Fix Me Not Page 2

  Once I'm inside I decide against going to my workshop, my mind too unsettled to start a new project or finish up the cabinet I was working on. Instead I move to the big picture window of my main living room and stare out over the lake. If it was warmer I'd go sit on the dock to try and settle my nerves.

  Hospitals have never been somewhere I am comfortable. There are too many people, and too much noise. It’s overwhelming, and being at the hospital today only reminded me of when my mother had her blood clot. They caught it before anything bad happened, and she’s fully recovered.

  Being at the hospital today brought all of that back, the uncertainty, the unease of not knowing whether my mom would be all right or not. Thankfully this hospital is much smaller than All Saints but now I'm back to worrying if someone I care about will be alright or not.

  I should call my mom to tell her what happened to Millie but I'm not ready to talk to anyone else today, even my mom. Being around people is draining, and having to talk to and deal with them even more so. I need time to recharge that part of me that is emptied.

  Needing to be alone is why I live the way I do, apart from most people.

  Folks thought I was crazy when I bought this land from my uncle, but the land had been in my family for years and he gave me a good price for it. Since I had the skills, and the help from my family, I was able to build my home here.

  I live modestly, banking most of what I earn from the things I build. People always ask my parents if I get lonely here, but what they don't understand is this is the only place I've ever felt at peace. That peace is eluding me, driven away with worry for Millie and annoyance over my meeting with her daughter.

  My landline ringing interrupts my brooding. Knowing that I asked Paige to keep me updated on her mom’s condition, I rush to answer it.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. Thompson?” The crisp, no nonsense voice of Paige replies.

  “Asher,” I correct her.

  Rather than correcting herself, she continues on as if I hadn’t said anything, and says, “They’ve admitted her for the night but expect her to be discharged tomorrow. She’s sleeping now but asked me to see if you could maybe come around her house after we get her settled.”

  “I can,” I reply.

  “That's good. I'll call again when she's been discharged,” she says.

  “Okay.”

  Before I can form the thought or words to ask for more details as to her condition, Paige says goodbye, not waiting for my response, and promptly ends the call.

  The click followed by the dial tone has me pulling my phone from my ear to stare at it.

  Shaking my head, I set my phone back onto its charger before returning to my spot by the window. I don't linger there long. I immediately climb the stairs to the bathroom where I found her and clean the blood from my floor.

  Two

  Paige

  “Are you going to sue him?” I ask.

  My mother blinks at me. “Are you going to sue him?” I repeat, doing it slowly as I wonder if her fall messed with her brain. "You fell on his property. There's got to be Worker's Compensation or something for that."

  Her eyes narrow to slits. "No, I am not going to sue Asher Thompson. Why would you even think that?"

  “Let's see, you have a broken leg and a concussion and because of that are going to be out of work for days. You don't have to glare at me. There’s a reason Worker's Compensation exists.”

  Her eyes bug and her tone shifts to annoyance. “Asher is a nice man who has been nothing but kind to me. I help him because I enjoy it. Besides, with my retirement I don't need the extra money. He only pays me because he isn't comfortable with the idea of me doing it for nothing.”

  “I don't understand your fascination with him,” I grumble.

  She folds her arms over her chest. “My fascination with him?”

  Her tone warns me I've entered dangerous territory. Feeling right at home there, I cross my arms as well and decide to press my luck.

  “Come on, Mom, he's the son you wish you had instead of being stuck with me.”

  Her mouth falls open, her face softening. “You know that's not true.”

  “Do I?” I question her. “Every time we talk, when we talk, he's all you seem to gush about.”

  Her arms uncross and her hands fall to her lap. “I'm sorry you feel that way Paige.”

  She looks away, her gaze shifting to the framed picture of my father on her bedside table. My own gaze lingers on his face before I abruptly turn away.

  I miss him. As much as I love my mom, and I do love her, even though we can never seem to be around each other without picking at one another, never allowing our internal wounds to heal, it was never like that with my dad. He got me in a way she never could. Before he died, he played the buffer between us, always knowing exactly how to make peace.

  It was a mistake coming back here. Part of me knew that. Knew when I crashed and burned in New York, home was the last place I should go. I should have gone to California. I have friends I could have stayed with while I planned my comeback, and there will be a fucking comeback.

  No, I came here because I have this burning desire to prove myself to my mother. Now, thanks to her broken leg any hope of a subtle escape is screwed. She's going to be in a cast for at least six weeks. While she has no shortage of friends or neighbors to look in on her, she tearfully admitted she wouldn't feel comfortable getting help bathing or dressing from anyone other than me.

  So, now a web of guilt, so perfectly spun, traps me. I might not ever make it out of New Hampshire again.

  I might not be able to get out of this state anytime soon, but I can get out of this room. “Are you comfortable?”

  Her head jerks, possibly at my tone, my question had come out sharper than I had intended.

  Forcing gentleness into my words and out of my mouth I add, “Can I get you a blanket or something to eat?”

  She inhales, and I wonder if she needs to give herself internal pep talks not to snap at me as well. “I’m fine for now.”

