Please enjoy my new story
Disclaimer: Don't own Hart of Dixie.
Spoilers: Set right after episode 1x20: The race and the relationship.
The silent treatment.
It's the purest, most simple form of punishment and perhaps even the most effective one. The silent treatment. And it's not like you're used to it. It was your parents' favorite way of torturing each other, but back then, you thought of it as a break from the constant sniping and sarcasm that usually clouded the air at the Hart residence.
Looking back, it was mostly your father who applied it. The day your mother will ever shut up for longer than an hour is the day they put a few feet of earth over her body.
But even though it's been years, you do remember clearly how upset it would make her when your father would ignore her very existence for days on end. Sometimes even weeks. While it was a rare treat for you not to hear them fight, you never quite understood the devastation it left behind in your mother's heart.
Now you do.
Even since you so selfishly traipsed behind George for the umpteenth time and thus caused him to lose a real good chance at winning five thousand dollars, a nice starting capital for his new bar, Wade hasn't spoken to you.
At all. Like, not one word.
No 'good morning' at breakfast, if he's even there. Most of the time, he's either left before you got there or is waiting until he sees you leave. When you dare to venture into the Rammer Jammer, he disappears out back, leaving Wanda or whoever happens to be there in charge to take your order. You get the regular white wine now, trying not to be bothered by the generic taste.
In the evenings, he's not in the kitchen either and what's worse: the new fuse box Lavon has provided you with is finally installed, so there's no longer any danger of you blowing the electricity to pieces.
The only good thing about it is that you have enough power to be able to watch as many DVD's as you want in a feeble attempt to distract yourself, so you don't have to hold vigil on your porch, carefully staying out of his line of sight, watching him take yet another floozy into the gatehouse for some entertainment.
It makes you feel sick. And something else you refuse to delve into in case the test results come back as a clear case of jealousy. If you're jealous of anyone, it's Lemon freaking Breeland, not a nameless hussy who gets all of Wade's undivided attention.
You just want some of it. And only because you want your neighbor back, because having a friendly as well as handy man living next door is a luxury you've gotten used to very fast.
It's not because you miss him. You don't.
Don't miss his stupid grin, his childish pranks, his sarcasm, his snide comments and his constant attempts to get into your pants.
Neither do you miss the sweet smile, the helpfulness, the way he would pour you a nice full glass of your favorite wine after a long, hot day. Or the way his shirt rides up when he reaches for something, showing of his mouthwatering abs. If he wears a shirt at all.
But the shirtlessness shouldn't bother you either way. You don't miss him, remember?
The shower head in your bathroom drips and drips and is driving you nuts, but you refuse to call a plumber, still hoping that you can sooner or later pluck up the courage to ask him to fix it for you. Then again, how can you ask him something if he never even looks in your direction?
You tried. You really did. You've tried calling him, but every time you did, you were sent straight through to his voicemail. You must have overflowed it with apologies, ranging from serious to sweet to desperate. He's never as much as acknowledged any of them.
The same goes for the hundreds of texts you've sent or the notes you left on his porch, with a six-pack of beer. The unopened beer cans are still standing where you left them. Like he thinks they're poisoned.
It's been going on for almost a month. It hurts more than you care to admit, but you're powerless to stop it. Even Lavon has taken himself out of the equation. He's angry at you too as well as very disappointed that your action has caused his tenants and best friends to be anything but pleasant company. Plus, you turned his kitchen, once the warm centre of the plantation's small group of inhabitants, into a place even colder than the morgue, as he unintentionally got stuck in the middle, like a child watching his mom and dad separate and having to decide which parent he likes best.
True, he's told you so many times already that you were trampling all over his friend's feelings for you, but the mere thought of Wade having any feelings beyond his continuous sex drive was so laughable to you, you dismissed them without thinking.
And that's where you were wrong, apparently.
This really is all your fault. You can't blame him for doing this to you. You don't, you know you deserve it. But that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt.
Real bad.
More than anything else, it's this fact that has caught you so of guard. Because if you are so convinced there's nothing you miss in Wade except for his skills (not his bedroom skills either), then why does his refusal to even acknowledge your presence feel so bad?
Why are you crying your heart out every single night with a bottle of cheap Dixie stop plunk? Why have you committed grand theft plaid shirt and sleep in it to feel closer to him? You had hoped he would storm in and claim it back. Even fighting with him is better than nothing, but so far, he hasn't shown. So either he has no idea it's missing or he does and just doesn't care.
