Seed Page 8

  He chuckled. “I saw you in there last week.”

  “Have you been stalking me?”

  He laughed harder now, a deep, seductive laugh that sent a chill racing through me. “Sweetheart,” he murmured, “let me take you out this weekend, then you’ll be the one stalking me. I guarantee it.”

  I smiled to myself as I remembered how often Jack used the phrase “I guarantee it” in those days. It was a reference to those annoying Men’s Warehouse commercials, which became another one of our many inside jokes.

  My heart sunk as I realized I didn’t have any emails from Jack. But I did have an email from my father.

  My father and I only spoke on the phone about once every six months these days. But he did email me every other month. I was fairly certain he had a reminder on his calendar to do it or he’d forget. Not that my attempts to communicate with him were any more frequent. It was just that, ever since the murders, we didn’t really have much to talk about. Well, nothing that didn’t hurt.

  As I hit send on my reply, a marketing email came through from REI thanking me for subscribing to their newsletter. I squinted at the screen as a horrifying thought occurred to me. What if I blacked out while I was drunk last night, and I did things I couldn’t remember today?

  I gasped as I thought of how I remembered dreaming of Isaac coming over while I was drunk. What if it wasn’t a dream?

  I quickly scrolled to the bottom of the email and unsubscribed. Then, another thought occurred to me. If I subscribed to the REI newsletter while I was drunk last night, why was I just receiving the welcome email now?

  I shook my head as I realized that it was probably programmed to send welcome emails twelve hours after someone subscribed. I sighed and closed my laptop, relieved that I was being paranoid for no reason at all.

  I leaned back in my mom’s leather desk chair as I recalled how Jack often came in to see me or pick me up at the end of my shift while I was working at that REI store near campus. How my heart skipped a beat every time I saw him walking in with that gorgeous, crooked grin on his face. How we almost got caught having sex in the stockroom more than once.

  I had a vague memory of trying to call Jack a couple of days ago — while drunk, of course — and I was certain I’d left him a voicemail. Or maybe I had successfully deleted it before it could be sent. Jack wouldn’t ignore a voicemail from me, would he?

  Expelling a heavy sigh, I scooped my cell phone up off the desk and called the one person I least wanted to talk to right now.

  “Well, hello,” Jack’s mother Victoria answered in her smooth, haughty voice.

  Victoria had grown up in Seattle proper, the daughter of a civil engineer who worked for the city and a stay-at-home-mom, both of whom firmly believed a woman’s place was in the home. Her older brother, a very successful architect, lived in Vancouver, British Columbia. Victoria graduated from Vassar with a degree in French Studies. She made it a point to show off her impeccable French accent any chance she got.

  “Good morning, Victoria,” I replied, trying to keep my tone serious. “Have you heard from Jack?”

  She let out a puff of laughter. “When was the last time you spoke to him?”

  I ignored the laughter and the snide tone. “Look, I know you’ve probably already heard that Jack and I are separated. And you probably already know it happened last Wednesday. That’s the last time I heard from him. I tried calling him the day before yesterday, but—”

  “The day before yesterday?” she replied with disbelief. “You waited a week to call your husband after you cheated on him? What kind of person does that?”

  The sharp sting of shame was like a slap in the face. “I don’t expect you to know the truth or to understand. But I’m worried about Jack and I want to know that he’s okay. I deserve to know that he’s okay.”

  She huffed. “What you do and don’t deserve is not for you to judge, my dear.” She paused, waiting for me to respond, which I would not give her the satisfaction of doing. “Despite your obvious unwillingness, or inability, to care for him, Jack is perfectly fine,” she continued. “But I suggest you don’t call him again. Give him the courtesy of time to process what you’ve done.”

  I bit my lip until I tasted blood, but the pain failed to quiet me. “I know you haven’t had the easiest time with Edward, but I am not your husband. Not even close. I have always been faithful to your son. And I will continue to worry about him and check on him, because I love him and care for him, and nothing you say can change that.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Goodbye.”

