In Your Dreams

“He w-was— He w-was th-the m-mo—”

Kevin looked away. Naomi smirked. Of course she did. It was her resting expression. And Lyric Adams, who was sitting a few tables away with a much older man, had her phone out, her thumbs flying away as she snickered.

Jack took her free hand.

She took it back. She didn’t want pity. Hell to the no power.

Think British, she commanded herself. Think Harry Potter or Tom Barlow or Colin Firth or—

“Okay!” the DJ said, taking the microphone back and moving to another table. “How about you, mother of the bride? You must want to share a special memory!”

Emmaline sat down.

“You okay?” Jack asked.

“You lied to us?” Mom asked. “Emmaline, this is just...just... It’s practically pathological! Why on earth would you—”

“Dr. Neal,” Jack said, “I think you understand that Emmaline is in a tough—”

“No, Jack. M-Mom, I’m sorry. I r-r-really am.” Her heart sank as the words struggled to get out. She pictured the stutter leaning against a doorway, wheezing its dry, whispery laugh. Hahaha. Got you again.

“I think you need time to process your feelings,” Mom said, a world of hurt in her voice. “See you later.”

Who could blame her?

Finally, the speeches were done, though she’d stopped listening. The music started again, and Em sat there like a lump.

Jack took her hand. “Let’s dance,” he said, and she complied. Angela was fending off the best man, but she shot Em a sweet smile, flawlessly conveying camaraderie and humor with no disappointment or blame whatsoever. Somehow, it made her feel worse.

It was a slow song, something by John Mayer, and Jack pulled her close. It might’ve been sexy, if she hadn’t felt like a slab of oak.

“Hang in there,” he murmured against her hair. His chin made a crackling sound as it broke through some of the hair spray. She would’ve answered if she wasn’t terrified of either stuttering or crying.

“I have to say, I’m a little disappointed you called off our engagement,” he said, looking down at her with a smile. “I was hoping for a bachelor party at a strip club.”

Thank you, Jack, for being a perfect date and the nicest guy in the world and also gorgeous. Thanks for not making me feel worse than I already do. Instead, she just tried to smile and shifted her eyes to his shoulder. He held her a little closer, and she had to bite her lip hard.

By tomorrow night, she’d be home again in her snug little house, with her good puppy and her excellent job. Levi wouldn’t ask how the wedding was because he wasn’t that kind of boss, and Em would ask Everett if he wanted her to cover a couple of his shifts, which he always did. She’d meet with her at-risk teenagers and go to her crisis negotiations class and have a night with the Bitter Betrayeds and by then, she’d have had time to spin this weekend into a good story.

Then her dad tapped him on the shoulder. “Mind if I dance with my firstborn?” he asked.

“Not at all, sir,” Jack said, stepping aside.

So she danced with her father, breathing in his comforting Dad-smell.

“You must be experiencing some powerful feelings right now,” he said.

“Mmm,” she managed, hating the stutter even more because it made her unable to talk to her father, who did love her in his weird psychoanalyst way. He kissed her forehead, and Em swallowed and gave him a squeeze.

The slow song ended. “I’d better go dance with Angela,” Dad said. “That best man isn’t taking the hint.” Em nodded, kissed him on the cheek and watched him go.

She’d have to come back and visit her parents to make up for lying to them. She’d call them tomorrow. Angela, too.

Jack didn’t seem to be nearby, or at their table in the back, and people were giving her those embarrassed sliding glances. She grabbed her purse and walked out of the ballroom, smiling at whoever made eye contact (not that many) and grabbed the nearest parking attendant. She wasn’t about to drive, not after two (or possibly three) zillion-proof vodka drinks. “I need a favor,” she said, handing him a hundred-dollar bill. “Would you drive me into town?”

“Sure,” he said, pocketing the bill. “Where do want to go?”

“You know Nance’s diner?”

He smiled. “I absolutely do. You hungry?”

She folded her arms. “You have no idea.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

JACK COULD SWEAR he smelled bacon.

He was back in his room; Em had ditched him at the wedding, leaving him to hear about Naomi’s grandmother’s colonoscopy last year, which sounded even more horrific in Russian. All those guttural sounds.

He was a little worried. Emmaline hadn’t answered when he knocked. Hadn’t responded to his text, either. She wouldn’t have driven; she was a cop and knew better than most that drinking and driving didn’t go together.

As Josh Deiner would now understand, if he wasn’t brain-dead.

For a second, Jack could swear he felt the lake water close over his head. The car seemed so far away, lying there on the bottom of the lake. All that cold and darkness.

No. No, thanks. He dragged his mind from the memory of that cold, that grim darkness. He was here in California, where it was now fully dark, a half-moon rising over the Pacific. Fifty-five degrees, maybe. If there was a reason to live in California, it was the weather. And San Francisco, a place Jack had visited a few times. Also, California wine country. Flippin’ gorgeous.

Good. He was thinking about other things. He packed his stuff, since they had an early flight, and changed out of his suit into jeans and a T-shirt.

His phone chirped. Mrs. Johnson, of all people, texting him. Jackie, dear, you are terribly missed. When are you leaving California and coming home? Your father longs to see you.

