One Good Thing Read online

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  I reached the bottom of a bottle of red wine at just about the same time I found Lonesome, Oregon. According to the website, it’s a retreat for those in search of solitude. Twelve free-standing cabins, each featuring a set of rocking chairs on the front porch and personal barbecue, promise a peaceful and relaxing departure from the overload of everyday life. The main house, where the owner lives, serves breakfast each morning. After typing escape into the internet search bar, Sweet Escape Bed and Breakfast popped up. I didn’t waste even two seconds thinking about it. I selected my stay date, whipped my credit card from my pocket, and typed in the numbers.

  Wham, bam, thank you ma’am.

  That spur of the moment decision brought me here, to this crowded bar drinking goodbye drinks with my soon-to-be former colleagues.

  I flick my wrist, attempting a surreptitious glance at my watch. We’ve already been here an hour. I have another half hour left in me, then I’ll split. Ninety minutes is enough time to devote to people who were, at best, surface level friends.

  Honestly, calling them friends is an overstatement. I probably know more about them than they do about me. A majority of the people here have families. I know their wives and husbands’ name, and kids too, thanks to the note app in my phone. Referring to that app before walking into a meeting has awarded me several surprised and appreciative he remembered my kid’s name looks.

  Conversely, these people know little about me. They know nothing of how I grew up, only that I came to Chicago from Arizona. Their questions about Arizona ranged from intelligent to idiotic. What crops are grown in the desert? Have you ever been stung by a scorpion? Are there rattlesnakes, just, like walking around all over the place? The last one was from an intern. He didn’t last long, and I don’t know how he even made it into the firm at all. I told him there are indeed rattlesnakes walking around everywhere, then congratulated myself on ensuring an embarrassment to humankind like him would never go to Arizona. You’re welcome, great people of state forty-eight.

  “Brady?”

  I’m stirred from my memories by Lindsey Tovani, a new-ish lawyer. She’s been at the firm fewer than six months. I haven’t worked with her much, but my impression of her is that she’s very bright.

  “Lindsey, hi.”

  “Looks like you’re low.” She inclines her head toward my drink. Her dark hair falls over her shoulder, and she tucks it back behind her ear.

  Lindsey is attractive. Her hair is a warm brown, kind of like chocolate, and her eyes are dark too.

  Similar to someone else I know. The same person who, for better or worse, plays a role in my escape to Lonesome, Oregon.

  Lifting my drink, I shake it and watch the ice cubes tumble around. “I’ll use the cubes for hydration.”

  She laughs, lifting her nearly-empty white wine glass to her lips and finishing it. “I’ll get us another round.”

  My ingrained manners take over, but Lindsey is quick. She’s already spun around toward the bar, so I move quickly, grabbing her hand. Or, I thought I was grabbing her hand. In my haste, I grabbed her hip.

  Lindsey spins back around, her face upset. When she sees it’s me, she relaxes.

  She steps closer, leaning into my ear and shouting to be heard. “I was ready to throat punch a handsy asshole. Thank goodness it was only you.” She pulls back, a little smirk on her lips, and turns back to the bar.

  Either I’m hearing things thanks to the din of this place, or Lindsay had a flirtatious lilt to her voice. And she doesn’t care that I’ve grabbed her hip. Apparently I don’t qualify as a handsy asshole.

  Lindsey has already ordered new drinks for us, but I’m taller, so when the bartender holds out a hand for payment, I get it in his hands before Lindsey can finish sliding hers across the wooden bar top.

  “Hey,” she yells, frowning at me.

  I hold up my hands defensively. “I’m all for female equality, but there are some things I can’t let go. And a lady buying me a drink is one of them.”

  She huffs, but I can tell it’s playful.

  We return to our table and make small talk. My brain feels foggier from the drink. One by one, my colleagues wish me well and go home. Two hours later, it’s just me and Lindsey. So much for that half hour.

  She places her hand on my arm and doesn’t move it.

  I respond by wrapping an arm around her waist.

  She turns in and nuzzles my neck.

  I lower my face, she lifts hers, and we kiss.

  There aren’t fireworks, but I don’t think I believe in those anymore.

  We leave together, and I know how this will go. This isn’t the first time I’ve played this game since I came back to Chicago after spending some time down in Arizona eight months ago.

  I’ll close my eyes and pretend the girl in my arms is her.

  The pain of opening them and seeing it’s not Lennon will be worth it, because for the tiniest, most glorious slice of time, it is her.

  She’s still my Lennon.

  She’s the person who has owned my heart for longer than high schoolers have been alive.

  And in that brief slice of time, she’s not my best friend’s girl.

  She’s mine.

  * * *

  One step closer. I’m really doing it. It would be hard to turn around now. I’m through security and by the gate where my flight will soon be called for boarding.

  Instead of settling into a chair near the gate, I head for a place with a large, block-lettered sign that reads Johnnie’s Pub. It’s close enough that I should be able to hear my flight when it’s called.

  I grab a seat, hook my backpack over the back of the swiveling chair, and make eye contact with the bartender. He hands over a menu and I quickly place my order, and less than thirty seconds later he’s setting an ice-cold beer down in front of me. I nod my thanks and take a sip.

