s what I wanted in the first place.
Except…
I don’t want that anymore. I gnaw at my bottom lip as I take a seat on the bus. By the time the bus is in drive—less than a minute later—I’m in full-on panic. I did run out that morning—the morning we met. Maybe he’s returning the favor now?
Holy shit, I’m a nutcase.
Nut. Case.
I remind myself that I saw him five hours ago and everything was fine. I remind myself of this all the way to the restaurant. And through dinner. And the return drive to the hotel.
By the time the last of the guests says goodnight and leaves the lobby I’m not so sure that I’m crazy. By the time my hotel room door shuts behind me my heart is officially beating faster than normal.
You know that sick feeling you get when you know someone has let you down? You’ve got no proof of it exactly, but your heart knows.
Then you waste a lot of time waffling. Should you prepare yourself for the inevitable? Or hold out hope until not a moment of hope is left and let the disappointment crush you like a ton of bricks?
My room is quiet. I can hear the noise of the city just outside but the silence inside my room is deafening.
Or perhaps that’s the silence in my head.
Why am I so leaveable? Am I really getting dumped by insinuation—again? We’re not even going to have a conversation? He’s just gone?
The worst part is this hurts more than when Mark did it. I spent two years with Mark and this hurts more.
So much more.
Just once it would be nice to get the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ speech.
No. Stop it, I chastise myself. I’ll see Jennings at breakfast tomorrow. This is a misunderstanding. I did not imagine this week. I did not imagine myself in love with him. I did not.
The knock on the door has me spinning around, relief pouring from me like an open wound. The feeling immediately following relief is remorse—for doubting him. A bit of embarrassment at my runaway thoughts. Of course he came.
Then I open the door.
But it’s not Jennings.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Jennings
The brakes squealed as the car tires skidded across the asphalt. That’s the first sound I noticed, the screams following suit. Odd how memory plays in slow motion when the reality happened so bloody quickly.
The car was slowed by a lamp post, coming to a stop just over the curb. The lamp post, however, couldn’t withstand the impact. It toppled into scaffolding covering the front of the market, which in turn collapsed.
One of the metal scaffolding tubes hit Nan in the head when it fell. The rest is a blur of sirens and lights. Nan was loaded into an ambulance, insisting she was fine as blood seeped through the cloth the paramedics pressed to her head. She passed out briefly en route to the hospital—it was the only time she wasn’t insisting she was fine.
My memento from the incident was eight stitches on my forearm while Nan was getting a CT scan. And now we’re arguing over her staying the night in hospital.
“We’re keeping you overnight,” the doctor states and Nan tsks.
“But we have a flight in the morning,” Nan says as the doctor and I both stare at her, unimpressed with her objections.
“Mrs. Anderson, you’ve had a head bleed and you’re on a prescription blood thinner. You’re staying overnight for observation.”
“You’re definitely staying,” I tell her. She’s a stubborn lady but she’s not winning this one. It took two staples to close the gash on her head, if the doctor thinks she should stay she’s staying. “I’ll extend our stay at the hotel and cancel our flight. I’ll rent a car and drive you to Connecticut when you’re released. Bethany can’t be much more than three hours from here. It’ll be less taxing on you than a flight.”