  I'm turning to flee before she’s done talking, the walls of her room already smothering me. “Okay, shout if you need me.”

  I don’t know if she calls after me. My chest is tight and I need to get outside. I quit smoking years ago but the need for a smoke break has never gone away. So, I take smokeless ones still. I no longer puff a phantom cigarette, as I needed to do when I first quit. No, now I gulp in air like a swimmer at the end of a race.

  Not that I ever swam, I never liked water. There was a TV on in my mother’s hospital room and a news report showing the final race of some local champion. It wasn't the winner who caught my eye. Nothing about her wide satisfied grin as she pumped her arm in victory spoke to me. It was the loser, the girl who came in dead last and the way she clung to the edge of the pool and panted.

  If someone snapped a picture of me right now, I'm certain my face mirrored hers. My mom’s place was quaint, which is code for tiny. She downsized and moved to New Hampshire after my dad passed. Since she wasn't the type to care about things, she went small in a big way. Now, I'm not opposed to the idea of those tiny homes that are all the rage. The ones with all the bells and whistles seem pretty cool in theory.

  My mom’s place has zero bells and whistles. She doesn't even have Wi-Fi. Ignoring that nightmare, I'm grateful for her small space the times I need to escape it. See, if it were bigger, it'd take me longer to get out of it. So far that's the only positive I've been able to come up with.

  Closing the front door behind me, I lean my back against it. I make one sweeping glance to either side and in front of me to confirm I'm alone before I fold over, dropping my hands to my knees as I suck in great big gulps of air. My mom has a one-bedroom condo on the first floor of a complex full of more active retirees like herself.

  Even though the coast appears to be clear, there's a decent chance one of them is peeking through the blinds right now. I've learned the retirees that live here are nosey.
They catalog my comings and goings like judges at a gymnast competition. I'm sure I'm nowhere near a perfect ten in any of their eyes.

  A small part of me doesn't care if they see me. I'm thirty years old and sleeping on my mother’s couch, there isn't much further for me to sink.

  “Paige?”

  I recognize that voice and send a silent f-you up to whatever power heard me think I couldn't sink much lower and decided to send me instant proof that I was wrong about that.

  From my current position all I can see is the chipped concrete outside my mother’s door and my bare feet.

  I don't like being barefoot in front of people, and if I am wearing sandals or some other open toed shoes I'd never do it without a fresh pedicure.

  Now, here I am barefoot with chipped toenail polish having a mini panic attack in front of the person my mom would rather was her kid. This is just great.

  My next inhale is hopefully silent as I steel myself and straighten. “Hi Mr. Thompson.”

  I don't know why I can't seem to stomach saying his first name. If I had to guess it might be because I'm over hearing Asher this, and Asher that.

  It's annoying how hot he is considering he’s not my type. Somehow he is so inherently male he seems immune to type. It doesn't matter what your type is, if you like men, you can't help but notice him.

  Back in New York, I dated powerful businessmen. I was drawn to their three piece finely tailored suits and clean shaven jaw lines. The only trait in common any of them shared with the man in front of me was height.

  Even though I'm short, I've always been attracted to tall guys. Asher isn't just tall, he is TALL. And, judging by the way his flannel shirt stretches across his biceps, he’s also solid.

  Flannel. I repeat in my head not knowing if my lip curled at the thought. No, this guy is not my type.

  There's a long and awkward pause before he asks, “Are you okay?”

  “I am perfectly fine,” I lie before changing the subject. “I'll take you to my mother.”

  I push open the door, his hand reaching past me to hold it for me as I pass through it. My mother’s already small condo feels even tighter once he’s in it. Glancing back over my shoulder at him, I watch as his gaze moves over the living area. The sofa pulls out. Any evidence of it being my bed is tucked away each morning after I wake.

  His attention stalls on her TV stand, his eyes assessing. It's one of the pieces he made for her. If I remember correctly, it was a Christmas present. I only remember because months later she still brought it up, how thoughtful it was, how well made it was, how much she loved it.

  That Christmas, when my business was still booming, I had bought her a convertible. She traded it in for her Explorer. I've hated that stupid TV stand ever since.

  I'm grateful that the rest of my stuff is packed away, the majority of it in a long-term storage place in town and the other stuff that I have here in the spare closet off the kitchen. The last thing I want is him with his perfect house on a lake looking down at me for having to move in with my mother.

  “Mom, Asher is here to see you,” I say, peeking my head into the doorway of her bedroom.

  He stands close behind me making it almost impossible to ignore the heat rolling off of his large frame.

  “Oh bring him in,” she replies excitement coloring each word.

  Her broken leg is probably the only thing stopping her from jumping up and down. Stepping into her room I move to the side, out of the way of the door, and motion for him to come in.

  “How are you feeling Millie?” he asks once he’s inside.

  “I'm doing much better thank you so much for taking such good care of me yesterday and getting me to the hospital.”

  Jesus, you'd think he pulled her out of a burning building.

  He doesn't say anything, only ducks his head at her praise.

  “Is everything all right back at the lake house? I hope I didn't interrupt your work?”

