Only You Page 9

  “Anne Shirley?” I sputter out a surprised laugh. “Don’t tell me you’ve read Anne of Green Gables?”

  “Oh, aye.” He rubs the back of his neck. Is that color creeping into his cheeks? “I’m guessing you have too?”

  “About a million times. One of my teachers gave it to me after my parents died, and I read it so many times it’s falling apart.” I get up from the couch and go to the bookcase, gingerly pulling the tattered copy from a shelf and motioning to the books beside it. “I have about eight other editions. I don’t remember when I started collecting them; I’d buy them here and there since there are so many different covers. Bridget even brought me one she found in a second-hand shop in Ireland.”

  He joins me, leaning in to inspect my collection. “I read it in university when I was writing a paper about loss and grief in literature. It ended up becoming a favorite of mine as well.”

  “University?” I’m not sure why that surprises me.

  “I took psychology at St. Andrew’s in Scotland.”

  “Where Prince William and Kate Middleton went?” His eyes light with laughter, so I feel compelled to add, “Bridget and her mom are obsessed with the royal family. I guess it’s kind of rubbed off over the years.”

  He nods like it makes perfect sense. “Same school. I got my degree and even had a small practice in Scotland for a while. I quit when…”

  “When…?” I prompt.

  “When my dad died and I decided to leave Scotland.” He runs a hand down his face, the friction over his stubble making a quiet scratching sound. “I enjoyed the work, but I didn’t love it. Oddly enough, it comes in handy as Santa Claus. You know how the elves have a special time to see me on Monday nights? It started as a bit of fun and ended up being something that stuck. They tell me whatever’s on their mind. I listen, give advice, or sometimes just lend an ear or a shoulder, depending on what they need. They joke about there being some magic to it because they always feel better afterward, but it’s basic psychology, really. People want to be heard. They want to know they matter. That their feelings and opinions are valid.”

  I nod slowly. Makes sense. I can also understand the feeling of there being some magic to it. There’s something about Hugh that makes me want to drop my guard and spill all my thoughts and feelings.

  “It must feel good knowing you’re still helping people,” I say. “You bring a lot of joy to the kids as Santa Claus, and the staff seem to love you. Plus there’s all you do for children’s literacy.”

  “Ah, speaking of which.” It’s not a dismissal, yet I get the sense he wants to change the subject. He reaches for the brochures on the coffee table and hands one to me, along with a red pen. They remind me of the booklets I used to get from Scholastic in elementary school; my mom always joked we should own shares in the publishing company because she and my dad bought so many books from them between the catalogues and the yearly book fair at my school.

  “These are all new and upcoming releases,” he says. “There’s a short synopsis for each book under the cover, plus a bit about the author. I always aim for books with wide appeal that won’t offend or alienate people, which means nothing that focuses on parents or nuclear families, religion, et cetera. We want books about friendship, life lessons, animals, that sort of thing.”

  We start going through the brochures. For several minutes, the only sounds are the flipping of pages and the scratching of pens. After awhile, I say, “Maybe I should make it a New Year’s resolution to give this place a more personal feel.”

  Hugh taps his pen against his bottom lip. The motion hypnotizes me for a moment—or more accurately, his full, biteable lip hypnotizes me. “You could, if that’s something you really want.”

  “I do. You know those well-meaning acquaintances who tell you things about your life and how you should live it based on how they would live their life?”

  Hugh arches a brow. “Like someone telling you your place lacks personal touches?”

  “Yes. No! I wasn’t talking about you,” I say quickly.

  Hugh bows his head. He presses his lips together, which does nothing to hide the telltale crinkles around his eyes. “I was kidding, Ivy. Go on.”

  “Okay, well, those type of people have been telling me for a few years that I’m wasting money on my apartment and I should buy a place. I’m almost thirty, it’s time to be an adult, it would be a good investment, yada yada. But the thing is, I like this apartment. I like the neighborhood, I like the fact things are taken care of for me, the super is nice, the rent is reasonable. I like that it’s mine, but I never thought too much about making it feel like mine. I always spent a lot of time at Bridget’s apartment, and then when she moved in with her mom after her dad died, I was there so much I practically lived with them.”

