Coalescence Read online

  Coalescence

  A Welder Romance

  J.C. Hannigan

  Contents

  1. Pathetic

  2. Cliché

  3. Eat Me

  4. Just My Luck

  5. Sweet Addiction

  6. Dog Gone Mad

  7. Again

  8. Leave Him Wanting

  9. Casual

  10. Booty Call

  11. Free Fall

  12. Those Walls

  13. Unspoken Revelations

  14. Defined…Sorta

  15. Hump Day

  16. Roulette

  17. Famished

  18. Fireworks

  19. Olive Branch

  20. Pre-Term

  21. Surprise!

  22. End Piece

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Also by J.C. Hannigan

  About the Author

  Coalescence

  Copyright © 2018 by J.C. Hannigan

  All rights reserved.

  jchannigan.com

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  More or less…

  Whether you function as welders or inspectors, the laws of physics are implacable lie-detectors. You may fool men. You will never fool the metal.

  Lois McMaster Bujold

  1

  Pathetic

  May 2017

  Gwen

  I scarfed pad Thai siew while I scrolled through Netflix, searching for something to watch. Reading wasn’t taking my mind off my grousing thoughts like it normally did. All those super-swanky book boyfriends that occupied my shelf were not making it easier to fill the hole he left in my heart. I needed to mindlessly indulge in something, anything to divert my attention from him.

  At the mere thought of him, my eyes darted to my phone on my lap, where his Facebook page was still open, taunting me via happy photos of his fabulous life with his new girlfriend. Frustrated with myself, I flipped my phone over and stabbed at the noodles with the plastic fork, imagining Erik’s face. It brought me a smidgen of comfort.

  My gray tabby cat, Dahmer, jumped onto the sofa beside me, stalking over to sniff at the carton in my hand. He liked Thai food almost as much as I did.

  “Back off,” I grumbled, pulling the carton away from his searching nose. He began to purr loudly, pushing his head against my arm, gently nipping at me. Sighing, I relented, picking up a tiny piece of beef and offering it to him. He snatched it from between my fingers and looked at me expectantly, as if waiting for more.

  Dahmer was named after the Milwaukee Cannibal. I was a little angry when I’d chosen that moniker. Angry at men, specifically Erik, and angry at myself. My mother had been horrified to find out that I’d named my cat after a serial killer, but honestly, the cat needed a name as crazy as he was, and I wanted a name that didn’t reflect my new cat lady spinster status.

  Ever since the day I brought him home from the pound seven months ago, he’d kept me on my toes. Dahmer gave affection when it suited him, for as long as it suited him. He also punished me as he saw fit—ignoring me, attacking my legs when I came home from work a little late. Sometimes, he left me dead things. Usually just bugs, but one time he managed to catch a mouse, and he deposited that prize on my pillow.

  Neurotic cat-like behaviour aside, he was surprisingly good at sensing my moods and drawing me out of them, and he made me feel a little less alone.

  Before Dahmer, the silence of my apartment was too much, even for me, and I was a girl who liked her solitude. I needed it after working in an office all day at a job I couldn’t stand.

  Administration. I’d picked the most basic, brainless program to take in college. I was shoved from the unforgiving, angst-filled halls of my former high school and pressed with the task of deciding my entire future in what felt like a single moment. It was overwhelming, and instead of selecting the program I’d wanted to—which was creative writing—I’d chosen one in which I could find steady work and that my parents would approve. For stability.

  All my choices had been for stability. Take Erik, for example. He was safe, and he was supposed to be my forever. But he’d cheated on me, and when I found out, I tossed all his things onto the tiny patch of yellowed grass in front of the apartment.

  If only it were as easy to toss away the influence of his destruction, but I was still working on it.

  I realized a few things after the breakup. The most obvious being that I was no longer content with ignoring my dreams. Ever since I was a little kid, I’d dreamed of becoming a published author. I’d always loved writing, always kept notebooks around, and amongst the collection of dresses in my closet were stacks of binders full of short stories, poems, and outlines for romance novels.

  Ironic, I know, especially given my current state of hating everything to do with men—which is why I hadn’t bothered to open a notebook in months. Having my heart broken had hindered my ability to put pen to page and let the words flow through me. I’d grown desolate from the blank pages.

  Severe writer’s block aside, a couple more things were holding me back from pursuing this dream of mine.

  For one, my blue-collared, straight-out-of-a-nineties-sitcom family. My parents didn’t believe writing books was a sustainable career for a young woman, especially a young single woman. In our family, my dad had always been the sole provider. He owned his own welding fabrication shop, had about twenty-six employees working under him, and had contracts all over Southern and Central Ontario.

  Since my parents were self-made, teaching my sister and me the importance of having a stable career was high on my father’s list of priorities. According to my dad, writing was a hobby, so, I’d hopped into the corporate world of business administration.

