29. Chapter 29

I've been called stubborn more than once. I've been called that a lot, actually. I take it as a compliment.

Stubbornness got me through the police academy when it was a lot harder than I expected and I was one of two women in a class of thirty-six. Stubbornness got me promoted to detective years before anyone expected I would. And stubbornness will get me the small-town bookstore I've dreamed of owning.

Stubbornness also drove me to call an Uber and walk through the snow to get to it when Bear had already offered to drive me home. So, you know, my greatest strength is also my greatest weakness.

The important thing is, I recognize this flaw in myself. Which is why I let Bear drive me home.

But once we're in his Jeep, I wonder if I should have waited for Irma. Even walking the three or four miles home on the side of the road might have been safer. Maybe not physically, but definitely mentally.

The drive is short, and Bear and I talk little, but I have to fight to keep my focus on the road ahead and not the current running between us—a longing that charges the air, threatening to snap if I don't handle it carefully. When Bear shifts in his seat, my skin prickles with wanting to touch him. When he rakes his hair away from his forehead, my fingers itch to drag through his hair and beard. And when I take a breath, I can't get enough of his scent.

I wonder if he feels it too, but the stakes are too high to find out. We've got three days before the city council decides which of us gets the shop. My loan is close to being funded, and the closer I get to my dream, the more ready I am to leave LA behind. Especially since I've heard very little about the investigation into my complaint.

Everything seems to point to me staying in Paradise, and I'm happy about that. But I'm also nervous about what that would mean for Bear and me. If he loses the pond, will he forgive me? Will we have a chance to explore the attraction between us? Or do I have to lose to win him?

Of course, all those questions are based on the assumption that he doesn't already have something going on with Grace. I don't think so, but my first impressions of Bear were totally wrong, so my impressions about his feelings for Grace could be, too.

After I park the Jeep behind the shop, neither of us says anything for a few seconds. Then Molly barks and he blurts, "I should go," at the same time I say, "Do you want to come in?"

"Suuuure." He drags out the word with what could be surprise or uncertainty about how to say no.

"You don't have to, I just…" I don't know how to end that sentence.

"I'd like to. I can show off my work." He flashes a grin that settles my racing pulse.

I grab Willy from the backseat while Bear lets Molly out to run around before he follows me to the door.

I let him in first, and he stops just inside the door. "I think I got everything back in place, so it looks okay. But, like I've already told you, you shouldn't stay here."

I can't see anything until I step around him. And he's not wrong about how it looks. "Wow. You cleaned up your mess pretty good."

I walk past Bear, and he growls. "Wasn't my fault. And I see you smiling."

I have to hold back a laugh as I set Willy down by the door. He'll have to stay in his carrier until Bear leaves, which I'd like to put off a little longer.

Which is crazy, I know. Sirens clang in my head, warning me I'm asking for trouble. Warning me I've been swept up in all the nice things he's done for me in the last day. Washing and folding all my laundry. Bringing me dinner. Letting me use his bath, sleep in his bed. Taking care of me.

I don't need anyone to take care of me. I never have.

Someday I'll let someone take care of me, but that someone will be the man who wants to take care of me forever.

I know Bear is attracted to me; I just don't think it's in the same way that I'm attracted to him. The way that involves dreaming about him wrapping his arms around me, holding me all night. Or making me breakfast, just because, not as an apology. Or letting me sleep in his jersey every night.

How could he want any of those things when I'm trying to take his real dream away from him?

I gather all my willpower and face him, ready to thank him for the ride and say goodbye.

But when his eyes find mine, what comes out is, "I'm sure you've got a lot to do today, but do you want coffee before you go?"

He smiles. "Sure."

"It's just Keurig. Nothing fancy like Britta's." I grab my basket of pods and hand it to him to choose one.

"Nice. You've got my favorite." He grabs the pod and passes it and the basket back to me.

I look at his choice, then back at him. "Hazelnut is my favorite, too."

While I start his coffee, Bear wanders to the bathroom where he crouches to check the pipes. "I epoxied and taped the cracks last night. It's a temporary fix. You won't be able to run the water for very long, but if you're still insisting on staying here, you can at least flush the toilet."

When he stands again, he fills the entire tiny space, and when he faces me, I'm staring.

He walks back to me, his gaze never leaving my face, and I can't look away. "Or the offer to stay at my place is still on the table."

That sounds dangerous.

Which makes me want to say yes even more.

The word is on the tip of my tongue when Bear sneezes. He rubs the back of his hand under his nose, then sneezes three more times. When his eyes meet mine again, they're already rimmed in red.

"Not with Willy." I shake my head. "But thank you."

The Keurig beeps, and I turn to pick up his coffee. When I hand it to him, I say, "You should probably take it to go. You can bring the mug back when you're done."