He had several other texts, too. All three sisters, wondering how the wedding was going. One from Ned, asking if he wanted to go out for a beer, then another saying he forgot he was away. Two from Abby, asking for help with a chemistry project when he got back. One from Goggy that said WJY sek to DDjk. Goggy had just gotten a smartphone and, much to the chagrin of the entire family, complained about the tiny keys and had yet to understand AutoCorrect. That or she’d just had a stroke.

There were five texts and two phone calls from Hadley.

He answered Abby and Mrs. J., told Goggy to stop trying to text until Ned showed her how and ignored Hadley.

He really wished she’d leave town. Honor had told him that she’d moved into the Opera House apartment building. That wasn’t a good sign.

He heard a sound from Emmaline’s room. So she was in there after all.

That had been hard, seeing her flail today. Not being able to make her feel better.

He knocked on the door that separated their rooms. “I hear you, Neal. Open up or I’m calling the front desk and telling them you’re a suicide risk.”

“Don’t bug me, Jack.” She sounded irritable.

“Aren’t we supposed to be in love?”

“Not anymore. I outed us.”

“Yeah, why’d you do that? Twelve hours more, and you’d have been home free.”

“I don’t like lying.”

“Can you open the door? This is stupid.”

“No. I’m very busy.”

“I smell bacon. Now open up and share, or I’ll call Naomi to break the door down.”

She opened the door, and the smell of bacon was much stronger.

Well, her hair looked better, anyway, out of that weird bun thing. She’d showered, and her hair was damp. She smelled good, clean and citrusy. But the skin under her eyes was faintly pink.

She’d been crying.

A surprisingly strong feeling flooded his chest. Emmaline didn’t seem like the type to cry. Ever.

She wore pajama bottoms and a tank top, and there was a smear of brown on her cheek. In her hand was a giant bag of Skittles, and on the table behind her were several white bags, an enormous slab of cake and a bottle of wine.

She folded her arms under her chest and glared at him.

“You ate meat without me? This is the thanks I get?” he asked.

“I could use some time alone, Jack.”

“I think you’ve had plenty of time alone.”

She huffed. “Come in, then. There’s half a cheeseburger left.”

“Have you been crying?” he asked.

“No.”

“Liar. You have frosting on your teeth, by the way.” He picked up the half cheeseburger and took a bite. It was fantastic, by far the best thing he’d eaten since he got there.

She flopped into the chair and grabbed a chunk of cake. “I’m eating my emotions. Show some respect.”

“And what emotions are those, Officer Neal?”

“Irritation, embarrassment, frustration, jealousy, envy, gluttony... How many do you need?”

Jack finished the burger and broke off a chunk of the cake slab. Incredible. It didn’t seem fair that they’d been eating root vegetables and mist when there was food like this around. He poured some wine and looked at the label. A midcoast zinfandel. Took a sip. Not bad with beef and chocolate, actually.

“You’re not really jealous, are you?” he asked. “Not to criticize your taste in men, but he seems like an ass**le, Em.”

“He wasn’t always.” She took a rather savage bite of cake and gnashed away.

“What were you going to say?” Jack asked. “When the DJ gave you the microphone?”

“I don’t know,” she said, swallowing. “That he wasn’t always an ass**le. That he was good and funny and kind until he cheated on me with that...that...that hideous beautiful mannequin with the abs of steel.”

Jack nodded. “How much of that homemade vodka did you have?”

“Oh, shut up. I’m not drunk. Unfortunately, I might add.”

“You know, my wife cheated on me, too.”

“Yeah, Jack, everyone knows that story.” She winced. “I mean, thanks for sharing. It’s just that your sisters talk a lot. Well, Prudence talks a lot. Faith and Honor have never said boo. But it was the best town gossip there for a while. I mean, not best. Just the most interesting. Shit. I’ll stop now.”

“I’d appreciate that. Deeply.”

“Is there something appropriate I’m supposed to say? Like, ‘Sorry your marriage went down in flames’ or something?”

He smiled, unable to stop himself. “You tell me. Maybe they should make a line of cards for people like us. ‘Sorry your fiancé turned out to be a dick.’”

She laughed, choking a little, then took a slug of wine and stretched out her legs so her feet rested on the bed next to him. “How long did it take you to get over what’s-her-name? Blanche DuBois?”

“Let’s talk about you,” he suggested.

“Still a pulsating wound, then?”

“No. It’s just that we’re at your ex’s wedding, and if there’s a raw, pulsating wound, it’s you.” His lovely date gave him the finger. “Come on, Em. How are you doing?”

“I’m just great, Jack. I’m a stuttering, lying, not-pregnant lesbian who puts raw chicken in her bra.”

He grinned. “I can’t tell you how many boxes that checks.”

“Shut up.” But she smiled as she said it. And it was kind of refreshing that she didn’t want to talk.

Her foot was propped up on the bed next to him, and he put his hand on it. Cute foot. Very clean and nice. Smooth skin.

Try not to think about that, Jack, the nobler part of his brain advised. We don’t sleep with heartbroken women.

“Is your heart broken?” he heard himself ask.

She made a face. “No. Not really. It was three years ago.”