What I Should’ve Said
Chapter 8

Norah

“That’ll be $1.85,” I update the older, suit-wearing gentleman as I tap the keys of the cash register. He hands me two one-dollar bills, and I make quick work of his fifteen-cent change.

I don’t know where in the hell Josie is at this point, but this is customer number two who’s slipped in the door while my MIA sister has left me to run her coffee shop all by my-freaking-self. Thankfully, his second order choice—the first being a cappuccino—is something I can handle—coffee with two sugars and a little cream.

“So, you’re new in town, huh?” he questions.

I nod. “I guess you could say that.”

“Well, as the mayor of this town, I hope everyone is treating you well.”

Everyone besides Josie and the meathead who kicked me out of his truck halfway to my sister’s house. Obviously, I don’t tell him that.

I force a smile to my lips. “Everyone’s been great. And it’s nice to meet you…uh…Mr. Mayor.”

“Oh please, we don’t need to be that formal, darling.” A hearty chuckle leaves his lips. “The name’s Norman Wallace, but you can call me Norman.”

My brain hits the brakes like it’s two seconds away from causing a fifty-car pileup on a busy interstate.

“I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?”

“Norman Wallace.” He flashes a proud smile. “Better known as the man responsible for brightening up our bridge to the tune of sunny yellow.”

I can’t focus on his bridge admission or the reality that it makes zero sense for a town called Red Bridge to have a yellow bridge. But that’s probably because I’m too busy trying to understand why this is the second Norman Wallace I’m talking to today.

“Your name is Norman Wallace? Like, that’s your whole name?”

“Well, technically, it’s Norman Albert Wallace, but yes. That’s my…name.” He searches my eyes like he’s wondering why I’m one crayon short of a full box.

I don’t have to be born yesterday to figure out the odds of having two Norman Wallaces in a town this small are next to zero. Instantly, my eyes dart to the door, furiously seeking out the first Norman Wallace I met all of ten minutes ago, but he’s nowhere to be found.

“You okay, darling?” the mayor asks after I’ve managed to stand here for a good ten seconds just staring out the door, and I quickly clear my throat and push a half smile to my lips.

“Peachy.” I grab an empty cup and write the name Norman on it for the second time today. “Just give me a minute, and I’ll have your coffee ready.”

His smile showcases a what-is-happening-right-now? uncertainty, and it makes me kick my ass into gear. Cup in hand, I fill it three-fourths of the way with coffee, but the more I think about that muscly dickhead, the more I feel irritation vibrating under my skin.

I cannot believe that rat bastard gave me a fake name. And not just any name, but the name of the freaking mayor of Red Bridge, who thinks I’m on glue because, when he told me his name, I looked at him like he’d just told me his penis recorded a duet with Mariah Carey that’ll be releasing next year.

I let out a deep exhale and add sugar and cream to the mayor’s coffee, stirring it with annoyed twirls of my hand. The coffee forms a liquid tornado, and I silently curse out fake Norman Wallace for setting me up to look like a moron.

“So, you’re Josie’s sister?”

“I am.” I force another fake smile to curl my lips and glance over my shoulder at the real Norman Wallace while I secure a lid over the steaming cup of coffee that’s been doctored to his liking. “And I apologize again for not being able to make the cappuccino.”

“That’s okay,” he comments with a friendly smile. “Maybe next time I come in?”

“Fingers crossed.” I smile hopefully, even though my only real hope is that this isn’t a regular thing. When it comes to getting back on my feet, I didn’t picture working in my sister’s coffee shop and disappointing customers on a daily basis as my big comeback moment.

“So, there will be a next time?” he questions as I slide the paper-sleeve-thingie over his cup so he doesn’t burn his hands. “As in, you’ll be staying in Red Bridge for a while?”

As I turn on my heel, the sound of the bell grabs my attention before I can answer his question or give him his order. And the person striding in shakes my equilibrium to the point that I have to reach out with my free hand to steady myself on the counter.

The very last person I want to see here, there, or anywhere is here.

Thomas.

What in the toxic Dr. Seuss is going on here? How did he replace me this quickly?

Nausea curdles in my stomach like sour milk as my ex-fiancé advances to the counter and stops right beside Mayor Wallace.

