The Mechanic - Vanessa Waltz Page 0,63

a hike. Would you come with me?”

“No.”

One of the waiters they have on staff approaches with a giant cheese and charcuterie plate. My stomach growls as I stare at the white lumps. Evelyn reaches with a manicured finger and plucks one of them. “How about we discuss potential baby names?”

That’s it. “I’m done.”

The chair scrapes back as I stand, Evelyn throwing me a look of deep disgust. “This is something we’ll have to talk about eventually.”

“Actually, I looked it up, and the mother gets the final say. I’m the only signature they need on the birth certificate.”

“I’ve already decided on names. Hugo if it’s a boy, and Charlotte if it’s a girl.”

Turning my back on them, I walk toward the door. “I’m going out.”

“I’ll come.”

I bristle at the sound of his voice, which I can’t seem to get away from. My patience is stretched thin these days. I’ve been living with the Cranburys for a week, listening to Mark’s daily, asinine complaints while enduring Evelyn’s heavy suggestions about my dress and behavior. If there were a bridge nearby, I’d jump off it just to escape him.

The fresh air and the earthy scent. The inescapable quiet of the woods. Mark manages to shatter the peace I normally feel walking under the whispering trees with his constant interruptions. He complains about everything from the cracks in the road to the way people are dressed.

“God, this place has gone to the dogs. Look at this.” He points to a perfectly normal thing—a telephone booth. “That’s so archaic.”

Does he even know what archaic means?

The relentless commentary continues as I stroll through Fair Oaks, his every word grating on my nerves. I can’t even enjoy a fucking walk anymore.

“—And there are no wine bars here. You’d think a town in California would have at least one wine bar.”

I whirl around. “That’s because the people here are beer drinkers. Should they open up a wine bar for the one rich asshole who stops by once a year?”

A furrow creases his brow. “I don’t like being disrespected.”

“I’ll consider changing my tone when you stop calling them peasants.”

He stubbornly walks beside me. “It’s your fault we’re here. If you’d just sign the fucking contract, we could leave and I’d stop bitching.”

“I’m not signing anything where my only options are to marry you and give you primary custody, or else I become destitute.”

He grabs my arm. “You can’t stall us forever.”

He’s right, of course. For a week, I’ve held back on making any concrete decisions. Even though I know this place will be destroyed if I don’t meet their demands. Eventually, they’ll lose their patience, and I’ll have to return to my old life. A ball of fear grows in my chest, expanding inside my ribs. There’s nothing pleasant about reminiscing about San Francisco.

The four thousand nine hundred dollars a month apartment I couldn't afford. The pressure to “contribute” when I moved in with Mark. The aborted conversations about our future. Marriage. Kids. All of them were items on the list I was checking through. Now I can barely look back. This is the place that makes my heart feel full. Gage is the man for me. I know it like I know the air here is better for me.

There’s a fence made of hardware cloth that runs along a huge community garden. It’s a bit outside of town. These days, I don’t particularly relish the idea of walking where people can see me. They glare at me like I’m some sort of traitor, which I suppose I am in their eyes. Depression wells up inside me at the thought of Gage and his family huddled together around a dinner table, cursing my name.

“Fuck, he’s here.”

My neck snaps up to look over the tall tomato plants and corn, which partially obscure my view of the garden. There’s a man toiling in one of the boxes, digging his spade deep and shoveling earth out. He has a broad, muscular back and hair that looks light in the direct sunshine, but he shifts into a shadow and it darkens. He clears his throat, gets up, and moves in a position where he’s facing us. It’s him. Gage.

A breathless joy comes over me as I watch him work in his tank top and jeans. It’s been a week since I said those shitty things. I tried to convince myself that he never existed. How could I ever forget him? My fingers link through the fence, wishing I could step right through and

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