  As I ended the call, the hangover that failed to appear this morning, slammed into me full force. My vision blurred as my heartbeat pounded in my skull. Sweat sprouted over my brow as a wave of nausea crashed over me. If Jack hadn’t worn a condom the last time we had sex — while I was on my period — I would consider taking a pregnancy test.

  As it were, I would probably never be pregnant again. Jack and I would get divorced, and I would end up alone in my mother’s house, with a dozen dogs, pining after Jack for the rest of my days. No one could replace Jack.

  I’d never feel his hands exploring my body. I’d never feel the weight of him on top of me, securing me to the earth when I felt as if I’d disintegrate into the ether. I’d never feel the roll of a tiny leg moving inside me. I’d never look into my child’s eyes and see the shine of pure innocence or feel the weight of their unfettered trust.

  I knew I was only thirty. Still plenty of time to find someone new and have another baby. But how could I possibly find someone who compared to Jack?

  Isaac was beautiful and fierce and caring. But he was also unpredictable. In that way, he and Jack were quite similar. But other than their lack of predictability, Isaac and Jack couldn’t be more different.

  Jack and I had matured together. We made all of life’s big decisions and mistakes together. We built a life most would envy, filled with inside jokes, belly-aching laughs, happy tears, and late-night conversations about how we were going to change the world one app at a time. It was a love so beautiful it ached to remember. Then, it was stolen from us.

  Instead of building something new, we abandoned each other.

  Maybe that was the biggest difference between Jack and Isaac. Maybe Isaac was my chance to build something new.

  I shot up from the desk chair and headed out to the living room. I wanted a drink so bad. Or a Xanax. Instead, I left.

  I power-walked to Isaac’s front door and rung the doorbell. Then, I remembered that he probably couldn’t get up easily to answer the door. When I tried the latch, I was surprised to find it unlocked. As I pushed the door open, I couldn’t tell if Isaac looked more surprised that I had let myself in his front door or that Boomer had not reacted to my sudden intrusion.

  “I’m sorry,” I began. “I rang the doorbell. Then, I remembered that you probably shouldn’t be getting up right now. Please have a seat,” I said, motioning to the gray tweed sofa as if it were my sofa in my living room.

  He flashed me that eye-crinkling smile that always warmed my insides. “I was actually in the kitchen cooking.”

  “Should you be doing that? Shouldn’t you be resting?”

  He shrugged his broad shoulders. “A man’s gotta eat. I’m making lunch.”

  I smiled. “Want some help?”

  He stared at me for a long while, and I wished I knew what he was thinking. When he finally opened his mouth to speak, I was certain he had thought it over and now he was going to ask me to leave. But he didn’t.

  “I would love that,” he replied.

  I nodded and followed him and Boomer toward the kitchen. “You have a seat at the table. I’ll finish whatever you’ve started.”

  He let out a soft chuckle, but he didn’t protest as he sat down at the circular table in the breakfast nook while Boomer lay at his feet. “Yes, ma’am.”

  I glanced around the U-shaped kitchen, which had the same layout as my mom’s kitchen, but the cabinets were swathe
d in new gray paint. The walls were painted a muted shade of blue, so light it could be mistaken for white. A pack of burger buns lay open on the counter next to an open can of tomato sauce and a package of ground beef.

  “So, what’s for dinner?” I asked.

  Isaac grinned. “Sloppy Joes.”

  The way he said the word sloppy was almost indecent, and made hidden parts of my body twitch. But the two words together, Sloppy Joes, had a very different meaning for me.

  My hands flew up to cover my face and I began to cry. “Oh, I’m sorry,” I whispered as I tried to block out the memory at the forefront of my mind.

  “Oh, hey. We can make something else if you’re not into Sloppy Joes,” Isaac said, his chair scraping over the wood floor as he stood up.

  “No,” I replied quickly. “Please sit down,” I said, wiping away tears as I tried to catch my breath. “It’s not that I don’t like them. It’s just… My mom used to make Sloppy Joes. But… she used to add cheese and lettuce to make them fancy. Then, she’d call them Unkempt Josephs.”