“Hello, Norah,” Thomas greets, his voice barely playing at pleasant. It’s stiff and rigid and makes a shock of goose bumps roll up my spine. If we didn’t have an audience, it wouldn’t even have an edge of well-mannered, I’m sure. But, as always, Thomas is far too rehearsed not to perform the part of a politician, even when he’s talking to the woman who left him at the altar.

“W-what are you doing here?” My mouth stutters over my words, and my fingers dig deeper into the counter as I try like hell to keep myself standing. Something about how calm he is downright terrifies me.

“You gave me no choice,” he says through a tight jaw. “Since you won’t answer my calls or texts, I had to resort to other methods.”

I didn’t answer his calls or texts because I hoped I’d never have to face him again. Or my mother, for that matter.

“H-how did you know I was here?”

“It’s not hard to replace you when Eleanor and Carlton are still footing your cell phone bill,” he retorts. His smile is a nonverbal checkmate.

The mayor glances between us awkwardly, and I feel as though my body has been cut open for the world to see. The invasion of privacy. The outright disregard for me. It makes me feel like I’m days’-old trash that raccoons rummage around in.

How could you have forgotten such a simple detail?

Lillian was the only person who knew where I was and where I was going. She was the only person I wanted to know. But evidently, I was too wrapped up in trying to pull myself together and keep my distance—and eventually get out of New York without having to face Thomas or my mother—that I forgot to cover all of my tracks.

Rookie mistake.

“What in the hell is going on, Norah?” he questions with a sharp tongue. “I have a hard time believing you left me, left our perfect life together, to come slum it in this shit town.”

Our perfect life? The only thing perfect about our life was what we showed the rest of the world. On the inside, only dirty, disgusting, appalling lies were left to fester and rot.

The mayor clears his throat, and I realize that I am in the middle of my sister’s coffee shop and what is happening right now is not even close to appropriate for a business.

“Thomas, I can’t do this right now. This isn’t the time or place,” I tell him as calmly as I can.

He laughs, but it’s devoid of humor. “If you think I dropped everything, had my assistant move important meetings and rearrange my schedule, to travel all the way to the middle of fucking nowhere to not talk to you, you’re wrong.” His eyes narrow with anger, and his jaw ticks with a tightness I’ve never seen before. His carefully crafted façade is slipping. “I’m not leaving, Norah. Not until you explain what in the hell is going on with you.”

The bell above the door jingles lightly with the mayor’s unexpected exit, and the panic of being completely on my own fills me with crippling dread. My fingers squeeze around the mayor’s forgotten cup of coffee, still in my hand. It collapses under the pressure, and Thomas steps back from the spray of hot liquid with a look of derision.

And I’m too terrified to feel it burn my skin as it spills from the busted cup. Somehow, I manage to drop the cup into the small trash can near my feet and wipe my hand on my apron, but the entire time, Thomas’s steely gaze continues to bore holes into my skull.

There’s still a counter between us, thank God, but I am frighteningly, hopelessly, alone with my aggressor.

“I have replayed that day over and over again in my mind, thought about the weeks leading up to our wedding, and I can’t, for the life of me, figure out what in the hell happened,” Thomas states and runs a hand through his already disheveled hair. “At the very least, you owe me an explanation.”

What I should say right now, I can’t say. His lawyers made sure the truth was covered with a private settlement and an ironclad NDA, and I won’t give him the ammunition to use his own despicable actions to his advantage.

“Thomas, I…I have nothing to say to you. I can’t do this right now.”

“Are you kidding me?” He slams two fists down on the counter so hard that it makes me jump back a step. “You walked out on our wedding day, and then you just disappeared! And you don’t have anything to say? Do you have any idea what you’ve done? You embarrassed yourself, me, your mother, my family! You ruined everything! Do you even know what it was like for me when you left like that? Everyone was there! Everyone witnessed me looking like a fucking schmuck!”

How does it always seem to go back to him and what he feels and what he’s going through?

I should tell him that this isn’t about me or what I’ve done; it’s about what he did. What he kept from me. What he lied about. The fact that he’s not the man I thought he was. But I refuse to bring this trouble to someone else’s door. Someone who pushed past their fear and told me the truth. Someone everyone else in the world has failed to protect.

“Fine, you don’t want to talk here? Then, we’ll go to my rental car.” Thomas strides around the counter until he’s all up in my personal space. “Let’s go,” he says in a stern tone of voice. “Now.”