  Once I graduated, I encountered an unforeseen problem. For every administrative job post that I found, there were at least thirty other interviewees, and over half of them were more qualified than me. This lack of available employment was how I ended up as my father’s administrative assistant at the shop—just like he’d hoped.

  I’d worked there for the last three years, and every day was the same. It was slowly killing me, but I hid it well, knowing my dad would be hurt to discover how miserable I was at my job. It wasn’t the job, per se. It just wasn’t what I wanted to be doing with my time. Office work was boring, and sitting alone in the office all day long was torturous.

  To make matters worse, I no longer had a boyfriend at home. My heart twisted with the betrayal at the mere thought of him.

  I’d been so blindsided by his deception, but the worst part was that when he left, he took my dignity and my mojo. Which is why I found myself sitting on my sofa on a Friday night with a carton of my ultimate comfort food and my cat for company, letting the memories wash over me like acid, knowing that I was intentionally picking at the scab.

  I met Erik six years ago on my first day of college in the student ID cards line. I’d been there for an hour already, and it felt like the line wasn’t moving. He looked more approachable than the crew-cut guy in front of me, and he was holding a book. My kind of people held books.

  He was lean, fit, and dressed in dark blue slim jeans with a white button-up shirt and a maroon V-neck sweater. He had dark wavy hair that was cut shorter on the sides, longer on the top, and a little unrul
y, like he’d spent the day raking his hands through it.

  I felt an overwhelming urge to talk to him, so I struck up a conversation by asking what he was reading. It was The Pragmatic Programmer by Andy Hunt, and he happily explained a little about it. Computer Science wasn’t really my forte—I was more into romance, the classics, sci-fi, some horror, and maybe even a little mystery—but I let him tell me about it. Cute guys digging books were my kryptonite, and Erik was a cute guy.

  The conversation only flowed from there. To my astonishment, we hit it off, and he seemed to like me. He was attractive, easy to talk to, and we enjoyed a lot of the same things like videogames, paintballing, and Comic-Con—what my older sister would call “nerdy things.” When I finally made it to the front of the line an hour later, I left with his number programmed into my phone and plans to meet for coffee. It was the start of our very safe, very comfortable relationship.

  Or at least, it had been safe and comfortable. I didn’t see the many holes in our relationship until long after he’d left. We were constantly doing things together—checking out the art scene and museums, craft breweries, and other neat little tucked-away adventures—but I guess they weren’t enough to keep Erik interested in me for the long term. One day, Erik pulled the rug out from under me and confessed that he’d cheated on me with a girl he met at work.

  To say I never saw it coming would be an understatement. Erik was supposed to be the trustworthy good guy. He didn’t fit the stereotypical mold of a cheating bastard. It had been a sucker-punch straight to my sensitive heart.

  Being replaced by the one you thought was your forever—it left a bitter aftertaste.

  To amplify matters, in two months, I’d be twenty-five years old. As my mother reminded me every opportunity she got, she’d been married for five years and had two kids by twenty-five.

  Interrupting my internal lament, three loud bangs resounded throughout my apartment, and I scowled at the door. Thirty seconds later, I was still debating answering it when I heard the muffled voice of my older sister, Kelsey.

  “Gwen, answer the door. I know you’re in there. I can smell the Thai.” She let out a heavy sigh at the end, and I wrinkled my nose. Betrayed by the comfort food.

  She always seemed to pop up when I least wanted company.

  Huffing with aggravation, I stood, abandoning my Thai food on the coffee table. I padded over to the door, opening it reluctantly.

  Kelsey took in the baggy t-shirt and boxers look I was rocking. “Really, Gwen?” she said dryly, rolling her cornflower blue eyes.

  “Oh, please, throw your opinion upon me,” I deadpanned, standing aside to let her walk in.

  Kelsey was my Irish twin, born eleven months before me. She was a lot like our mother—very big on rules and appearances—and right now, my appearance wasn’t working for her.

  My sister had always been the popular one, the pretty one. Being so close in age was brutal, especially in high school. I was that kid—braces, glasses, pimples. No boobs. At least, not until the twelfth grade.

  I was a late bloomer. But thankfully, my tits eventually came in, and my skin stopped breaking out, and I ditched the horrible red tortoise glasses I’d worn since the ninth grade for a more flattering pair—my beloved black and blue Tiffany specs.

  I started watching makeup tutorial videos and practiced all the time, perfecting my application skills, playing up my eyes and my lips. I also developed a better fashion sense, which I’m sure helped. Now, my closet was stocked with outfits that were fashionable and fit me properly, not the black cargo pants of my past.

  But presently, all bets were off. My hair was piled on top of my head in a messy bun, and I was shamefully wearing an old band t-shirt from my high school days.

  She tapped her perfectly manicured finger against her lips, her critical eyes on me like I was a problem for her to solve. Her focus shifted to the chestnut nest atop my head. “It’s Friday night.”

  “I’m aware.” I gritted my teeth, adjusting my glasses. It was one of my many nervous ticks. Charming.