  Isaac laughed harder than I expected him to. “Oh, good God. Your mom’s sense of humor is the gift that keeps on giving. Isn’t it?”

  I nodded as tears continued to stream down my face. “It really is.”

  When I finally pulled myself together, I made us some halfway decent Sloppy Joes. I even ate half of one, despite the fact I wasn’t the least bit hungry. But I didn’t want to disappoint Isaac. After I cleaned the dishes, he insisted on walking me to the door.

  “I’d be happy to help out with anything you need done while you’re healing. The gardening, cleaning, cooking. You name it, I’m at your service,” I offered as he leaned against the threshold.

  “That’s very kind of you to offer, but you don’t have to do any of that. I’m a big boy. I can manage on my own.”

  “But,” I said, letting out a sigh. “It’s my fault you’re hurt. The least I can do is help you out for a few days. I… I don’t really have anything else to do. I’m… kind of going crazy over there.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Do you not remember anything that happened last night?”

  “Excuse me?”

  His expression of skepticism melted into a soft smile. “Nothing,” he replied. “You know, on second thought, I guess I could use some help around here.”

  I nodded as I made a conscious decision to ignore his insinuation that something had happened while I was drunk last night. “Okay. Well, how about we start with you coming over to my house tomorrow night… so you don’t have to worry about answering the door for all those trick-or-treaters.”

  He shook his head. “I knew I was forgetting something.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll go pick up some candy at the store.”

  He gazed into my eyes for a moment. “Are you sure you want to hand out candy? I’m more than happy to just turn off all my lights and pretend I’m not home.”

  I smiled at his attempt to spare me the experience of seeing dozens of happy children and parents. “We can do a scary movie marathon. Alcohol-free.”

  He laughed. “Sounds like a damn good time. I’ll bring the juice boxes and the hairy monster,” he said, nodding toward Boomer.

  I bit my lip to keep from making an innuendo about Isaac bringing his hairy monster. “See you then.”

  Chapter 10

  Jack

  The event venue at the Glass House in San Jose, California had been decorated to look like a haunted forest. The dark, silvery moonlight gave the 1,600 square foot Sky Patio an eerie glow. The fog machines made the artificial moss-covered trees seem as if they were stretching their craggily branches in your direction as you passed. The temperature outside on the rooftop was a cool sixty-one degrees, but there were still a few propane patio heaters in case anyone got too chilly.

  Jade had done a great job coordinating the event. It was a shame she couldn’t be here.

  As I made my way to the bar, I could hear someone following closely behind me. “Club soda with a lime twist,” I told the bartender, then I turned around, not at all surprised to find Miranda staring at me with a red-lipped grin as wide as the ocean.

  “Happy Halloween,” I said, turning back toward the bar.

  She sidled up next to me. “Aren’t you going to comment on my costume?” she asked in that husky Demi Moore voice that grated on my every nerve ending.

  I took another glance at her Princess Jasmine costume, quickly looking away from her bulging cleavage. “Aladdin. Very cool.”

  She laughed as she turned around to show me the back of her costume, and the way her long, black hair fell down her back in a loose plait. But I wasn’t born yesterday. It was abundantly clear she wanted to show off the massive junk in her trunk.

  “My aunt made the costume and I did my hair. Do you like?”

  The bartender slid my club soda to me and I slid him a twenty-dollar bill. “Sure. Like I said, very cool,” I replied to Miranda, then I headed toward the other side of the patio to get a better view of the city lights.

  As I arrived at the railing, the view took my breath away. It was Halloween on a Saturday night in Silicon Valley. The city was alive with color and light, blanketed in glitter and mischief.

  “Wow. What a gorgeous view,” Miranda murmured as she curled her talons around the steel railing.

