ODESSA

Charity Falls is a sweet town. The residents? Not so much. Beckham owes me. The locals threw pointed questions and chucked false accusations at me like pitchers hurling curveballs. It wasn’t just a PR quick-fix, it was a strategic game of chess.

I’m happy to report that I won the match. An exit poll after the meeting showed a sixty-forty split on the issue, whereas when I went in, we were at eighty-twenty.

We made progress. That’s all that matters. And the baby picture helped. And all the flattering things I said about Beckham, painting him as a hardworking family man. I guess he sort of is now, even if it wasn’t his choice.

I smirk to myself, wheeling my suitcase down my hall Friday afternoon. The faint scent of my favorite boutique candles wafts from under my door. It smells good to be home.

“Hello?” I call out the second my door swings open. A pair of Jeremiah’s shoes rest by the door. We’d talked about spending time together when I got back. After six years together, I’d think he’d remember how much I loathe surprises. Once in a while is fine. I can’t handle every single week. “Jer?”

I wheel my suitcase to the bedroom, flinging it on the bed and unzipping the monster. It weighs much more coming home than it did leaving on Wednesday.

“Hey, babe.” Jeremiah stands in the door, shirtless and smiling. He steps toward me, wrapping me in his arms and kissing the top of my head. I hate to break it to him, but acting like we’re back together doesn’t mean we’re back together. “Have a good trip?”

Flipping the lid of the suitcase, a pale pink baby blanket rests on top of it all.

“What’s this?” He lifts it up, stretching it out. “Princess?”

“That’s for Beckham’s daughter,” I say, yanking it from his hands. “I saw it in a little boutique in Charity Falls.”

He leans in and grabs a bag from under a pile of pajamas. “And all this?”

Pulling out a silver rattle, a squeaky giraffe, and a stuffed elephant, he dumps the rest of the contents on the bed. Teething rings. Plastic rattles. Pacifiers.

“He doesn’t have anything.” I grab it all and shove it back in the bag. “I’m helping him.”

Jeremiah’s blue eyes flash dark for a moment, his jaw tensing and releasing over and over. I remember that look from the Kappa Theta Phi house five years ago.

I harbor a breath, waiting for him to explode. I knew the gallant Jeremiah from several days ago was nothing but an act.

“You have baby fever or something?” The dark expression on his face morphs into a smile as he reaches for my belly. He palms my lower stomach, leaving it a minute too long. “’Cause if that’s the case, you know we’re on the same page...”

I lean away, and his hand drags off my stomach. “Stop. He’s a friend. These are necessities not gifts.”

“I thought he was just a guy you met at a bar?” Jeremiah folds his arms tight across his chest, punching it out as he rocks back on his heels. He peers down his nose at me like I’m under investigation.

“You said you weren’t going to judge me for what I did after you left me,” I remind him.

“I’m not, Sam. I just don’t want to be taken for a ride.”

“I’m the last person who would ever take you for a ride. You know that.” I sort my clothes, the dirty ones going in the hamper and the clean ones going back into my closet. Only then do I realize I packed a little black dress on my “work” trip.

Jeremiah is oblivious. He keeps staring at the bag of baby things like he’s decoding some kind of cereal box puzzle.

“You’re done there next week, right?” he asks, raking his hand under his chin and gaze still transfixed.

“Yes. Next Friday. Why?”

“Just making sure.”

“Making sure of what?”

“That your focus will be on me, on us, after this job.”

I love his mother, but sometimes I silently curse the fact that she babied the hell out of her youngest son. Part of me thinks she was so tired of raising a slew of rambunctious boys that by the time she got to Jeremiah, her baby, she went soft on him. The world revolved around him growing up. Apparently in his mind, it still does.

“I can work and focus on us.” I fold a sweater and shove it in a drawer before realizing it’s dirty. Yanking it out, I chuck it into a hamper on the other side of the room. I can hardly concentrate on what I’m doing and navigate this conversation at the same time.

“See?” Jeremiah chuckles.

“Not a valid comparison.” Exiting my room, I head toward the kitchen and grab a bottled water from the fridge. Flying always dehydrates me, and I feel a headache coming on. Jeremiah follows, and only then do I realize all I want is some good, old-fashioned space.

“I told Mama we were getting back together,” he says.

Uncapping my drink, I turn to face him. “Why would you say that?”