Which hurts even more.
It's the end of the fourth week of operation punish Zoe Hart and it's starting to take its toll on everyday life. Each morning you wake up with a giant headache caused by cheap alcohol and too many hot tears.
A refreshing morning shower isn't in the books thanks to your unreliable shower head and then there's the total lack of apatite assaulting you whenever you enter the eerily silent kitchen.
Brick has already saved your ass twice when you were about to write the wrong diagnosis in the wrong patient file and three times in a row you forgot to order new spatula's and several medications you're seriously running low on.
It's a miracle anybody makes it out of your room alive.
Every time the door of the clinic opens, you kind of hope a familiar, plaid clad person will walk in, with some injury that needs to be fixed. Not that you wish him any harm, far from it, but at least it would mean you got to be near him. But he would probably rather bleed to death than see you. He'd go straight to Brick and if your partner wasn't there, he would drive himself to the Emergency Room in Mobile.
Then, inevitably, the time comes when Brick sends you home. He must have seen your exhaustion, perhaps he even knows what has caused it, though he never comments. He merely orders you to take a few days off.
And here you are, on your first morning off, not knowing what to do with yourself. As usual, your gaze lands on the gatehouse. The door's open and Wade is letting someone out. Another blonde, how predictable. His laugh is obnoxious, the way they kiss goodbye with open mouths is revolting.
Your stomach turns. A sob escapes your throat. But you're not jealous.
For one moment as he turns to go back inside, he looks in your direction. Hesitantly, you raise your hand in a small wave. If he sees it, he doesn't show and disappears inside. You sob multiplies as you throw yourself on the bed.
This shouldn't hurt like this, but it does.
With the whole long day looming in front of you and Lavon being away on some kind of conference in Montgomery, you helplessly wander around in the empty kitchen after taking a cup of coffee and a piece of toast for breakfast, not being able to think of anything to do. On impulse, you grab the car keys and your purse and climb into Lavon's vehicle. A shopping spree in Mobile might do you some good. For a moment you contemplate driving further, to New Orleans, but you quickly change your mind. Too many memories.
Shopping in Mobile on your own does nothing for you. Though a lot more sophisticated than Bluebell, it still lacks the endless possibilities of a real big city and at the risk of being as snobbish as wade once proclaimed you to be, you're bored again pretty fast.
Damn it, thinking of him again.
There's a farmer's market in the square in town. Tantalizing smells meet your nostrils and because you have nothing better to do, you follow your nose to the overflowing stands of fresh fruits, herbs, vegetables and all the rich local sea bounty.
A thought pops up in your head, a memory of a pot of gumbo, freshly made and entered in the contest under your name, winning you second prize. At the time you assumed Lavon was your secret chef, but now you know it was Wade trying to help you settle in without even telling you.
It was one of the sweetest things anyone has ever done for you and you should have realized then that Wade was already out of his comfort zone, developing feelings he might never have had before for a creature as exotic to him as the whole town of Bluebell was to you.
And you never even thanked him.
Man, you have been taking him for granted! You're every bit as snobbish and self-centered as he thinks you are.
But it's time for a change.
It's a risky plan forming in your mind, but you don't care. For once, you'll take a dare. You will get Wade to talk to you again, one way or another.
Accessing the Internet with your smart phone, you quickly look up and find an elaborate recipe, with a neat list of ingredients, all of which you know you can find right here at this market.
Half an hour and half the contents of your wallet later, you haul two paper shopping bags to the car and drive home. In Lavon's pristine kitchen, you arrange everything in order of the recipe and start gathering the required utensils.
With the radio on some country station and a hopeful smile on your face, you grab the knife and stick it into the first unlucky shrimp. It takes some practice, but you manage to clean and disembowel the slippery thing and put it aside.
One down, dozens to go. But you're on your way and you mind's made up.
Tonight, Zoe Hart will serve her neighbor the best gumbo he's ever had.
Several hours later, your optimism has vanished, to be replaced with what is close to a panic. You're sure you've done everything right. You've cut and diced and sliced and stirred and added hands full of all kinds of herbs, but instead of something bubbling merrily on the stove and producing a mouth watering aroma, something putrid is emanating large puffs of thick black smoke into the formally clean kitchen, which now resembles a war zone. There are pots and pans everywhere, stains all over the counter and the apron you put on looks like you stole it, used and all, from an abattoir.
Where have you gone wrong?