  As she began to say something else, my mind drifted to the memory of my first Halloween party with Laurel. We had only been dating a few weeks. When I knocked on the door of her apartment, I was certain she would get a kick out of my fireman costume. But when she opened the door and I saw her dressed like Ursula from The Little Mermaid, that was the moment I knew I loved her. The costume and the fat-suit underneath were homemade, due to lack of funds, but she never looked more majestic to me.

  “Why aren’t you dressed up?” Miranda asked when I came out of my memory.

  I closed my eyes as a soft breeze skimmed over my heated skin. This weather was too warm for the middle of autumn. I’d only been in California six hours and I already missed the rain.

  “I didn’t feel like being anyone else today,” I replied, opening my eyes as I turned around and leaned back against the railing.

  She let out a soft, sultry laugh. “I wouldn’t want to be anyone else if I were you, either. So, where’s your wife?”

  The hard edge in her voice when she spoke the word “wife” was unmistakable.

  I shook my head. “My wife is at home,” I replied, not taking her bait.

  “Really? I heard you two were separated.”

  I turned my head to look her in the eye. “You heard wrong.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Okay, no need to get upset. Just making chit-chat.”

  I laughed. “Maybe you should go get a drink and make chit-chat with someone else.”

  She was silent for a long while. I wondered if I’d offended her, but I was too annoyed with her to look at her smug face and find out.

  “That’s a good idea,” she finally said. “Do you want me to bring you something from the bar?”

  Jesus fucking Christ. This girl didn’t take a hint well.

  I held up my glass of club soda. “I’m all set. Thanks.”

  “No bourbon tonight?” she asked playfully, a vague reference to the bottle of bourbon she’d sent me a few weeks ago, which I poured over Laurel’s glorious pussy during sex.

  “Not tonight,” I said, then I downed the rest of the soda.

  Her smile returned. “Why not? Afraid you might do something you’ll regret?”

  “Nope. Just not drinking much these days.”

  Her smile shriveled. “Are you in AA now, or something?”

  I ignored her question as another memory came to me. “I spent the summer between my freshman and sophomore year in college in this tiny village in Costa Rica with a couple of friends, just partying and trying to learn to surf.” I smiled as I stared at the crystal-clear ice in my glass while imagining the crystal-blue ocean waves. “The drinking water w
as questionable, and we couldn’t afford bottled water, so we got in the habit of adding a little vodka or tequila to our water to kill the bad stuff. When I came back from Costa Rica, I was a full-blown alcoholic. I had to wean myself off the stuff by having an occasional finger of bourbon every three or four days. That’s when my love of bourbon began.”

  Miranda let out an impatient sigh. “Okay, so are you or are you not an alcoholic?”

  I finally spun around to her and looked her dead in the eye. “That’s none of your business,” I said, then I placed the empty glass on a nearby table and headed for the exit.

  As I passed Kent — in a vampire costume — and a couple of board members chatting near the center of the patio, Kent called out to me in a Dracula-like voice. I should stop and say hello, do the usual schmoozing and pretending I cared what any of them were saying. But I was done pretending to be someone I wasn’t.

  I didn’t start this company so I could spend my life obsessing over the bottom line and whether or not our latest app was silly enough to appeal to the right demographic. Laurel and I had dreamed of using technology for the greater good. We often joked that our marriage had a slogan: changing the world one app at a time.

  The Halo Foundation was a step in the right direction, but I messed that up by putting Miranda in charge of it. Maybe it was time to cut the umbilical cord and set Halo free.

  I stopped next to Kent and looked around at the group of investors. “Good evening, gentlemen,” I said, then I looked Kent in the eye. “You took a chance when you invested in me to create this company. And you’ve been tolerant of my prolonged absence since the death of my son. For that, I will always be grateful. But this company isn’t what it used to be. It isn’t what I envisioned.”

  Kent looked confused and embarrassed by my words. “What are you talking about?” he said, with an uncomfortable chuckle. “Is this some kind of Halloween prank?”

  “I’m done, Kent. Send me a buyout package and I’ll have my lawyer look it over.” I glanced around the group and nodded. “Goodnight, gentlemen.”