Stuck With the Grumpy Single Dad

11. Chapter Ten Mabel

Chapter Ten: Mabel

A ugust 14, 2024

Dear Cal,

I’m burning the midnight oil to write you this letter, and it’s going to come pretty quickly after the last one I sent, but I can’t sleep until I get this off my chest. And I know that you’ve put up with a lot of my ranting in the past, so I’m afraid you’ll have to do it again.

I’m just so… furious. Annoyed. Frustrated. Offended. Outraged. Horrified. Seething. Wrathful.

(No, I am NOT using a thesaurus. This impressive vocabulary is all coming from the heart, I swear.)

There’s this guy. Matt. Whatever. He’s new in town, which isn’t exactly out of the ordinary during the summer here in Mermaid Shores, as I’ve told you before. But rather than just being a tourist that will come and go with time, he’s actually moved here, permanently.

And you know what? The weird thing is that you and he have a lot in common. He’s got twin girls, too, but with his attitude, I’m pretty sure he’s divorced, not widowed. Also, he works in some kind of construction. I mean, I know you’ re a carpenter, and I think this man is a roofer—or something like that—but, still. You both work with your hands doing build-y stuff.

The difference is, you’re one of my best friends, Cal. And HE is the bane of my existence.

He’s SO rude. All haughty and grumpy and practically impossible to talk to. He irks me, which is crazy, because I love everyone. And everyone usually loves me. It’s as simple as that. Never in my life have I ever dealt with someone who is so determined to dislike me that they won’t even give me the benefit of doubt.

I mean, when’s the last time I had an actual fight with someone? I’m even still on good terms with the paltry handful of exes I’ve had over the years! I’m the poster child for small-town charm, thank you very much! I don’t fight with people. Yes, I understand the importance of healthy conflict and productive arguments, but I truly cannot think of a single person that I have automatically butted heads with so forcefully. It’s like the universe created him specifically to get on my nerves.

The problem is, this man—let’s call him Grumpy, à la the seven dwarves—might have overheard me saying something questionable before we even actually formally met. It’s a long story, but he took that ONE situation and decided that it was a good enough reason to completely write me off. So, here I am, listening to everyone else in town talk about how friendly and chill and nice this guy is, and yet every time I cross paths with him, it’s like he sees evil incarnate in my eyes. He hates me, Cal! And it’s really weird!

What am I supposed to do? I’ve tried so hard to be a welcoming member of this community. I brought him baked goods. I’m sweet to his daughters, and… and… UGH! I guess I haven’t really done much else to try to convince him that I’m actually a good person, but why should I have to go out of my way to convince anyone of that in the first place? It’s not fair.

The worst part is that I’m not even the one who deserves ridicule. HE’S the liar. He lied to my face about where he lives (another long story) and I’m pretty sure he’s lying about a lot of other stuff, too.

I mean, can you believe it? He waltzes into town, all high and mighty and apparently RICH (???), and decides to play the victim. Whatever. Like, literally whatever.

If you’re actually serious about us meeting, Cal, maybe you can come down to Mermaid Shores and beat this guy up for me. Not that I’m a proponent for violence, but I’m sure you could take him. You’ve got muscles, right? This man is quite tall, but I picture you as tall, too. I’m sure you’d win. Not that I really would expect you to throw any punches for my honor. In fact, really, I’d rather be the one connecting my fist to his pretty jawline.

No, I did not just call him pretty. He’s not pretty. It’s just his eyes. They’re really, really blue.

Do you think it’s weird that we’ve been writing to each other all these years and we don’t even know what the other looks like? I guess if we decide to meet in real life, then we’ll have to reveal some physical characteristics, if only so we can figure out how to identify each other in public.

Or maybe it’s time that we exchange phone numbers. We could text instead of writing letters? After twenty years of this, maybe we could enter the modern era? Maybe we…

“What are you even saying?” I mutter to myself, slamming my pen down onto the coffee table.

The antique clock on the wall, which I bought for five dollars at a flea market in Hyannis, ticks away. It’s half past midnight. I tried to go to bed at my usual time, around eleven o’clock, but I tossed and turned for an hour before I gave up, wrapped my duvet around myself, and stomped downstairs.

I haven’t been able to stop thinking about my altercation with Matt earlier.

Not only because of how annoying it was, but also because of what I revealed to him. It’s not that I’m worried Matt is a gossip who will go out of his way to spread around town that I’m infertile. He probably doesn’t even care.

The issue is that I’ve never told anyone before. Other than my parents, of course, but that’s only because they were the ones who supported me through all those medical appointments years ago.

And I told Cal, but that’s because Cal and I tell each other everything. I’m more honest with him than I am with anyone else in my life, even including my parents. He knows me better than anyone.

At the same time, however, there’s a lot he doesn’t really know about me. He doesn’t know that I have red hair and green eyes. He doesn’t know I have too-pale skin and a ridiculous number of freckles. He doesn’t know that I’m average height for a woman, or that I’m rather proud of the other endowments my body has. He knows I live in Mermaid Shores, but he doesn’t have my exact home address, because when we first started writing letters, a storm took out my parents’ mailbox and forced us to get a PO Box—and I never stopped using it as my return address.

He doesn’t know what kind of car I drive. He doesn’t know what my voice sounds like, or how weird my laugh gets when I find something really funny.