Perhaps, if you add some more water. Or stock. Or…
You lift the lid to peer in. Some of the condensing steam drips on your left hand and you yelp in pain, dropping the lid as you clutch your burned wrist. The heavy gumbo pot lid falls on your foot and again you bite back a curse.
This is a disaster. Why, why did you think you could pull it off? What were you thinking? This won't impress anyone. You're a lousy chef. A terrible neighbor and a horrible friend. You're clumsy and selfish and snobbish and you'll never win Wade back now.
Better face it; he'll never smile at you again, or talk to you, or even think about you. He'll never know what you tried to do for him. He'll never understand why.
Even if you now finally do.
Another wave of pain and helplessness makes your knees buckle and you slump against the counter top. Pulling your legs up, you surrender to another tsunami of upcoming tears.
It's in this condition Wade finds you half an hour later. Alerted by the strange odor and the thick black smoke coming from the main house, he hurries in.
Wade's POV
The scene that meets your eyes is something out of a bad horror movie. Some kind of chemical weapon has exploded in the kitchen of your best friend and is still producing potentially lethal fumes. You might need a gas mask, but there's no time, because you hear some sounds coming from inside the fog.
Carefully making your way through the grime scene, you locate the source of the sound and find a solitary figure sitting on the floor, knees pulled up, crying her heart out. Forgetting your anger at the sight of this obviously devastated creature, you kneel next to her.
"Zoe? What is this, what's going on? Are you okay?"
"No," she sniffles.
You tilt her chin, wiping some stray tears away, but she's too embarrassed to look you in the eye.
"What's wrong, sweetheart?" You ask kindly. It's too damn hard to stay angry when you're so close to her for the first time in weeks.
"I failed. I did everything right, I followed the recipe, I sliced and diced and added everything in the right order and I stirred and stirred until I got cramps and it's still no good. I'm horrible."
Letting go of her, you walk over to the stove, trying to figure out what it was she's been meaning to do. You lift the lid of the heavy pan and very carefully peer inside. Your heart jumps when you recognize the ingredients, if not the outcome.
"Gumbo, Zoe?"
"Well, that's what it's supposed to be."
Zoe's POV
You had this all figured out. The table is set for two, with Lavon's best china and a bottle of bubbles in the cooler. He would come in, be pleasantly surprised at your efforts and gladly accept your invitation to have dinner with you. You'd finally get to apologize and he'd graciously accept. You would toast to his health, he would praise your delicious meal and then…well, you know. All would go back to normal, only better.
But now the kitchen is a mess, you're stressed out, the gumbo might even be toxic to Burt Reynolds and you look a fright. And it'll take you the rest of your week off to clean this place up and make it suitable for habitation again.
Wade's POV
You survey the area. Peering into the living room, you see the elaborately set table, complete with a lit candle and some flowers. You take in the disheveled form of your petite neighbor, the look of defeat and hopelessness and fatigue and even a hint of fear in her eyes.
It hits you with all the delicate force of an oncoming truck.
This is all for you.
You swallow convulsively, not believing for one second that she would go to this length to make amends. Sure, you've seen the text messages, the notes. You've heard the voicemails, found the beer cans and you've seen her watching you with pain in her eyes as you said goodbye to what's-her-face this morning.
When you started this none too subtle silent treatment, you did it out of self-preservation. You've gotten too close to the flame one too many times and needed to retreat and lick your wounds in peace. Being so fully convinced she didn't care either way, it became easier for you to look the other way as days went by.
Lavon tried to warn you it would lead to nothing good. Tried to point out that you were seriously hurting her, and a couple of times you almost caved and went out to see her and release her from her guilt. But then the memory of her literally turning her back on you during the game and again trampling all over your heart as she went after her Golden Boy resurfaced and you got angry all over again.
This wasn't your doing. She'd had this coming. You were not being childish, you were merely getting fed-up with her issues and the inevitable way she would lure you into them. So you figured the best way to deal with them was not to get involved.
But now there's this. A pot of ruined would-be gumbo and a crying woman who has clearly reached the end of her tether and could use a friend.
Not just any friend, you remind yourself. This was for you.
Acting on impulse, all thoughts of punishment and resentment flying out the open window behind the last remnants of nasty vapors, you haul the trembling little doctor in your arms.
"Come here, Doc. Don't cry, it's okay. But why were you even trying to make gumbo? It is tricky for everyone but a master chef, which you're not."
