Chapter 12
The next morning, Casey made a point of breaking away from the farm as early as he could. He shouted to Elliot, who was somewhere else in the house repairing plaster, that he was going to run a few errands, and drove downtown. He glanced down the side street where Beers was and tried not to think about last night.
George had invited him in. And he’d said no.
Of course, there was no way he was going to be alone with her another minute. Sure, his body was yelling at him to make a move, but he wouldn’t dream of it, what with the state she was in. His baser instinct told him to help her into the house, close the door behind them, carry her up to her room, and . . . But if he had, he knew he’d actually have tucked her into bed. That was all. He was pretty sure, anyway. Ah, who was he kidding? Of course that’s all he’d have done.
She’d said he was too nice. Didn’t he know it. He had the Blue Balls Award to prove it. But if his only options were to be (a) “too nice” or (b) a callous, sex-crazed ass, he’d go for the former every time. Always the gentleman, although sometimes he wished—desperately—that he wasn’t.
The big question was if he’d done the right thing, why did it feel so wrong? And why had he been on edge all morning? Well, there was that Blue Balls Award thing. He’d lain awake far too late last night because of his, er, condition. And George wasn’t making it any easier, with those veiled mentions of high school hookups and invitations into the silent, shadowed house late at night.
Or maybe it went beyond that. He shook it off. He didn’t want to dig any deeper. Not right now. Maybe not ever. Logic dictated if he stayed away from George, he could get a handle on this. Trouble was, he didn’t
want
to stay away from her.
He pulled up to the curb outside Ray’s print shop, threw the truck into park, and heaved a sigh as he climbed out of the cab. He hoped Ray didn’t start his not-so-subtle campaign to get him to date Celia again. He just couldn’t take that today.
Casey navigated past some women inspecting the goodies in Terrie’s cart of glass-bead jewelry on the edge of the sidewalk, then tried not to trip over Aubrey, one of Marsden’s most promising teen musicians, playing a lovely piece on the cello in the shade of the print shop awning. Beside her, a heart with silver wings glowed on the brick front of the store. Another Marsdy original. He nodded hello to all of them, then ducked inside.
“Morning, Ray,” Casey said congenially, walking up to the counter. He cast a furtive glance at Celia’s desk, saw it was empty, and a wave of relief washed over him. The last thing he wanted to deal with was Ray watching their conversational exchanges like a tennis match. Ray didn’t return his greeting, just stood there with a strange look on his face. “Uh, am I back too soon for those brochures? I can—”
“No,” he said curtly, reaching under the counter and bringing up a small cardboard box, which he slammed down in front of Casey. “You’re right on time. As always. Here you go. Have a good day.” And Ray pushed the box toward him.
“Whoa, whoa.” Casey caught it before it fell over his side of the counter. “Mind if I take a look?”
“They’re fine—Celia did them.” Ray fixed him with a glare, as though daring him to even suggest any work Celia did would be less than perfect.
“I’m not worried about Celia’s work. I just want to check the print job.”
“Take them with you and check them later. If you have any problems, call me. Otherwise, I’ll bill you. Have a good day,” he said again, a bit more emphatically.
“You know, Ray, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to get rid of me.”
Again, no answer. The shop was empty; nobody else was making any demands on the guy’s time. Why was the usually painfully cheerful proprietor so crabby? Well, whatever the reason, Casey wasn’t about to be chased out of the shop. He obstinately stood his ground, opening the box and pulling out one of the glossy, tri-fold brochures right there.
“If you don’t mind,” he said.
Ray made a face but didn’t argue. Casey opened the brochure. Ray was right—Celia had done really great work, as usual. The photos she’d taken of the house and the farm made the place look way better than it did in real life, as though she’d brought out its potential, what it was going to be in the near future. The text trumpeted the meeting room availability and services offered, the pumpkin patch, the gallery—everything that was nearly ready. Or would be, by the time the grand opening came around in early October.
“These are great,” he murmured. “Celia’s really talented.”
“Of course she is.”
Casey eyed the older man sharply. “Ray? Do we have a problem or something?”