Similarly, now that I’m sitting here in the relative darkness, with nothing but the glow of the Home Shopping Network on the television lighting my letter-writing station, I’m realizing that there’s quite a lot that I don’t know about Cal .

Like, for example, I don’t know his last name. Nineteen years of writing letters, and I never really bothered to ask for a surname. Simply addressing the envelopes with Cal was never an issue for the postal workers.

He doesn’t know my real name, either. He knows that Maple Leaf is a stupid inside joke that originated from my friendship with someone totally different, but he’s also never asked me what my real name is.

Is that weird? Was he being polite? Or did he merely never care enough?

I also don’t know the names of Cal’s daughters. I’ve sent them plenty of gifts over the years, but never asked for specifics because I didn’t want to be nosy. They’re not my kids, after all. I’m just a stranger, really. I’m nobody. And Cal is so protective of those girls. I don’t blame him for being so private in regards to them.

One thing I do know is Cal’s home address.

He lives in Greenville, Maine. I have memories of visits to my Aunt Sue’s cabin there when I was younger of course, but I’ve looked it up a couple times over the years, just out of pure curiosity. It’s near a huge body of water called Moosehead Lake, and is basically in the middle of nowhere. Nothing but trees and dirt roads. And moose, of course.

I smile to myself, remembering a letter in which I once told him that I’ve never seen a moose in real life. He could hardly believe it, considering how common they are in New England. The fact is, though, that I’ve spent my entire life on the coast, and moose don’t really like the ocean.

Did you know more people are attacked by moose in New England than any other forest animal, Maple? Including BEARS?

Snorting quietly, I shake my head. That letter was years ago. Before his daughters started school. Before I found out that I’ll never have kids. Life was simpler back then. It was for me, at least. For Cal, he had already experienced more hardship and loss than any one person should have to.

He lost his wife and his mother within two years. For a while, it felt wrong to complain to him about anything. Like, how dare I whine about my life to a man who has been through that much? Other than my grandpa passing away when I was in seventh grade, I’ve never dealt with grief. Not that kind of grief, anyway. The grief I felt when I learned I’d never be a mother was different. I lost something intangible. I lost a future I’d only vaguely considered.

Even now, it feels wrong to fill a letter to Cal with all these childish complaints. Three pages of complaining, to be exact. He said his life was full of big, exciting things. If he reads this letter, I’ll just be raining on his parade.

And anyway, I’m being petty. Talking smack about a guy behind his back to someone who doesn’t even know him is a low blow. Even if I’m sure Cal will believe me and take my side, it’s still a low blow.

So, without hesitation, I reach for the unfinished letter and crumple it up.

What I really need to do is erase Matt Morgan from my mind. It’s for the best. He clearly wants nothing to do with me, and therefore, it’s in my best interest to want the same thing. Sure, this is a small town, especially in the offseason, but it shouldn’t be that difficult to avoid him. He doesn’t strike me as a social butterfly. And, given how much he dislikes me, I’m certain he won’t be frequenting the Siren & Sword.

It’s fine. We can coexist.

I don’t need to be obsessing over the fact that he’s the secret Beaufort heir. I don’t need to spend my time wondering what he’s going to do with the manor. I also don’t need to waste my days pondering why he’s being so secretive about everything in the first place.

Instead, I should focus on things that make me happy. People who make me happy.

Like Cal.

As the clock ticks closer to one in the morning, I drum my fingernails on the tabletop. I’m hunched on the floor, all bundled up in my duvet, and the lady on the television is trying to sell me what looks like a pair of battery-powered socks that warm up with the press of a button. It’s the sort of product I might order as a joke, then gift to my mom for Christmas. Or maybe send it up to Cal just to entertain him. I’ve done it before. For his last birthday, I sent him a device that allegedly cleans small things like your wallet, keys, and phone with UV light.

Thanks for the gimmick, Leafy , he wrote back to me. I’ll cherish it forever.

I should head back up to bed, but there’s a thought nagging at the edges of my mind.

I know where Cal lives. And Cal said he’d like to finally meet me. I could surprise him. He likes surprises, right? He’s never said anything to suggest the opposite might be true.

I reach for my phone and type a few specifics into the Maps app. Apparently, it’s a seven-hour drive from here to Greenville, Maine. And that’s in current traffic, in the middle of the night, when nobody is on the roads. Driving up the coast to Maine during the day in August, alongside all the other tourists fighting to get into Vacationland, would definitely take longer than that.

But I have this weekend off. And the only plans I had were to help my mom out with an event she’s catering on Saturday night. Not because she really needs me to, but because I usually don’t have anything better to do than provide her with free labor .

Suffice it to say, I don’t have a lot going on in my life. It’s been that way for a long time. No boyfriend. No children. Plenty of friends, yes, but all with lives and families of their own as we’ve gotten older.

Maybe a road trip is a good idea. Maybe, instead of sending another letter to Cal, I can finally talk to him in person. I can hear what his voice sounds like. I can make him laugh. I can discover if his smile is a little crooked or if it makes his eyes crinkle at the corners.

I can know, once and for all, if these inexplicable feelings for Cal that have been stewing in the pit of my stomach for over a decade now are worth anything.

And even if it’s nothing more than friendship between us, that’s fine, too.

Surely, he’ll be happy to see me. I’m his Maple Leaf. He’s my Cal.

I stand from the carpet and march upstairs. I’ve made my decision, and if I’m going to be able to head out onto the road early in the morning, then I need to make sure I get plenty of sleep tonight.