“Right?”
“Anyway,” he says. “I’m going out with some friends this Friday. Dos Rios. If you and your friends want to meet up for drinks, cool. If not, no big deal. Just thought I’d ask.”
“Never been to Dos Rios. Is it any good?”
“It’s incredible,” he says. “Best margaritas in the city. You like margaritas?”
“Margaritas are my jam.”
Ian chuckles. “Then you should go. If not for me, then for the margaritas. They’ll change your life.”
“Now that sounds like a marketing ploy.” I give him a playful wink. “I’ll be back in a bit.”
He slices into his Brentwood pancake and I head off to check on another table, wiping the dopey grin off my face before I get there. I can’t remember the last time I smiled like that, over something so silly, but Ian’s so easy to talk to. He puts me at ease without even trying. He’s disarming in a way that Isaiah never was.
I suppose one margarita never hurt anyone …
MELROSE IS ON HER third hibiscus margarita by the time Ian and his friends show up to Dos Rios Friday night.
“Hey.” Ian takes the chair next to mine at the high-top table we saved. A few of his friends, all of them suit-and-tie business types, fill in around us. His golden gaze lights when it finds mine in the dark bar. “Glad you could make it.”
“Thanks for the invite,” I say, the taste of flowers and tequila on my tongue.
“It’s crazy how much you look like him,” Melrose leans over me, pointing her finger in Ian’s face.
“Right,” I place my hand around her arm and guide her back to her spot, “since they’re identical twins. Ian, this is Melrose, my cousin.”
“You two must get mixed up all the time,” she says, her elbow in front of me as her chin rests on her hand.
Ian nods. “It happens more than I like.”
He looks to me.
“But it isn’t always a bad thing,” he adds.
Melrose’s jaw falls and she nudges me, making an awkward deal out of nothing. “Can I ask you something, Ian?”
“Anything,” he says as another one of his friends approaches the table and starts handing out bottles of Dos Equis like it’s going out of style—two per person. These guys don’t mess around, though I imagine working in finance has got to be stressful. It’s so unpredictable, so volatile at times. Too many highs and lows for the average person to handle. “What do you want to know?”
“So what’s the deal with your brother?” Mel asks. “Why is he such a fucking dickwad?”
I hide my eyes in my hand. Here we go. Once the filter comes off, it’s impossible to put it back on.
“Can we not make tonight about him?” I ask.
Ian takes a sip of his beer as his gaze passes between the two of us. “I don’t know why he is the way he is. I just know that the only thing we have in common is the way we look. Other than that, we’re night and day in every way possible.”
“Who just freaking ghosts the nicest, smartest, prettiest girl in the world?” Melrose asks, barely trying to hide the slur in her voice.
Ian looks to me, his lips curled at one side. “A fool. That’s who.”
My cheeks warm as I turn my attention to my margarita, twisting the stem of the glass between my fingers.
“My brother hates commitment. He’s a closed book. He holds grudges longer than any bastard I know. He has a nephew he won’t acknowledge. And see, the thing about my brother is that if he’s not in control at all times, you’ll lose him. He’ll turn his back on you and not think twice,” Ian says, taking a generous swig. “My family singlehandedly blames him for what happened to my father a decade ago. He’s got demons.”
“What happened to your father?” Melrose asks.
I elbow her in the ribs. “Mel, enough. It’s none of our business.”
Ian picks at the label on his bottle for a moment. “He died in an accident when we were seventeen.”
My hand lifts to his. “Oh, god. I’m so sorry to hear that.”
He offers an equally as apologetic smile and holds my gaze before his expression softens. “What do you say you finish that drink so I can buy you another one?”
“You really don’t have to—”
His mouth pulls up at the sides and for a split second, I see Isaiah in him more than I ever have before, in the mischievous, sexy smirk that once made me fall harder than I ever anticipated.
But the man sitting in front of me is the furthest thing from the man who once wrapped his arms around me and pointed out constellations on a perfect spring evening, and it isn’t fair to compare the two of them after learning what I’ve learned, after experiencing what I’ve experienced, after feeling the way I’ve felt.
I don’t know Ian quite yet.
And as it turns out, I never really knew Isaiah.
The only thing I do know is that I’ll never allow a man to make me feel half as disposable as Isaiah made me feel.
Never again.
NERVOUS IS NOT A sensation I’m familiar with.
Scared is a feeling I’ve ever truly known once before, when my life literally flashed before my eyes and settled in a cloud of smoke so dark I couldn’t see the screaming comrade in front of me.
But none of that compares to the way I feel right now, standing outside Maritza’s café, watching her stride across the checkered floor in her little black shorts and little green apron, smiling at everyone she passes, not a care in the world.
There’s something light and buoyant about her, and for a moment, like a woman who moved on from the meaningless fling she had eight months ago and found someone new to love her and treat her the way she deserves.
I wouldn’t fault her for it, but sometimes life happens and impossible things get in the way of the things we want most and there isn’t a damn thing we can do about it.
I’ve been home three weeks now.
I’ve stopped by the café seven times, each time only to find that it was her day off or I’d already missed her.
But today the stars aligned because here I am and there she is and there’s a letter in my pocket with her name on it—a letter that survived Syrian air strikes and Army hospitals and rehabilitation centers.
Drawing in a deep breath, I head in. The bell jingles with the door and the hostess glances up from her stand with a practiced smile.
“How many in your party, sir?” she asks, pretending this isn’t the eighth time she’s seen me in three weeks.
“I won’t be eating today. Just here to see someone.”
The hostess gives me a stale smile and directs me to have a seat at the breakfast bar.
Thanking her with a nod, I make a beeline for the restroom first. I need to gather myself, splash a little water on my face—anything to keep myself from sounding like a bumbling idiot when I see her.