  People-watching is the best in airports, so I lean back and look around the place.

  A man in a sleek, expensive suit sits three seats away from me. He’s probably about my age but bald, with AirPods in his ears that communicate to everyone he’s not interested in small talk.

  Across the way, seated in a booth, is a man and a woman with two very rambunctious kids. As I watch, the little girl sticks her tongue out at the little boy, and he bares his teeth and gets in her face. The mom leans over, inserting one flattened palm between them before they can get physical.

  I turn my head, and that’s when I see her. Long, honey-blonde hair frames her beautiful face. She’s on the other side of the square-shaped bar, and I can only really see her if I lean to my left, which looks embarrassingly obvious.

  A worried ‘v’ sits in between her eyebrows as she looks down at her hands, watching herself shred a napkin into tiny pieces.

  What is it that has her so upset she’s shredding napkins? Or who?

  An odd feeling rips across my chest. It feels a bit like fire, an angry possession I have no right to feel.

  I’m gallant on a normal day, but this gorgeous woman whose name I don’t even know has me wanting to throw armor over my V-neck and joggers and slay dragons.

  Shit, she’s looking at me.

  My first instinct is to avert my gaze, but it’s too late and looking away now would be awkward. She’s clearly caught me looking, and judging by the turned down position of her lips, she doesn’t appreciate my blatant staring.

  My traitorous lips do the opposite of hers. They turn up automatically. Into a full grin. As if I needed this to get worse, I’m giving her my mega-watt, you-know-you-trust-me smile I use on juries. Correction: I used to use on juries.

  She makes a face, something between surprise and disgust, and picks her phone up from the bar top. Now her gaze is trained on the phone, her fingers swiping, and her point is made as clear as the businessman with the AirPods. Don’t talk to me.

  I sit up straight in my chair, making it so I can’t see her. My food arrives and I get out my phone, scrolling through the news headlines while I eat
. A smart man would’ve learned his lesson and kept his eyes trained on his phone.

  Normally, I’m a very smart man.

  But not today.

  I lean left just enough to peek at her. I’ve done this five times. Okay, ten. I can’t help it. She’s stunning, but there’s something else. Something inside her calls to me. She’s a siren, and I’m the hapless sailor.

  Overhead, a bored, crackling voice breaks through my thoughts as it announces that my flight will start boarding now. Pulling my credit card from my wallet, I toss it on the bar and push away my plate.

  When the bartender grabs my card and turns back to run it, I take another peek at the woman and feel letdown when I find her seat empty.

  The letdown feeling only lasts for two seconds, because suddenly there’s a jabbing sensation on the backside of my shoulder.

  I whip around and find myself face-to-face with the woman I haven’t been able to stop staring at.

  Happiness darts through my insides. I didn’t terrify her!

  “Hello.” Reflexively I begin to extend my hand, but I don’t get even halfway there because the angry look on her face stops me.

  “You are the worst,” she seethes.

  “Uh… excuse me?” My head moves back an inch, as though her words have dealt literal blows. I glance around to see who’s listening to this exchange. The businessman is standing beside his seat, wallet out and handing his card to the bartender. He’s looking my way, a smirk playing on the corner of his lips. He’s probably thinking what rotten luck I possess to have found a crazy one.

  “Oh, let me just sit across the bar and try to hit on a woman I have no business hitting on.” Her sarcasm is almost as shocking as the hurt I see flashing in her eyes.

  “I apologize for offending you, but—”

  She interrupts me. “Don’t apologize to me. Apologize to your wife!”

  “What?” I say loudly. My head shakes as I try to understand what the hell is going on with this woman. “Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about—”

  I stop speaking when she rolls her eyes and her arms fly into the air like what I’m saying is just so unbelievable.

  She points at me, and says, “Next time, you should remember to remove your wedding ring before you hit on women who aren’t your wife.”

  Oh. Shit.

  I glance at my left hand. More specifically, at the fourth finger on my left hand. The finger that wears a simple, timeworn gold band.

  “It’s not what you think,” I protest, shaking my head.

  “If I had your wife’s number, I would call her right now and tell her about you. She deserves to know.”

  Then, as I watch with a dumbfounded expression on my face, the only other woman whose soul called out to mine stomps off, hair swinging, and strides right into the line for her flight.

  The same line I need to get in.

  Lonesome, Oregon, here I come.

  3

  Addison

  What an asshole.

  I haven’t been able to get his face out of my mind. The entire flight -which of course he was on- I stared at the back of his head. My fingers itched to reach over the rows separating us and grab a handful of his thick, shiny brown hair. I’d give it a good yank and listen to him squeal. Then maybe he’d stand up, enraged, and I’d throw my first ever punch.

  Yes.

  Then maybe I’d knee him in the crotch, right in the second brain he’s obviously using to control his behavior.

  Then—

  I really need to calm down.

  The unfairness of life took away my chance to reach the altar, and here’s some guy who was lucky enough to say I do, but apparently had his fingers crossed behind his back during that part of his vows. My rage was misguided, but I couldn’t help it. I knew it the second I slipped from my barstool after catching him looking at me for the tenth time. The anger had been building in my chest as I ate my chicken sandwich, getting hotter and hotter. Something inside me snapped, and instead of ignoring the married guy who was looking for who the hell knows what, I stomped over and told him off.

