Mayday (24 page)

A
n unfamiliar hand reached out over the desk, around the computer in front of her, and tugged on the end of her red pigtail.

“Hey, Pippi,” the patron said, the alcohol on his breath wafting her way. “Wanna carry my horse above your head, if you know what I mean?”

Helen shot him a look that should have frozen his gonads and made them drop to the floor and shatter, like grapes dipped into liquid nitrogen. “I'm afraid I don't. Is the horse your penis in this particular metaphor?”

“Why don't I take over this question?” Tina approached the second-floor Adult Reference desk from the children's area, her stride measured and her face calm. “I believe it's time for Ms. Murphy's break.”

Helen's glance at the lower-right corner of the computer screen revealed that she'd been on the desk for . . . ten minutes. Ten very long, very cranky minutes. Still, she knew her duty. “I can handle this, Tina.” At Tina's skeptical look, she added, “Better than I did. Sorry.”

The older woman shook her head. “Go talk to Ms. Chen for a few minutes. Give yourself some time to clear your head.”

Tina had never before yanked Helen from the desk. Yet another highlight of one of the most dreadful days of Helen's life. Her shoulders slumped as she moved away from the computer and started for the stairs. Before she could leave, though, a gentle hand landed on her arm.

“It's all right, Helen,” Tina said. The eyes behind her metal-rimmed glasses were understanding. “We all have difficult days. Take your time.”

Fighting tears, Helen nodded and went downstairs to the employees-only section of the library. As she got closer to the Bookmobile office, she heard the sound of an argument. And by the time she stood in Con's doorway, she could see that her friend and her one-time lover were going at each other again.

“If your computer malfunctions, the appropriate response isn't kicking it, Ms. Chen.” Sam bent over Con's desk, his hands planted flat on the only two bare spaces on the entire surface. “It's calling the tech department so we can troubleshoot the problem.”

Con narrowed her eyes at Sam, refusing to back away. In fact, she mimicked his posture, leaning forward until only an inch or two separated her nose from his. “I've seen you guys do the same thing. I've witnessed you kicking my CPU like it's a recalcitrant mule balking before a race.”

Helen tilted her head as she considered that simile.
A mule race?

For just a moment, she could have sworn she saw Sam's lips quirk at the edges. Then his brow lowered and all traces of amusement vanished.

“We don't wear steel-toed boots to work,” Sam said. “Maybe because we don't consider the library an extension of our own personal garden. Or junkyard.” He cast a disparaging glance around Con's cluttered office, silently indicating the overgrown plants and piles of papers and books.

“Explain this to me.” Con stabbed another pencil through the bun sliding down the side of her head, arresting her errant hair in its course. “How come, even though your department employs four goddamn people, you're always the grumpy bastard who comes when I call for help? Or even when I don't? Especially since you don't enjoy dealing with me?”

He froze in position over her desk, and then slowly raised himself up. A few long seconds passed before he responded to Con's question in a raspy voice. “You're mine.” He paused again. “I mean, my responsibility.”

During the sudden silence that fell, Helen took the opportunity to clear her throat. Both Con and Sam jumped at the sound.

Recovering quickly, Sam headed for the door. He didn't look like he was going to stop for any reason, so Helen moved out of the way.

“I'll send someone else to fix your computer,” he told Con over his shoulder before turning to Helen. “See you later, Helen. Have a good day.”

His sneakers didn't make a sound as he exited the room, but they should have. Helen would have called his walk more of a stomp. If he'd been wearing Con's boots, the concussion against the floor would have deafened them all.

“Huh.” Helen had to admit it. She was entertained. For a moment, she'd even forgotten her absolute and utter misery. “That was something.”

Con spread her hands and sighed. “I know. He brings out the worst in me.”

Shoving aside a pile of papers, Helen collapsed onto the chair in front of her friend's desk. “Well, he certainly elicits a reaction. Why do you think that is?”

A few steps brought Con to her office door. She shut it firmly, and then perched on top of a stack of reports on her desk, facing Helen. “Who gives a shit?” Con's dark eyes scanned her friend, noting everything. “Tell me what's going on. You look like someone peed on your favorite blanket, then set it on fire. And why haven't you returned my calls the last couple of days?”

“Wouldn't the pee inhibit the flames?” Helen tried for a smile and failed.

“Shut up and tell Mama Chen what's wrong.”

“Oh, God.” Helen crumpled forward, bending at the waist with her arms wrapped around herself. “I broke up with Wes. And I l-love him. So much.”

Con's arms surrounded Helen, supporting her shaking frame as the sobs began again. Her best friend didn't bother asking more questions, just made soothing noises as she held Helen and passed over tissues whenever the situation seemed to require them.

Helen had quieted to occasional sniffles before Constance spoke again.

“Why?” She blotted the last few tears from Helen's face with a tissue. “If you love him so much, what made you break it off?”

Helen took a shaky breath, remembering the conversation two days before. The memory of Wes's stony face still gutted her. Not as much, though, as the memory of when that stone had cracked and revealed the depth of his grief and longing for her. His agony in that moment had matched hers. Maybe even surpassed it.

Leaving him in that state had felt like tearing out her heart and stomping on it. But she'd done it. Because she had no choice.

“He's leaving in six months, Con, no matter how much I love him. And I can't go with him. Not without sacrificing everything I am and everything I want.” She closed her weary, aching eyes. “I wish I could do it, but I can't. I'd hate him for it in the end. Myself too.”

“I'm not sure I understand.” Constance ran a soothing hand down through Helen's curls, stroking them like the mother she'd just called herself. “Why would you have to go with him? What's wrong with long-distance dating?”