  “I’m worried about you, Gwenny,” Kelsey sighed. I could hear the judgment and concern in her voice.

  “Don’t be.” I waved away her remarks, laughing a little. It sounded fake to me, too.

  “You always do this.” She frowned, crossing her arms. “You sink into yourself and hide. And I’m not going to let you do that anymore. Get ready. We’re going out.”

  “I really don’t feel like going anywhere,” I told her. “I just wanted a chill night.”

  “You can have your chill night tomorrow,” she said decisively. She grabbed my hand and started dragging me toward the bedroom. Releasing her hold on me, she stomped to my closet. “Go shower. I’ll handle the wardrobe.”

  “Kelsey, really—“

  “Don’t.” She spun around, raising her finger at me threateningly—the same thing our mother did when she was lecturing one of us. “You’ve been moping over Erik for eight months, Gwen. It’s time to move on. I want my sister back.”

  I gaped at her, wanting to argue, to dispute her claim. But she wasn’t wrong—I was wallowing. It was easier than putting myself out there or enduring the disappointment of being let down, having your hopes and dreams for the future crushed.

  But I wasn’t any happier, and I knew Kelsey wouldn’t give up until I’d let her think she’d won. I threw my hands up in exasperation. “Fine, I’ll go!” Turning on my heel, I stomped to the bathroom.

  “Remember when we were still in high school, and we’d sneak out to watch the battle of the bands?” Kelsey asked as I applied a coat of my favourite red lipstick—Outlaw by Kat Von D.

  Setting the tube of lipstick down on the counter, I put my glasses back on and assessed myself, making sure I didn’t have lipstick on my teeth and that my winged eyeliner was even. Turning around, I leaned against the counter and folded my arms across my chest. “Yes…”

  Kelsey stood in the doorway with her phone in-hand. “There’s a band playing at the Watering Hole tonight, and the reviews of their music are pretty positive. We should check it out.”

  “All right.” I nodded, the nervousness I felt in the pit of my stomach easing some. Kelsey preferred clubbing to live music, and I’d been busy expecting the worst from tonight, so I figured that’s where she’d drag me. I could get behind a live band at the Watering Hole.

  I grabbed my black clutch from my closet and stuffed my keys, debit card, and phone into it before following her to her newer-model, white SUV parked in front of my beat-up Mazda on the street.

  Truthfully, I was a little envious of her. There wasn’t even a full year between the two of us, and she was already ahead of me in the success department. She worked full-time at a job she seemed to love, and she’d recently gotten engaged—to a good guy, too. Like, it was almost impossible to find fault with Elliott, and it was difficult to begrudge her happiness. They were sickeningly cute together, and I was ecstatic for my sister.

  But…Kelsey was exactly where I hoped to be when I was younger and looking to the future. They’d already purchased their first home together, a tiny two-bedroom bungalow near Port Hope’s downtown district. They were happy, in love.

  They had what I thought I had with Erik before I was blindsided by his betrayal; before I realized we never even had it, because if we did? He wouldn’t have dipped his wick elsewhere.

  Now I was single, living on the second floor of a three-storey apartment building near the highway. We had chosen this apartment because of its proximity to the highway and my job at the shop. The rent was cheap and all-inclusive, so I stayed even after Erik left, but things were tight. I was used to splitting half the cost of everything, and now I covered it all. After paying rent, my car insurance, my cell phone and Internet bill, and buying groceries, I was pretty much broke. I’d called in for Thai food using my credit card, knowing that I shouldn’t but needing the food hug after I tortured myself by looking through Erik’s Facebook page.

  The ki
cker was that he looked so happy, way happier than he ever seemed with me.

  But I would take being broke over the alternative any day. The only thing worse than having my heart smashed was having to return home to my parents’ house with my tail tucked between my legs, clutching said broken heart. It was bad enough I had to go to my father to get a job; I couldn’t tolerate living there, too. Surely, what was left of my pride and dignity would evaporate in my mother’s company.

  “Tonight’s objective—secure a rebound,” Kelsey said, speaking like a spy and waggling her eyebrows at me before turning the key in the ignition.

  “You’re ridiculous. I don’t need a rebound,” I scoffed, rolling my eyes.

  “Actually, you do. You know I’m not for whoring it up, but I do believe you need to pound out the cobwebs if you know what I mean.” She snorted.

  “Nope, I’m good,” I said, going for the door. If tonight’s purpose was to force me at some sad bloke, I didn’t want to take part.

  “Wait,” she laughed. “Look, just flirt with someone—a little, okay? It’ll make you feel good.”

  “How do you know that?” I asked, pausing long enough for her to throw it in drive and go.

  “Trust me, okay? I know these things. You know I know these things,” she reminded me, looking at me to drill her all-knowing gaze into me.

  The bar was crowded, and we had to squeeze our way inside. The Watering Hole was one of the more popular bars in town.