“You talked to them, about this? About me?”
“Not specifics. Just general information. Ballparking what you’d need to start up, what you’d need to qualify, the cost of licensing. I’ve got a file. You like files, so I put together a file.”
“Without consulting me.”
“I put together the file so I could consult you and you’d have something tangible to look over when you thought about it.”
She walked away from him. “You shouldn’t have done all that.”
“It’s the sort of thing I do. This”-he swept his arm in the air-“is the sort of thing you do. You’re not going to tell me you’re going to be happy doing office work the rest of your life.”
“No, I’m not going to tell you that.” She turned back. “I’m not going to tell you I’m going to dive headfirst into starting a business that I’m not sure I want in the first place, in a town that may not exist in a few months. And if I want my own business, I haven’t thought about having it here. If I want my own, how can I think about all the details involved when all this madness is going on?”
He was silent a moment, so silent she swore she heard the old house breathing.
“It seems to me it’s most important to go after what you want when there’s madness going on. I’m asking you to think about it. More, I guess I’m asking you to think about something you haven’t yet. Staying. Open the shop, manage my office, found a nudist colony, or take up macrame, I don’t care as long as it makes you happy. But I want you to think about staying, Layla, not just to destroy ancient fucking evil, but to live. To have a life, with me.”
As she stared at him, he stepped closer. “Put this in one of your slots. I’m in love with you. Completely, absolutely, no-turning-back in love with you. We could build something good, and solid, and real. Something that makes every day count. That’s what I want. So you think about it, and when you know, you tell me what you want.”
He walked back to the door, opened it, and waited for her.
“Fox-”
“I don’t want to hear you don’t know. I’ve already got that. Let me know when you do. You’re upset and a little ticked off, I get that, too,” he said as he locked up. “Take the rest of the day off.”
She started to object, he saw it on her face. Then she changed her mind. “All right. There are some things I need to do.”
“I’ll see you later then.” He stepped back, stopped. “The building’s not the only thing with potential,” he told her. And he turned, walked away down the bricked sidewalk in the April sunshine.
Sixteen
HE THOUGHT ABOUT GETTING DRUNK. HE COULD call Gage, who’d sit and drink coffee or club soda, bitching only for form, and spend the evening in some bar getting steadily shit-faced. Cal would go, too; he had only to ask. That’s what friends were for, being the company misery loved.
Or he could just pick up the beer-maybe a bottle of Jack for a change of pace-take it to Cal’s and get his drunk on there.
But he knew he wouldn’t do either of those things. Planning to get drunk took all the fun out of it. He preferred it to be a happy accident. Work, Fox decided, was a better option than getting deliberately trashed.
He had enough to keep him occupied for the rest of the day, particularly at the easy pace he liked to work. Handling the office on his own for an afternoon added the perk of giving him time and space to brood. Fox considered brooding an inalienable human right, unless it dragged out more than three hours, at which point it became childish indulgence.
Did she really think he’d crossed some line and gone behind her back? That he tried to manipulate, bully, or pressure? Manipulation wasn’t beyond him, he admitted, but that just hadn’t been the case with this. Knowing her, he’d believed she’d appreciate having some facts, projected figures, the steps, stages compiled in an orderly fashion. He’d equated handing them to her on the same level as handing her a bouquet of daffodils.
Just a little something he’d picked up because he was thinking about her.
He stood in the center of his office, juggling the three balls as he walked back over it all in his mind. He’d wanted to show her the building, the space, the possibilities. And yeah, he’d wanted to see her eyes light up as she saw them, as she opened herself to them. That had been strategy, not manipulation. Jesus, it wasn’t like he’d signed a lease for her, or applied for a loan, a business license. He’d just taken the time to find out what it would take for her to do those things.
But there was one thing he hadn’t factored into that strategy. He’d never considered that she wasn’t considering staying in the Hollow. Staying with him.
He dropped one of the balls, managed to snag it on the bounce. Setting himself, he started the circle again.
If he’d made a mistake it was in assuming she loved him, that she intended to stay. He’d never questioned, not seriously-her conviction matched his-that there would be something to stay for, something to build on, after the week of July seventh. He believed he’d felt those things from her, but he had to accept now those feelings and needs were just a reflection of his own.
That wasn’t just a bitter pill to swallow, but the kind that caught in your throat and choked you for a while before you managed to work it down. But like it or not, he thought, a guy had to take his medicine.
She wasn’t required to feel what he felt or want what he wanted. God knew he’d been raised to respect, even require, individuality. It was better to know if she didn’t share his feelings, his wants, better to deal with the reality rather than the fantasy. That was another nasty pill, as he’d had a beauty of a fantasy going.
Her smart, fashionable shop a couple blocks up from his office, Fox mused as he dropped the balls back in his drawer. Maybe grabbing lunch together a couple times a week. Scouting for a house in town, like that old place on the corner of Main and Redbud. Or a place a little ways out, if she liked that better. But an old house they could put their mark on together. Something with a yard for kids and dogs and a garden.
Something in a town that was safe and whole, and no longer threatened. A porch swing-he had a fondness for them.
And that was the problem, wasn’t it? he admitted, walking to the window to study the distant roll of the mountains. All that was what he wanted, what he hoped for. All that couldn’t be if it didn’t mesh with her wants and hopes and visions.
So he’d swallow that, too. They had today to get through, and all the others until Hawkins Hollow was clean. Futures were just that-the tomorrow. Maybe the foundation for them couldn’t and shouldn’t be built when the ground was still unsettled.
Priorities, O’Dell, he reminded himself, and sat back at his desk. He pulled up his own files on the journals to begin picking through his notes.
And the first spider crawled out of his keyboard.
It bit the back of his hand, striking quickly before he could jerk back. The pain was instant and amazing, a vicious ice-pick jab that dug fire under the skin. As he shoved away, they poured out like black water, from the keys, from the drawers.
And they grew.
LAYLA WALKED INTO THE HOUSE WITH HER SYSTEM still reeling. Escape, that’s what she’d done. Fox had given her the out, and she leaped at it. Walk away, don’t deal with this now.
He loved her. Had she known it? Had she slipped that knowledge into a neat file, tucked it away until it was more convenient or more sensible to examine it?
He loved her. He wanted her to stay. More, he wanted her to commit to him, to the town. To herself, Layla admitted. In his Fox-like way, he’d laid it all out for her, presented it to her in a way he’d believed she’d appreciate.
What he’d done, Layla thought, was scare her to death. Her own shop? That was just one of the airy little dreams she’d enjoyed playing with years before. One she’d let go-almost. Hawkins Hollow? Her commitment there was to save it, and to-even though it sounded pretentious-fulfill her destiny. Anything beyond that was too hard to see. And Fox?