“No.”
“Oh, that was convincing.” He waited a moment, but when the other man didn’t say anything, he put the brochure back in the box, closed the flaps, and hoisted it in the crook of his arm. “Okay, fine. Have it your way. Have a good weekend, all right?”
As he turned to go, Ray blurted out, “I hear you’ve been spending time with George lately.”
What?
He turned back to the other man. “Have you, now?”
“You two walking around town with Amelia the other day. Hanging out at Beers last night.”
“Okay. And?”
“Left the bar together too, I hear.”
Casey thought it was very telling that none of the gossip included the fact that they’d been two of a large group, or that George had left alone, and he’d only followed her to return her purse. But all he said was, “I’m afraid to ask what else you heard.”
“Why? What else happened?” Ray asked, a little too eagerly.
He had to bite his lip to keep from grinning. This was ridiculous. “Absolutely none of your business, Ray.” He sighed. “Come on, man, what’s the difference? I’ve known George forever. It’s no big deal.”
“No big deal?” The other man looked over his shoulder furtively, then whispered, “You want to hurt Celia? Again?”
Okay, on second thought, this wasn’t funny at all. “I wouldn’t—she doesn’t—it’s not—” He growled, frustrated. “You know what? Never mind, Ray. You really don’t know what you’re talking about, so—”
More plaintively, Ray said, “I’m just saying everyone in town expects certain things from you, Casey.”
“You have got to be kidding—”
“You know how it is.”
“No, actually, Ray, I don’t. And I don’t appreciate all this . . .” He flailed around, trying to articulate what he was thinking. All that came to mind was
all this attention
. Instead, he said, “Come on. Celia just finalized her divorce. I hear Matt put her through the wringer for years. She doesn’t need a bunch of you standing on the corner talking about her. Or me and her. That’s just—”
“Standing on the corner? Casey, get with the times. It’s all online now.” He paused. “Don’t you read George’s blog?”
“What? No. I—I haven’t got time—”
“Maybe you should make time.”
“Why?” he asked suspiciously.
“Just . . . read it for yourself.”
Casey wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so he just said, “I’ve gotta go. Thanks for the brochures.”
He yanked open the truck door and threw the box onto the passenger seat with more force than necessary. What the hell was Ray talking about, go read George’s blog? Why would he do that, when he barely had time to breathe these days? Hell, the minute he got some down time, late at night, he could barely stay awake long enough to put some dinner in his food hole before he dragged himself upstairs to bed. It seemed he was always on the verge of falling over where he was standing. Going out last night had practically flattened him, and he was still feeling its effects this morning. Come to think of it, maybe that was what had him on edge. Maybe he was wrong to be irritated with Ray. Maybe the guy had a point. But read George’s blog? What in the world could she have written that was so important? She’d said it was a place to make fun of relationships. She had talked about doing a piece on Taylor Swift, for God’s sake. He didn’t have time for that.
So when he found himself in front of his computer, DownOnLove.blogblarg.com on the screen, he briefly wondered what he was doing there instead of outside helping his crew. But he started reading.
His first stop was George’s “About” page, so he could get a feel for the site. There, alongside a brief description of her writing credentials and background, which included a stint in advertising—he never knew that—she’d pinned her first-ever blog entry so it didn’t get lost in the archive.
So let’s get right to it: I left my boyfriend a couple of months ago. His name is . . . well, let’s call him Lucifer....
Casey scanned her story quickly: the theoretical great boyfriend, the growing insecurity and self-blame at their failing relationship, the struggle to decide to leave.
. . . And yes, I tried to work on it before jumping ship. But when you’re the only one who’s actually trying . . . it makes it pretty tough. I got tired. I grew insecure. I started to think it was my fault we weren’t working. I tried to be more understanding, more malleable, more thoughtful, more giving.
And I got walked on, taken advantage of, taken for granted, and still not appreciated. I never was physically abused, let me be clear about that, but sometimes emotional abuse can be worse. After all, nobody can see that like a black eye. My point is, I was never valued, never honored, never respected. The more I gave in, the more I ended up existing just for him. The more I gave, the more he took.