"I know, but you don't talk to me anymore and I need you to know I'm so sorry so then I thought I could do it this way and surprise you and I just wanted to make this all look nice and pretty for you but now…"
You cut her off the only way you know how. It works like a charm.
The kiss is short but sweet. Your body's on fire but before you can pick her up and carry her sweet, perky ass back to the nearest horizontal surface to ravish her the way you've been wanting to do ever since that night in your truck, you need to make sure of one thing.
What exactly is Zoe Hart apologizing for?
If this is about losing you the prize money, then you can forgive her for that, you guess, but it really doesn't change all that much. It's not the loss of five thousand dollars that hurt you most. It's again getting the affirmation she will never see you as anything but a nice neighbor who might look hot without a shirt on but whom she would never go out in public with.
When it's a nameless blonde, you don't care about what they do or do not think of you.
But this is Zoe. And you love her.
There, you used the L-word. No longer beating around the bush. This whole thing about 'you like her', or 'you got feelings for her' is horseshit. You know what it is, even though it freaks you out. It's the thing your momma told you would come some day, but you were too young to fully appreciate the meaning.
Later, you were too convinced she was wrong anyway.
Or was she?
If luck is finally with you tonight, Zoe might prove her right after all. She'll confess to and apologize for piercing your heart with her ludicrous (sexy yes, but ludicrous) high heels. And then you can try to mend it. And maybe…
"Zoe?"
She looks at you, big brown eyes still sparkling from your surprise kiss, very distracting really, as are her slightly swollen lips.
"What exactly are you sorry for?"
There's always a chance she just won't get it and in that case, you know the answer you'll get, which will never be enough, but it'll have to suffice somehow. Yet, when you watch her gnaw her lower lip to shreds, you can tell she knows you want to hear about more than losing you the money for the bar you still want to open. But the question is: will she say it?
Zoe's POV
Good question. What are you sorry for? Well, for killing his dream of opening a bar, that's for sure, but with the way he's looking at you, you know it's not quite enough. He needs more and you know exactly what more.
But now to formulate it correctly. For yourself as well as him.
What more do you need to apologize for?
For being such a stuck-up snobbish snooty city-girl. That's one. For not realizing that a Southern bad boy with a certain reputation can have real feelings too. That's another. And not noticing that those feelings were directed at you and that they were, indeed real. That's three.
Oh, and for parading an endless line of better-suited men in front of him, none too subtly telling him he'll never meet your high standards. That's four.
The list goes on and on now that you're thinking about it. Shouldn't there be a way to recap this?
Yes. There is.
You reach out your hand to carefully caress his cheek, reveling in the feeling of his stubble against your palm and the fact he doesn't pull back.
"Wade, I'm sorry for not seeing you."
He raises his eyebrows at you and you know you'll have to elaborate.
"I never saw what's right in front of me. Just because you come in an altogether different package, it shouldn't have meant I could write you off as unimportant or even unwanted. Because while every other guy I've met since I came here has come and gone, you're still here and I have started to take it for granted, instead of counting all my lucky stars for a guy like you."
The waterworks are on again, but the fear you thought would render you speechless by now doesn't come and it might be because he's smiling that bone-melting smile at you and you know everything might just work out for the best this time.
"Because the truth is that you make me laugh, you make me angry, you push me out of my comfort zone, make me question every single thing I held as the truth for so long and it scares me. But you also make me feel safe, wanted and beautiful. And when you stopped talking to me, it broke me. I missed you. And now I know why. Well, I have known all along, but I think I can say it now."
"Then say it. Please."
Without a moment of fear or doubt, spurred on by the hope you see in his eyes, you grant his request.
"I'm in love with you, Wade Kinsella. With all my heart."
The next thing you know, your world is literally turned upside down as Wade, with a whoop of joy, picks you up and carelessly throws you over his shoulder. Ignoring your outcry, slapping your butt because you won't stop wriggling, he carries you into Lavon's living room, where you land, breathless and with a dull thump, on the sofa. You giggle as Wade peppers your face with kisses.
Panting heavily, he winks at you.
"Hey doc? Consider yourself forgiven."
He kisses you again.
"But do me a favor and never try and make gumbo again. We're lucky you didn't set the whole house on fire."
You nod (what gumbo?) and he kisses you again.
"Oh and doc? I'm in love with you too."
"Shut up and kiss me already."
"Now she wants the silent treatment."
Yes you do.
And for the rest of the evening Wade shows you exactly how wonderful this silent treatment can be…
Hope you liked it...let me know if you please. Thank you!