  Did she seriously just ask if her having to go to the hospital interrupted his work?

  If I could roll my eyes without being noticed I would, but I have to keep that to myself so neither of them will realize how annoying I find their interaction.

  “I'm only worried about you,” he murmurs.

  She seems so small in her bed, her casted leg resting up on a pillow. Her fingers twist and fidget with agitation in her lap.

  “I’ve made such a mess of this now with my leg. I won't be able to come up and help clean or get your mail or your groceries. What are you going to do?”

  “I'll figure something out. You just need to focus on getting better.”

  She looks over to me, her gaze traveling over my face before moving back to him as she says. “What if Paige helped out until I'm well enough?”

  “What?” Asher and I both ask.

  She ignores us. “Yes, it’s the perfect solution. That way your work won't be interrupted and it will give Paige something to do while she looks for a job.”

  Visions of strangling my mother start dancing across my mind.

  “What happened to your company?” Asher asks.

  Before I can tell him it’s none of his flipping business my mother says, “She went out of business.”

  His dark chocolate eyes find mine, pity in them. Red begins to cloud my vision at the very thought of Mr. Perfect pitying me.

  “My business grew too fast and I couldn't keep up with the demand,” I explain, not backing down and not interested in his concern. “I'm evaluating my next move as we speak. I was considering the west coast but that move will be on hold for a bit so I can take care of my mom. Unfortunately, because of that I'll be too busy to help you.”

  “You never said anything about moving,” my mom argues.

  “Not the time to talk about this mom,” I snap, and then force my voice to soften when I say. “I'll leave you two to visit.”

  My feet move with my words, and Asher steps out of my way before I bulldoze over him in my need to get out of her bedroom. They lead me to the closet I've commandeered in the kitchen. Moments later I have socks and shoes covering my bare feet.

  The condo is too small to avoid their murmured conversation. Though, conversation is probably the wrong word since my mother is the only one talking. My cheeks redden as she casually tells him how my event planning company crashed and burned. One moment I was doing it, living the dream, only my dream was without end.

  My only focus was to climb higher and higher and I wasn't paying attention to how I got there – or how fast. And eventually I spread myself too thin. I didn't notice the vultures riding my coat tails as my company grew, didn't notice how they pounced when I was too distracted trying to have it all.

  Events take deposits, and vendors all need to get paid one way or another. People I naively trusted were skimming my accounts. My system for tracking expenses was crap, so there’s no way I could prove it. If I had a better handle on where the money I was spending went, I would have caught on sooner.

  In the end, I was left with an enormous bill I had no way of paying. The person I owed, graciously accepted what I had to give with the understanding that one day she would ask me for a favor, and it wouldn’t be one I could say no to.

  “I’m going to run an errand,” I call out before opening the front door, needing to get away from not only them but their conversation as well.

  My mother's next-door neighbor has an old Cadillac that he's been letting me drive since he’s no longer able to. He failed his last vision test for his driver's license and it has been revoked. He’s been hanging onto the car out of his attachment to it.

  There's a small coffee shop not far from her building that has free Wi-Fi. I drive to it and order myself a small plain black coffee. Back when I had cash to burn, my drink of choice was a fancy vanilla latte but now that I'm broke a seventy-five cent cup is all I can afford.

  It’s my current weekly splurge. I'm not destitute, but I am definitely not flush like I was this time last year. I have j
ust enough money to move somewhere. Problem is, I have no idea where to go and until I figure that part out, free rent is something I can't turn down. I need to save what I have so I can get out of this place sooner, rather than later.

  As soon as my coffee is ready, I take up residence at the small round table in the back. Once I'm seated, my back to the corner, I pull my tablet out of my purse. I had to get rid of my phone when I went out of business to save money. A cell phone plan wasn't something I could afford anymore. If I need to make a call I can use the phone at my mom’s.

  Email is all I need for anything else, and the first thing I check now. After I trash the spam emails, my lips tip down into a frown at the lack of any new ones. I've been applying places left and right since I got here, both locally and in cities I'd be interested in moving to.

  “Heard about your mom,” the barista says out of nowhere.

  My head lifts as I meet her gaze. She's wiping down a table not far from mine.

  “Tell her we hope she's feeling better.”

  “Thanks, I will,” I reply.

  “Last time she was in, she said you were looking for a job. Is that true?” she asks.

  Holy crap, did my mom have to tell everyone my business?

  “It is,” I reply with zero enthusiasm in my tone.

  “My morning girl is pregnant, and was just put on bed rest. If you can start tomorrow, the job is yours.”

  Talk about being put on the spot.

  The last thing I want to do is work in this run down crappy coffee house. I was making six figures in New York City.

  My lip starts to curl but I school my expression. As I try to figure out how to politely turn her down, my gaze lands on my splurge cup of coffee.

  As much as it sucks, I would be an idiot to turn down any job offer at this point. It was my vanity and stubbornness that made me blind to my company failing.

  Besides, I'm going to be stuck here until my mom can get around again. This shop is convenient and sadly, the only place that's shown any interest.