“I’m not going anywhere. You—”

“Yes, you fucking are!” he shouts and grabs my forearm so hard I nearly slip on the spilled coffee in Lillian’s black Chanel flats.

“Thomas, what are you doing?” I implore as evenly as I can manage, hoping he’ll fall back on decorum and stop scaring me so much. “Have you lost your mind?”

“I haven’t lost my mind,” he retorts, and his fingers dig deeper into my skin. “You’ve lost your mind. You’re ruining your life. Can’t you see that? Do you even understand what your life is going to be like without me? I’m here because I care about you, Norah. I want what’s best for you. And this, right here, working in a fucking coffee shop, isn’t it. You need me.”

Memories crash into my head like a car accident. My mother. Thomas proposing. The wedding. The envelope. The fact that him saying I need him isn’t the first time he’s said that to me.

I hope the truth will set you free.

I should tell him I don’t need him. I should tell him that I’ve never needed him, but something stops me from saying it.

My chest feels like someone cracked open my heart with a crowbar.

“Norah, baby, you know you need me,” he whispers and moves his face closer to mine. “And it’s okay. I can forgive you for all the embarrassment you’ve caused. I can move past that, but you need to talk to me. Tell me what is going on.”

His words make my stomach churn. And I can’t even bring myself to look him in the eye.

I just want to get away.

“Stop, Thomas.” I yank my arm away from his hold. “Just stop. You need to go. I want you to go.”

“I’m not leaving.” His jaw tightens as he steps closer and grabs my forearm in his hand again, but this time, his grip is tighter, and his usually light hazel eyes look as dark as a bad thunderstorm cloud on a hot summer day. “I’m not fucking leaving here without you, Norah.”

I’ve never seen him like this. It freezes my vocal cords. Freezes my ability to do anything but stand there. I am ice and he is fire, and any minute, I am going to melt under his scorching glare.

Normally, Thomas Conrad Michael King III is perfectly groomed in every way and the skin on his face is baby-smooth and he always has his most charming smile intact.

But this version of Thomas is something I’ve never seen before.

His white collared shirt is wrinkled. His hair is a mess. And he’s angry, so angry, in a way that I didn’t even know was possible for a guy like him. Thomas never looks unkempt, and he doesn’t show any kind of negative emotion. But his fury is right there on the surface and showcased in every harsh line on his face.

“Get off me, Thomas.” I try to shake him free, but he doesn’t let go. His grip is rock solid, and with a harsh yank, he forces my feet to follow him toward the door.

The last thing I want to do is go anywhere with him, but my mind feels like it’s underwater and the shock of the situation is muffling everything around me.

“Thomas, let me go. Seriously. This isn’t okay.”

He doesn’t listen and his strides are quick and long, and the awkward angle at which he’s holding my forearm makes it hard for me to do anything else but focus on not tripping over my own two feet.

“You heard her. Let her go,” a voice that is not mine or Thomas’s fills the empty space of the coffee shop, and I look up to replace fake Norman Wallace standing there, blocking the door. I didn’t even hear the tinkle of the bells.

“This isn’t your business,” Thomas spits. “Get out of the way.”

“Let go of her arm.” It’s a command, barren of any and all room for negotiation.

Thomas doesn’t, and apparently fake Norman Wallace doesn’t demand respect more than twice without taking it for himself.

With one lift of his fist, he lands one hell of a punch to Thomas’s face, and a sickening crunch echoes off the walls. The grip on my arm is released, and my ex crumbles to the floor like a pile of broken bricks.

Blood drips from a prostrate Thomas’s nose and onto the pristine material of his white shirt and the tile floor of Josie’s coffee shop, and all I can do is stand there. Frozen in time. Unable to move.

Sheriff Peeler, a man I met during the morning rush early this morning, and the mayor come careening through the door, nearly running over me and fake Norman and Thomas and the whole sordid crime scene.

“Call the fucking cops, Norah,” Thomas shouts from the floor, his vision clouded by the blood from his nose.

“No need, son. Cops are already here,” Sheriff Peeler announces. “What’s going on, Ben?”

Ben only has one word to say. “Fuck.”

Fuck, indeed. Fuck, for sure. In fact, I should have fucking said it myself.