And then I started to disappear. It was then I knew I had to get out. Before I vanished altogether . . .
Casey read more—every word, very carefully—and at one point he realized he was twitching with the urge to punch this “Lucifer” guy.
. . . It took me a while to realize I had done the right thing. I went through a phase where I regretted my decision. But I’m glad I waited instead of running back to him, falling back into the same old mess, going back to being “less than.” At my darkest . . . it wasn’t pretty. I was never suicidal—not at all—but I was pretty down, yeah. I mean beyond the Bridget Jones-drinking-in-her-pajamas-and-lip-synching-sad-songs. It was more crawling-into-bed-and-not-moving-a-muscle-for-forty-eight-hours type of down.
And then I thought of getting it all out somehow. I wanted to turn to my friends, but then I realized I didn’t have any more friends. Lucifer, master of isolation, had taken care of that. So—ta da!—here is my blog. I’m going to use it to untangle my thoughts about this most recent failed relationship. It’s free, which is more than can be said about a therapist, after all.
He leaned back in his desk chair. Poor George. He’d had no idea. She was such a good kid; she shouldn’t have been put through something like that. Then he stopped himself. Not a kid. She’d said as much, the other day, and she was right.
He followed a link to her “Rules” page.
Hey, it’s called Down on Love—pretty self-explanatory, isn’t it? I’ll talk about other things, as well, I suppose, but this will be mostly about crappy relationships. Here are the rules and guidelines I have just pulled out of my butt (and are therefore subject to change as occasion demands):
- True to the blog name, I will be down on love. At all times.
I am firmly against dating, romance, and other stupid activities associated with the myth of finding one’s soul mate.
- I will share my thoughts about my last car crash of a relationship honestly. But why should I have all the fun? You are welcome to write in and share your disasters as well. If your tales of woe are not unbelievably offensive, you just might see them here. In other words, if you too are down on love, join in. (Names will be changed to protect the douchey. Posts will be moderated, because this is my game and my rules. Comments will not be moderated, so knock yourself out expressing your opinion. However, some comments may be deleted if they’re just plain evil. See “douchey,” above.)
- This is not a dating service. If you are looking for others to hook up with, go somewhere else, like Plenty of Fish or Match.com. (Better yet, I’d recommend you try hunting for your significant other offline, if you want to find out what the other person is really like. Trust. But if you prefer staring at other people’s photos while you sit around in your underwear, one hand in your . . . Cheetos bag . . . have it your way. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.)
- Since my breakup, I have been celibate. This is not by choice, but by necessity, and by default. I’m not looking for a new boyfriend, and I’m not looking for hookups. My neo-virginity holds firm (so to speak). This is not an invitation to try to break me down. So don’t. You won’t get anywhere. And do not consider that a challenge. You’ll be wasting your time. I mean it. (I can’t believe I had to put this in here, but some idiots have already approached me, and it’s nasty and unwelcome and cut it out. See “douchey,” above.)
- I will occasionally offer relationship advice if you ask for it. However, you should be aware that my advice will always, always culminate in a highly biased directive to dump his/her ass. I shall not waver in this. So if you write in, be prepared.
- If you have a serious problem (abuse, etc.), keep in mind I am not a professional and so am not qualified to help you with it. I will always steer you toward getting professional help. I do this because I truly care about your well-being.
- Speaking of deadly serious stuff, if you haven’t tweaked to it already, this blog is for laughs, peeps. Visit with the intention of getting shit off your chest and going away lighter for it.
Now, let the bitchin’ begin!
Casey knew he had to get some work done—head out to the pumpkin patch, maybe do some weeding himself instead of leaving it to the farmhands. He hadn’t gotten his hands dirty in . . . okay, half a day. But it already seemed too long. Still, he couldn’t tear himself away from George’s blog; it was like an online guide to her recent history, not to mention her emotional state at the moment. He sampled a couple “DoLlies in Need” letters, just to see if George made good on her promise to tell everyone who wrote in to dump their boyfriend or girlfriend. She did.