  His smile is soft and almost wistful. “You two are like sisters.” It’s a statement rather than a question, and it makes my heart squeeze. Hugh spent less than an hour with us yesterday and already understands that. Then there’s Celia, who can’t seem to grasp my bond with Bridget, and is often petty and hurtful about how close we are.

  “We are. I’d do anything for her and she feels the same.” I clear my throat, feeling suddenly emotional and missing Bridget even though I just spent the day with her yesterday. “Anyway, I’m used to this place being how it is and never thought much about doing anything else with it. And now with Celia living here indefinitely…”

  “It’s still your place, though,” Hugh says. “She’ll eventually move on, and you’ll likely stay, at least for a time. You should be able to do whatever you please, whether that’s painting the walls bright blue, hanging art, bringing in new furniture, or getting a pet. Whatever makes it feel like home.”

  I chuckle at his suggestions. “I don’t know about the bright blue or the pet. I’ve actually never had a pet. I’ve always thought I’d be a dog person, and I don’t think it’s fair for a dog to be cooped up in here. I’ll give serious thought to the art and maybe even the new furniture, though. Or at least a few throw pillows or something for the couch.”

  We return to our task. It’s not long before Hugh glances at his watch and says, “Would you like to go out for dinner?”

  “Oh. Umm.” Surprise leaves me speechless. My mind scrambles for a response—or more accurately, an excuse, although I’m not completely sure why I’d turn him down.

  Hugh angles his body toward me, putting himself a few inches closer to me. “Ivy, I’ll be honest. I know we just met, but I like you. You’re smart and funny and interesting. I don’t know if you’re looking for something casual, serious, or even if you’re looking at all. Things are a bit up in the air for me right now. If the city doesn’t come through and renew their contract for next year, I might be returning to Scotland until next winter. I’m not normally the sort for casual, but maybe, if you’re agreeable, we could hang out, see how it goes. Nothing official, no labels, no strings. Would you be open to seeing where things might lead between us, even if that just means friendship?”

  Oh, he’s good. He’s covered all his bases without seeming pushy or demanding. If any other guy had said something like that to me, I’d probably think he was trying to get into my good graces—or into my pants. But from what I’ve seen, Hugh doesn’t seem to have an insincere bone in his body. And I do hate dating; there’s so much pressure and uncertainty. I’ve always secretly hoped I’d just fall into a relationship and skip the whole awkward dating phase. It might seem ridiculous and unrealistic, but that’s basically what happened with Bridget and David, so I know it does happen.

  And the truth is, I like Hugh. Bridget says I’m a romantic and there’s nothing wrong with holding out for Mr. Right instead of settling for Mr. Right Now. But who’s to say if Hugh starts out as the latter, he can’t turn into the former? Maybe it’s time to start making some changes in my life—get my apartment whipped into shape, usher Celia along with her own life plans, and perhaps work on my lackluster love life. It’s been way too long s
ince I’ve taken a chance and gone outside my comfort zone.

  “Dinner sounds good. Do you like Greek?”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I can’t get Hugh off my mind.

  Since our dinner together on Sunday night, we haven’t seen much of each other except in passing at work. I agreed to the Monday night elves-visit-Santa ritual, which was kind of strange since twenty-four hours earlier we’d been on a quasi-date. Hugh had agreed to my suggestion of Greek, so we went to my favorite place, The Oasis, where we spent nearly two hours eating a leisurely meal with more courses than I could count.

  He drove me back home afterward and walked me to my door yet again. Since I was sober this time—well, unless you count the two glasses of wine I had with dinner—I’d hoped he might kiss me or I’d pluck up the courage to initiate a kiss myself. We shared a lingering hug instead, and his lips had brushed my cheek as he pulled away. It was then I realized this whole ‘seeing where things might lead between us’ might be more difficult than I’d initially thought.