“She wouldn’t stop asking me about you,” he says. “Every single day she calls. ‘Did Sam decide yet?’ She goes to church almost every night and prays we’ll get back together.”

I glance at the calendar hanging on the side of the fridge by two palm tree magnets we picked up last year on vacation in San Diego. The date we picked is a little over five months from now.

“The deposit is due next month,” I say. “For the caterer.”

“Actually I thought some of my interns could handle the catering. We’ve got a lot of talent there, and I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised. I figured I could pick the menu. Surprise you? Take the load off so you can focus on fun things?”

I choke down my frigid water and roll my eyes. “What fun things? The seating chart?”

“Nah.” He steps toward me, brushing the hair from my face before slinking his hands around my waist. “Like gettin’ all dolled up.”

Words escape me. Is that all he thinks of me as? Some vapid bride-to-be?

“We’re getting ahead of ourselves.” My palm presses into his chest, and I back away. “Way ahead of ourselves.”

“God, Samantha. I’m trying here. I’m trying to be the man you want, and all I get from you is resistance. Where’s the girl who’s face used to light up when I came into the room?”

Maybe you should get a puppy?

I shrug, shaking my head. My eyes land on his feet. “I don’t have that answer for you.”

“What changed, Sam?”

I glance up when I hear the sharp tinge of panic in his tone. For a moment, all I see is Jeremiah Crawford, Celebrity Chef. And all I feel like is Samantha Russo, ex-fiancé of Jeremiah Crawford, Celebrity Chef. Maybe somebody will write about me someday on his Wikipedia page. The idea that Jeremiah’s role in my life might someday be a bleep on my timeline is both terrifying and exhilarating.

For the first time, not knowing what the future holds excites me. Half of my heart is running toward the altar, bouquet of flowers clutched tight in my hands and wearing nothing but a white dress and a smile. The other half of me is galloping away on a white horse a-la Julia Roberts in Runaway Bride. No destination in mind. No goals besides pursuing everything that makes me feel alive.

“I love you, Sam,” Jeremiah says. My wrists are squeezed in his hands, his fingers digging into my bones. “Tell me how to fix this. Tell me what you want.”

He wants me to tell him I still want him. And part of me does. But I can’t say it. Not until I know for sure.

“Are you scared, babe?” His tone is softer, comforting. “I was scared too. But imagining standing at that altar watching you walk down the aisle makes all those worries go away.”

“It’s not that simple.” Making decisions based on an idyllic daydream fantasy isn’t the brightest. “And let me remind you that you wanted a break from me. Kind of rattles my confidence in us for the long-term. It’s forced me to look at things from a different angle.”

“What about your father?”

My skin heats. I can’t believe he’s going there.

My bottom lip trembles, my eyes burning as they refuse to meet his gaze. Jeremiah releases my wrists and cups my chin. He lifts my eyes to his.

“Not talking about it won’t change anything.” His words slice open the scabbed wound I only pick at in my darkest hours. “He’s in poor health, Sam. He’s not getting any better. He wants to walk his youngest daughter down the aisle. He wants to make sure he leaves you in good hands before he goes.”

“Don’t.” I don’t want to hear what I already know. Inhaling a lungful of thick air, I push past Jeremiah and grab my keys and bag. Stepping into my shoes and blinking away tears, I know if I say another word it’ll come out as a string of nonsensical sobs.

“Sam, where’re you going?”

I shake my head, my shoulders shaking as I turn to face him. “Do not use my father’s health to guilt trip me into marrying you, Jeremiah.”

My eyes close and in that moment, I’m transported to the top of the stairs of my parents’ house. An assortment of photos in every size and frame available covers the wall in perfect harmony. My sisters and brothers are all married off, all of their wedding photos hanging happily side by side. The spot on the end is saved for me, I’ve been told. But the possibility of my wedding photo not including my father is as real as it’s ever been. The man can hardly breathe thanks to his emphysema. The doctor’s keep threatening to amputate his feet if he doesn’t get his diabetes under control. He’s a good man with heart of gold. All he ever did was live his life to the fullest.

“I’m sorry, Sam.”

Jeremiah comes toward me, but I place my hand up to stop him. “I’m going for a walk.”

“When will you be back?”

“I don’t know.” I slip out the door, craving the cool night air on my face.

When I return two hours later, Jeremiah’s gone.