  Loudly. And with passion.

  At first I’d felt flattered that the hot guy across the bar was checking me out. I’d noticed him as soon as he sat down and ordered a beer. Long before he looked my way. It wasn’t until we made eye contact that I saw the gold band shining on a very important finger.

  Non-starter, of course. But not for him, apparently.

  And then he had the gall to look shocked, like he’d forgotten he was wearing a ring.

  Prick.

  It’s over now. Maybe my outrage at his behavior has scared him straight. Maybe his days of flirting with women other than his wife are behind him.

  But probably not.

  I kept my gaze averted while we deplaned, and now I’m studiously looking at my white converse while we wait at the baggage claim. I have no idea if he’s here, but I don’t want to look around and find out.

  The bell above our carousel rings and the belt begins to move. Out pops black bag after black bag. My bag is maroon. I chose the color so it would be easy to spot.

  It’s not more than a few minutes before I see it. The bag makes its way toward me and I lean over to grab it, but it’s heavier than I’m used to. Straining my arms, I pull and get one corner off the belt and onto the side of the carousel.

  But that’s the thing with conveyor belts. They keep moving.

  “Excuse me,” I mutter, stepping in front of the couple beside me and trying to heave my bag up and over the side.

  It doesn’t want to move.

  “Sorry,” I apologize to two more people as I step in front of them.

  I’m still struggling to lift the suitcase when a hand reaches out, closing over mine, and pulls the giant overstuffed suitcase off the belt, dropping it onto the ground.

  My gaze lifts and my mouth opens to thank the person who helped me, but the words die on my lips.

  Flight guy.

  “Don’t start,” he says, holding up his hands and taking a step back. His eyes meet mine briefly before he spins and walks away, a backpack hanging from one shoulder and a suitcase wheeling along behind him.

  “Asshole,” I mutter under my breath. Just because he did something nice doesn’t make him a nice person.

  My phone buzzes from inside my purse.

  I pull it out and see a message from my grandma.

  I’m parked on the curb. The attendant is giving me the stink-eye. Will you be out soon?

  Grabbing the handle of my bag, I lug it behind me out to the curb where I find my grandma in her old green Jeep. She climbs from the car when she sees me, and as soon as I’m close enough, I let go of my bag and fling myself into her open arms.

  She smells like cinnamon, and her bosom is big and pillowy and the comfort I feel takes me back to childhood, to skinned knees and tears being shed over youthful injustices.

  My tears now? Adult injustice.

  “Grandma,” I whisper, but she shushes me, and the sound of the air rushing between her teeth lessens some of the pain in my heart.

  “I know, Addy. You don’t have to say any more.”

  I pull back, sniffling, and look at my grandma. She’s seventy-five, but still acts like she’s fifty. There’s a spring in her step, and her memory is probably better than mine. I hope to hell I got whatever genes have given her this gift of longevity. It’s easy to think nothing could bring her down, not her husband’s abandonment of her and a baby (my mom), or illness. She’s impenetrable, except when it comes to me. I’m her soft spot.

  “Ladies, you really need to move on. Other people need this space.” The disapproving voice of the attendant breaks through our reunion.

  We both turn to look at the frowning, middle-aged man standing with his arms crossed over his middle.

  “Come on,” Grandma says, dropping her arms and walking around me to my suitcase. She gives it a push and watches it roll only a few inches.

  “Did you brin
g everything you owned?” She winks at me.

  The man walks away, probably to bug someone else for breathing too heavily.

  I grab the handle and tug it over to the Jeep. Together we lift it into the back, but I’m careful to take as much of the weight as I can. Grandma may be healthy, but she’s still seventy-five.

  We climb in, and as I’m buckling my seatbelt, I say, “I packed everything because I’m staying forever.” Probably not, but right now it sounds good.

  Grandma pats my knee, then puts the car into drive. “If only that were true,” she says, searching for something over my head. Her eyes light up in recognition, and she raises a stiff middle finger high in the air. I don’t even look to see who she’s flipping off, because I’m certain I already know.

  She gives me a mischievous wink as she lowers her hand, then she looks over her left shoulder and pulls out into airport traffic.

  * * *

  “Home sweet home,” Grandma announces when we park. She stretches her arms out toward the large house before us.

  It used to resemble a giant Lincoln Log cabin, but three years ago my grandma renovated the entire place. She got rid of the log-style and brought in large wooden planks instead. The stone columns give the place a sophisticated look. The large front door has a copper metallic finish, and the two lights on either side of it look like large lanterns. It’s more modern, while still maintaining that outdoor camp vibe.

  The place screams comfort and luxury, and immediately makes me picture a glass of red wine and thick, comfy socks pushed down over buttery-soft leggings.

  Too bad it’s the start of summer. I’m in the mood for snow and freezing temperatures.

  I heave the suitcase from the trunk of the Jeep, roll it over the sidewalk, and hoist it up over each stair.

  We get inside, and I stare around in shock.