  It’s now Friday, and it’s been the Monday-est Friday in history. Something happened to my alarm this morning, so I overslept. When I finally got myself together and made it to my car, the Check Engine light wouldn’t stop flashing. Since I had to pass the garage where I get all my maintenance done, I stopped in and had my go-to mechanic check it out. Billy told me I should leave the car and come back after work. I’d been tempted to return home and call in sick, but the receptionist at the garage was on her way out for coffee and offered me a ride to work.

  After a series of annoying work-related mishaps throughout the day, I left early so I’d have time to pick up my car, go home, and get to Santa’s Village for my last shift of the week. Except, in keeping with my day from hell, Billy has just informed me my car is going to need some work and I have to pick it up tomorrow.

  Which leads me back to my college days of traveling by city bus. I’d take a cab home, but it’s going to be rush hour soon and I’ll likely have to call a taxi to take me to Santa’s Village. It seems easier to save myself the time now and hop on a bus outside the garage.

  Luckily, the bus isn’t too busy when I climb on board. I find a seat, pushing aside a booklet someone left behind. After a minute, I pick it up and flip through it—it’s a brochure for Loyola College, on the outskirts of Bellevue. I earmark a few courses I think Celia might be interested in, then stuff it in my purse.

  The bus is about halfway to my apartment when it stops to let on a group of fifteen or so kids accompanied by three adults. From the moment the bus door opens, the air is filled with their excited chatter, paired with ear-piercing shrieks and giggles. A handful of them get on and rush to the back, the bus rocking with their momentum. One of the adults is next, and as she pays their fare, the rest of the kids surge past her, bumping into other passengers and banging on the poles between seats as they pass.

  The teacher who’s still feeding change into the fare box yells, “Remember, children! We’re in public! Make good decisions!”

  I blink and shake my head to myself. Make good decisions? Seriously? Because hollering at a bunch of noisy kids on a public bus is a good decision? The seats at the back must be full because a boy flops down next to me, his feet sticking out in the aisle and his backpack bumping my arm. I inch closer to the window and he takes that as an invitation to crowd me more.

  Why me? I’m mostly used to kids now after working at Santa’s Village the last few weeks, but being stuck in close quarters with them while they’re making this much noise is different. Especially after the day I’ve had. My nerves are already frayed and a headache is beginning to build at the base of my skull.

  Some of the kids had started singing something when they reached the back of the bus, and the others quickly joined in, getting louder by the second. They finally manage to get in unison and I realize they’re singing—if you can call it singing—“Santa Claus is Coming to Town”. The song instantly makes me think of Hugh. I keep his moss-colored eyes and sexy stubbled face in my mind’s eye, holding on to his image while trying to tune out the kids’ screeching.

  I keep waiting for one of the chaperones to shush them, but no such luck. The other passengers on the bus are shooting daggers at the teachers, who all seem oblivious. The kids reach the final verse of the song and instead of starting a new one, they launch right back into “Santa Claus is Coming to Town”. A groan escapes me, not that anyone can hear it. I wrench open my purse and fish around for my headphones so I can listen to music on my phone. Of course they’re not where they always are, which means Celia probably went into my purse and took them. Again.

  The voices grow louder until I’m in permanent cringe mode. The kid beside me shifts around and grabs the bar of the seat in front of us, bopping up and down and singing off key. I catch the eye of one of the teachers and look at her expectantly. She just smiles vacantly before looking away. She keeps taking swigs from a half-full water bottle clutched in her hand, making me wonder if it’s actually water or something stronger.

  When they launch into the same song for the third time, my hand shoots up of its own volition and pulls the bell. I’m squished against the window, so I can’t see out the front to orient myself. My apartment can’t be far, and at this point I’d rather walk a hundred miles than listen to this racket for another moment. I stand and say ‘excuse me’ three times to the little boy beside me before one of the teachers reaches over and pulls him to his feet so I can get past. I bite my tongue, swallowing the snarky Celia-like comments I’m dying to make as I hurry to the back exit and scramble off the bus.