Bear sighs and rubs the back of his neck before taking the cup. "All right, then. My door is unlocked when you're ready to pick up your stuff… or if you change your mind."

"I won't. No matter how hard you try to convince me." I hope my grin looks as assured as I'm trying to convince him I am.

"I don't give up easy, Cassie." Bear's face goes soft, but his eyes burn so dark and intense, my breath catches.

He doesn't say anything else until he walks out the door and mutters, "Stupid cat."

For the rest of the morning, I try to get the color of his eyes out of my head. But I can't. I see them in the blue tile in the bathroom, my favorite sweatshirt, the pattern in the shower curtain. His eyes can be a hundred different blues, but my favorite is the color they were when he told me he didn't give up easily.

It's the same color his eyes were when he saw me in his jersey.

I try to focus on preparing my presentation for the city council, but I'm too distracted thinking about Bear. I could use a shower to clear my head, but that's not an option. Not being able to take one makes me want one even more, which also makes me reconsider staying at Bear's.

What I could really use is another bath.

And I miss his jersey.

By early evening, I'm going stir-crazy. I need some way to burn off all the energy that every thought of Bear sends rushing through my body.

And there's only one thing I can think of to do.

I may not have Bear's jersey, but I have skates and there are hockey sticks and pucks in the shop. I've only skated a few times at indoor rinks for birthday parties when I was a kid, and I've never even held a hockey stick. But I know how to hold a golf club, and I've seen Happy Gilmore.

If Adam Sandler can play a former hockey player turned golfer, maybe I can play a former golfer turned hockey player. Obviously, Happy Gilmore isn't reality, but I need to understand what's so great about that pond. I'm going to get historic status at the city council meeting. Bear's fight for the shop and the pond is over.

So why hasn't he given up?

I go next door to get a hockey stick, then grab my skates and coat. I'm almost to my door when Willy dashes in front of me, presses his head against the door, and yowls as if he might open it if he keeps trying hard enough.

"You're pushing the wrong way, Willy." I nudge him away from the door with my foot and he rubs his whole body against my leg.

I think that means he's going to miss me, which is a positive step forward in our relationship. "I'm sorry, buddy. I'll be back soon." I bend down to pet him, but he dodges my hand and runs straight for the kitchen table.

He leaps on top of it and goes straight for the plastic cup I've left there. "Oh, no you don't. Willy!" I grab it just before he sticks his head in it.

And now I'm thinking about Bear again, because he may be right that this cat is stupid. But I love him anyway.

Willy.

Not Bear.

"I'll give you treats when I get back. I promise it won't be long." I won't last long on the ice.

Willy meow-barks, and I choose to believe he's saying thank you. Then I grab my skates and the hockey stick and head for the door a second time.

As soon as I step outside, I know exactly why Willy was trying to get outside. Lynette is there, surrounded by her squirrel gang.

There are even more of them than came after me. Lynette is so engrossed in talking to and hand-feeding them she doesn't notice me behind her. That, or she just ignores me. But I don't care. I'm too fascinated by what she's doing to interrupt her.

The squirrels run right up to her and chatter as though they know what she's saying. There's one even sitting on her shoulder—it's gotta be Mr. Whiskers—chewing a nut while turning it over and over in his little paws. In his frantic motion, every couple of seconds, he bumps Lynette's tinfoil hat.

Each time, she reaches up and straightens it.

But when Mr. Whiskers sees me, he freezes, then scurries down Lynette's arm and runs away. A few squirrels follow him, running in separate directions when they get to the tree line.

Lynette turns her head slowly until she can see me out of the very corner of her eye. "You scared them," she whispers matter-of-factly.

"I'm sorry," I whisper back.

My voice sends the rest of the squirrels scampering away in all different directions. Lynette watches them, waving and calling, "Goodbye, little friends. See you tomorrow! I'm sorry about the alien!"

Does she mean me? Am I the alien?

When Lynette turns all the way around, her tightly pursed lips give me my answer: Yes. I am the alien.

"Hi!" I raise my hand, partly as a peace offering. I know Lynette's feelings about aliens.

"Hello. What's your name?" She takes a nut from the bag in her hand and gnaws on it, so squirrel-like that I can understand why they like her so much.

"Cassie. I live in this studio apartment." I wave my head at the door behind me.

"That's correct." Lynette stares at me so long that I have to blink hard to keep my eyes from watering the way hers should be.

"And you're Lynette? Georgia has told me good things about you." I attempt to smile, but she stops it with an even harder stare.

"Georgia joined the aliens. They want to buy my land. Now I have to join them too, so I have money to buy food for my squirrels." Her voice is emotionless, and I wonder if she's just telling me the facts as they are rather than trying to scare me.