“He has no intention of coming back here, Con. Our five-hour separation wouldn't be just a temporary thing. And God knows where he might go after Clearport.” Another tear squeezed past her closed eyelids. “Unless I committed myself to moving with him every time, we'd never actually be together.”

Constance thought for a moment before speaking again. “Okay. But why not stay a couple until he leaves?”

“Because I'd be too tempted to abandon myself for him. And even if I stayed strong and remained in Niceville . . .” Helen gestured at herself with a limp hand. “See this? This is nothing compared to how I'd feel when he left me behind after six months of being together. Or longer, if we dated long-distance.”

“Does he love you?”

“Yes.” She didn't doubt it. Hadn't doubted it since she'd seen the heart he'd created from rose petals and rice. The one he'd placed on her parents' doorstep, alongside a small tree covered with streamers.

“And you love him.”

A sad, short laugh escaped her lips. “Clearly. Though I'm not sure he still believes it.”

Her own heartbreak and loneliness had stripped away her pragmatic calm, temporarily damaging the cheerful, resilient core that had brought her through all the setbacks in her life. She knew she would heal, though. Eventually. So that wasn't her worst fear.

No, her worst fear was that she'd broken Wes. That he no longer believed in her love for him. That, even if he acknowledged the depth of that love, he now considered it as conditional as his parents' had been. That he'd never let anyone else inside his heart to give him the comfort he needed. The love he deserved, even if he didn't realize it.

Despite his size and strength, despite his endless capacity for hard work and all his determination, Wes was fragile. Tattered in ways she suspected no one else saw. She'd wanted to mend those rips and tears, and maybe she could have fixed some of them in time. But she didn't have time, and she couldn't take more of it without risking too much of herself. Besides, she knew some of those tatters—the most shredded parts—could only be fixed by one person, and that person wasn't her. It was Wes.

Maybe he could do that somewhere other than Niceville, in the larger world he'd wanted to see for so many years. Even if he had to do it without her.

“I love him. But it's not enough, Con. I wish it were.” She ducked her head, hiding against her friend's strong shoulder.

Con's voice was thick with unshed tears, her generous emotional response to her best friend's grief. “I'm so sorry, honey.”

Helen choked on her reply, aching for herself and Wes both. “Me too.”

 

This is it. What you've always wanted. What you've dreamed about since you were a kid. A world outside of Niceville opening up for you. Welcoming you. Hell,
inviting
you to leave Nice County behind and come settle here. And it even has a beach.

Wes gazed at the brackish water of the Chesapeake Bay. Lovely, but more brown than he'd expected. From what Bea and the other City Council members had told him that morning, Clearport had long relied on the creatures living in the bay to stay solvent. Fish, crabs, oysters—they'd kept the local economy afloat for generations. But now, pollution had poisoned the water. And that pollution, along with overfishing and foreign competition, was endangering the livelihood of the town.

Fixing the problem wouldn't be easy. The mayor of a small community had only limited authority to strengthen limits on pollution and enforce already-existing regulations. He suspected that Bea and her colleagues had essentially given up that fight, instead turning to tourism to boost Clearport's economy. Which was why he'd come to her attention, of course.

The City Council meeting would take place in a couple of hours, and he was taking some time to clear his head before facing his future opponents and at least one journalist from the local newspaper. According to Bea, they would probably ask him about his background, searching for any weaknesses to publicize and exploit. Poke at him, seeing if they could make his temper flare. Quiz him as to what exactly he—an outsider—might be able to accomplish in a city he'd never seen before today.

Some answers would come readily. If he became mayor, he could help with tourism almost immediately, or at least start the fight to get more funding from the City Council and the local taxpayers. He could plan and advertise special events. Revitalize the downtown. Make Clearport shine.

About the issue of water pollution, though, he knew almost nothing. Over the past week, he'd done some online research and read over Bea's materials, but it wasn't enough. It would take months, maybe years, to get himself up to speed and learn all the players.

It was a challenge, but he could do it. The question was: Did he want to?

Stupid question. Right now, he didn't want to do anything except run until his legs collapsed beneath him, swim laps until his arms shook from the exertion, or ride his bike until the frame disintegrated and threw him to the ground. Anything that would overpower his misery and drive it to the back of his mind. He didn't want to remember the sound of Helen's giggle, the devastated but determined look in her eyes as she'd said she was leaving him, the last sight of her spread trembling beneath him in bed.

He didn't want to remember Helen. Period.

It was unfair. He knew it. Helen didn't owe him anything, much less the total abnegation of her dreams. But he couldn't shake a feeling of betrayal. For the first time in his life, he'd known what unconditional support felt like. Basked in her pride and unwavering belief in his abilities. He'd felt . . . loved. Cherished.

Then she'd stripped it all away from him without warning.

Good thing he still had his own dream to hold onto: leaving Niceville, at long last.

He kicked an oyster shell toward the shore, evaluating what he'd seen today. Clearport had potential. Abundant natural beauty, locals passionate about their town, and a myriad of avenues for economic stability the townspeople hadn't yet explored. And living near the water would be nice.

His parents had always talked about their love for beaches and bodies of flowing water, any scenery they hadn't already seen their entire lives. Miguel's family had come from an ocean-side village in Mexico, and Wes didn't think his father had ever stopped longing for that ancestral home. Sometimes, after Lisa had already gone to bed, Miguel used to flip through old photo albums, looking at black-and-white photographs of family members Wes had never met and ocean waters Wes had never seen.

Now here he was, about to uproot himself and move to the water's edge. Live the dream.

Oddly enough, though, he couldn't help thinking of the mountains surrounding Niceville. The way the land swelled and dipped, covered with a green that changed during the seasons from a bright lime to emerald to a dusty army green, before exploding into millions of shades of red, orange, yellow, and brown. During the winter, the trees stippled the hills and mountains, soldiers standing guard over the ridges.