  The sigh of relief that rushes out of me as the bus pulls away takes nearly all the air from my lungs. I suck in a few deep breaths and try to calm the raging irritation I’m feeling. I’ve definitely been spending too much time with Celia. Her grouchiness is rubbing off on me. I feel like I’m seconds away from donning a Grooge costume and chasing after little kids. The image makes a tired laugh spill from my lips as I start walking in the direction of my apartment.

  It takes me about ten minutes to walk home. By the time I reach my front door, my headache has reduced to a dull roar, and that icky grumpy feeling has passed. Mostly. At least until I open the door and see Celia sprawled on the couch watching TV.

  “Hey. What are you doing home?” I ask as I take off my coat.

  Celia mutes the TV and shifts on the couch to look at me. “I wasn’t fired already if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “It wasn’t.” Although, to be fair, I’m sure that’s what I would have thought if my brain had time to catch up with seeing her here. She doesn’t need to know that, though, especially since she’s using her patented snotty voice.

  “I had a dentist appointment this afternoon, so I called in and told them I’d be coming in with you tonight,” she says.

  “Okay, well we’ll be going in a taxi because my car’s in the shop.” I head for the kitchen and drop my purse on a stool. Remembering the college brochure I found on the bus, I take it out and lay it on the counter for Celia.

  “What’s up with your car?” A loud crunching noise follows the question and I turn to see Celia munching on a carrot stick from a plate of raw veggies in front of her. I never see her during my dinner break at the Village, but then again I don’t see her that often, period. I wonder if she brings food with her and eats it on her break.

  “I’m not sure. My mechanic listed off a few things and said he’ll have it ready by tomorrow.”

  “Probably making up a bunch of fake problems so he can make some quick cash,” Celia says around a mouthful of food.

  I roll my eyes. “Right, because I’m an idiot and would fall for that. I’ve known Billy for years. He wouldn’t do anything to my car unless it was necessary.” Without waiting for a reply, I head down the hall, calling over my shoulder, “I’m going to take a shower. Phone the cab company and ask them to send a car for five thirty.”

  I’d give just about anything to have a
long, luxurious bath right now. Unfortunately, I have to settle for a quick shower. And because I’m a complete masochist I make it a lukewarm one, telling myself it’ll invigorate me even as I start to shiver.

  Five minutes later, I stand in front of my closet with a towel wrapped around me. I can’t decide whether to dress in jeans and a sweater and change into my elf costume at the Village, or suck it up and wear the elf costume now. I wouldn’t care so much if I were driving myself as usual. Curious about Celia’s plans, I make sure my towel is secure so I don’t give her an involuntary peep show—something I’m sure I’d never hear the end of—and step out into the hallway.

  “Ce?” She doesn’t answer, so I venture a bit further down the hall. “Celia?”

  I find her in the living room, rifling around in her purse. I say her name again and her head snaps up. I have a moment to register how red her face is before she holds up the college brochure I found on the bus and shakes it, making the pages flap wildly. “What’d you do, go to Loyola and pick this up? You’re that desperate to get rid of me?”

  The only way I’d be more shocked right now is if she chucked the booklet at my head. “Wh-what?” I force myself not to laugh at how ridiculous she is. Her stormy expression tells me laughter would not be welcome right now. “I took the bus home from the garage and that was lying on the seat I chose. I flipped through and saw a few things I thought might interest you so I brought it home.”

  She tosses the brochure on the coffee table and turns away from me, continuing to rummage through her purse.

  “Celia. Celia.” I say her name more forcefully the second time, and she straightens, meeting my eyes reluctantly. “Is something wrong? Something bugging you? Can I help in some way? Do something that will stop you from snapping at me constantly for absolutely no reason? I’m not the enemy here, yet for some reason you’ve labeled me as that and have been treating me accordingly.”

  Regret flits over her features. Her shoulders have loosened slightly, and she’s giving off less of a hostile vibe. I nearly hold my breath, hoping this might finally be it. That she’s about to tell me why she treats me so badly even though I’ve done everything I can to help her the last few months.