I approach her carefully so she won't feel threatened. I've encountered enough people on the streets of LA who have mental health challenges that I recognize Lynette isn't someone to be afraid of, but I also don't want her to be afraid of me.

"Maybe they want what's best for the squirrels too, like you do. They want you to have the money to buy them food. That's why they're buying your land." I stand close, but not too close.

Lynette finally blinks. "Oh. I never thought of it that way." She stays quiet a little longer, blinking some more before saying, "You might be right."

"I'm glad you think so." I move a little closer to her, but when she tenses, I stop.

"I wish I could give Bear the pond, though. He's worked so hard for his team." Lynette wrinkles with concern while she looks into the distant trees where her squirrels disappeared.

I watch her watch the squirrels, wondering what else Bear has done for her, besides re-homing her squirrels. Maybe that was enough to gain Lynette's devotion, but I doubt it. My guess is, his kindness to her goes back more than a few weeks.

"It's been really nice meeting you, Lynette." I'd like to put my hand on her shoulder or even offer to shake her hand, but I sense I'd only make her uncomfortable again. "I'd love to help you feed your friends sometime, if you'll teach me how."

For the first time, she smiles. "Yes. I can do that. Maybe tomorrow. I have a meeting tonight … I think."

I wave goodbye, then walk to the pond. I sit on the bench to put on my skates, watching Lynette cross the field to her house while I tie the laces.

Some people may judge me for encouraging Lynette's delusions. But that's not how I see it. What I'm doing is helping her reframe without judging her reality.

One thing I learned on the job is, we all have stories we tell ourselves. We use our stories to either justify our actions or help us make sense of the world. Most of us have stories that fit into a wider worldview about what is right and wrong. Unfortunately, some people use their stories as excuses to break the law or be cruel to other people trying to make sense of their own world, too.

But a few people, like Lynette, have bigger imaginations than the rest of us. For whatever reason, they feel safer living in their own fantasies than in the real world.

If they're not doing anything dangerous, what business do I have trying to get them to see the same reality as everyone else? Sometimes reality sucks.

We wouldn't have fairytales if the idea of talking animal friends didn't appeal to most of us. So, if Lynette wants to live in a world where squirrels are her friends, but she's worried about aliens, why not help her worry less about the aliens being her enemies?

I'm still thinking about Lynette when I step on the ice with the hockey stick and puck. Ten seconds later, I'm flat on my back. I leave the puck where it is and use the stick to push myself back to my skates.

I take a few tentative baby glides, but my ankles already want to give out on me. They keep trying to roll to the side, but after a few more glides, I've got the hang of how to stay upright. As long as I move very, very, slowly.

Obviously, there's no wall to hold on to, so I stay close to the edge of the pond. Just in case I have to crawl back to my shoes. I'd rather crawl through brush and snow than over ice.

After about ten minutes, I'm able to glide more smoothly, although the ice is bumpy. It's frozen in wind-blown ripples, which is fascinating to me. There's something so peaceful about water in motion suddenly being frozen. Like time is standing still right here on this pond.

By the time I'm ready to try to hit the puck, I have the tiniest sense of what Bear loves about this pond. I can picture his mom holding his hand, guiding him. Picking him up when he falls, brushing him off, and telling him to give it another try.

I tap the puck into a place where I can take a good swing at it. I face the opposite end of the pond, which feels very far away. My chest is as empty as the space between me and the fields that surround this place.

Sadness fills the space as I think of this pond—a piece of Bear's history—being gone. For the first time, I feel like I understand him.

But I also know that time doesn't actually stand still.

This pond will thaw. The water will move again. And, like the poem says, nothing gold can stay.

My bookstore will preserve Paradise's history, not just Bear's, and serve the whole city, not just his hockey team. It's the better choice for the shop than tearing it down.

I just wish Bear could see that.

I take a good swing at the puck, nearly falling over. Despite my force, the puck doesn't travel far, and I have to skate to the middle of the pond to take another swing.

I don't know how long I stay out there, but by the time I go back to my studio, I get why Bear loves the pond. I still don't get why he loves hockey, and I'm not giving up my fight to keep the shop, but I understand why the pond is sentimental for him.

Then my phone dings with a text from my partner, Carlos. I stare at the notification with the name of the person I used to talk to every single day, trying to make it fit in this space I'm in now, so far from LA.

I told Carlos when I got the notice about my leave that I didn't want to hear anything about work unless it was good news. I haven't heard from him in three weeks. Suddenly, I've been sucked into a time warp, pulled back into the old life I'm not sure I want to go back to, no matter what the good news is.

I peel off my coat and all my layers, make myself a cup of coffee, then settle onto the daybed to finally open the text.

I have to read half a dozen times to believe it.

Markham's been put on leave. Word is more complaints have come in.