Vulnerability is a horrible look on me, but then again, so are these burn scars covering the left side of my torso and curling up the back of my arms.
If she’ll hear me out …
If she can see past the burns and the limp in my gait and the distant look I get in my eyes when I’m having a flashback … then maybe we can pick up where we left off.
The men’s room is empty and the scent of lemon cleaner and bleach invades my lungs. Hunched over one of the sinks, I twist the right handle and cup a handful of cool water, lifting it to my face.
A second later, I dry off with a paper towel, give myself a once over, and take five long, deep breaths.
This is about as good as it’s going to get and I’m about as prepared as I’ll ever be.
Yanking the door open, I step out into the hallway, only to run head first into Maritza herself. She startles, taking a step back until she’s up against a wall between a USA Today newspaper rack and an antique gumball machine.
“Maritza,” I say, stepping toward her.
“What are you doing here?” Her face is pinched and this isn’t exactly the warm, joyous reunion
I’d hoped for.
“I came to see you.” Reaching for her hand, I stop when she waves my assistance away.
“Seriously, Isaiah? You think you can just … disappear from my life for months and months without any kind of explanation and then walk back in here and act like you did nothing wrong?” Her hands lift to the sides of her forehead as she rants. “Do you have any idea how worried sick I was for you? How many nights I spent checking casualty reports and death records because I was certain the only reason you’d stop talking to me was because something bad happened—”
I smirk, cutting her off. “—Maritza.”
“—No. Let me finish,” she says. “I’ve waited a long time to be able to say these things to you, and you’re going to stand here and let me say them. Do you understand?”
My arms fold. She’s so fucking adorable when she’s angry. “Sure.”
“I don’t know how you can just stand there being all flippant after what you did to me,” she says. “But you know what? I’m done being angry. I’m just annoyed. And I’m not even annoyed at you. I’m annoyed at myself for being dumb enough to think that the time we spent together meant anything. Looking back, it was all so silly, wasn’t it? The stupid wax museum. The observatory. The farmer’s market. I assigned all this meaning to everything because I guess, somewhere deep inside, I wanted it to mean something because underneath it all, I was starting to fall for you.”
“Maritza …” I lift a hand, hoping she’ll let me get a word in.
“I’m not done yet.”
“All right.” I anchor my feet to the ground, arms still crossed as I give her my attention. Maybe in a moment, she’ll give me a chance to explain why I couldn’t get a hold of her, maybe she’ll give me a chance to tell her that I thought of her every minute of every hour of every day while I was fighting for my life, lying comatose in a hospital for weeks and waking up with a nurse telling me the doctors were trying to figure out a way to save my leg.
“You know, I’m glad this happened,” she says, dragging her hands through her hair as her lips pull into an incredulous grin. “Because if anything, I learned that there are kinder, better, nicer people out there than you and you’re not the person I thought you were. You saved me from … you. So thank you. Thank you so much, Isaiah.”
She turns to leave, but I hook my hand around her elbow, reeling her back to me.
“I can explain,” I say. “I can explain everything.”
“Yeah, well, I accepted a long time ago that I was never going to have your explanation and now that you’re offering it to me, I don’t want it.” Her words slice through the tight space between us. “Whatever reason it was that you stopped talking to me … it’s inconsequential now. I’ve moved on.”
“I get that you’re angry,” I say. “But I think you’ve made some assumptions …”
“Assumptions?” Her dark eyes widen and her brows arch. “You’re right, Isaiah. I did. I assumed you were a good person. I assumed we were on the same page with the no lies and bullshit rule. And I assumed we had something special—or at the very least a friendship.”
“No,” I say, lifting my hand, but she continues to talk.
“You’ve been home a while, haven’t you?” she asks.
“A few weeks, yes,” I say.
“Tell me,” she says, squaring her shoulders with mine. “Is it true you have a nephew you don’t acknowledge?”
My eyes narrow. How the fuck would she know that?
“And is it true you’ve ruined peoples’ lives, Isaiah?” she asks. “Is it true you … is it true your family blames you for your father’s death?”
Dragging my hand down my face, I look her dead in the eyes. “Yeah. It’s true. All of it.”
Maritza exhales, her glassy coffee-colored eyes settling in mine. “You should go. And please don’t come back here again. You’re not the person I thought you were, and I don’t want to be with you. I don’t want to pick up where we left off. Not now. Not ever.”
With that, she pushes past me and disappears behind the swinging door to the ladies’ room.
A blue-eyed blonde donning a matching uniform rounds the corner, stopping in her tracks when she sees me.
“Oh. Hi,” she says, looking at me like I’m a bomb that needs to be defused. “Have you seen Maritza?”
I point to the ladies’ room.
“Right,” she says, offering a tepid smile. The waitress makes her way past me before stopping and turning back. “You should probably leave.”
“I know.”
“And you should probably never come back here again.”
Dragging my hand along my mouth, I linger.
A second later, I remember the letter, and I dig into my pocket to retrieve it.
“Give this to her,” I say, handing it off to the blonde.
I don’t wait for her to respond or refuse it.
I get the hell out of there.
I don’t want to upset Maritza any more than I already have.
It hurts like hell to see how much pain I caused her, and not just because I care about her but because she wouldn’t be so hurt if she hadn’t cared so much about me.
Our feelings? They were mutual at one point.
But evidently not anymore.
Not now. Now ever.
“HEY. YOU OKAY IN here?” Rachael pushes past the restroom door and stands next to me in front of the mirror.
“Yeah. I’m fine.” I force a smile. The swell of tears in my eyes subsided about a minute ago, the second I removed myself from his presence.
I didn’t know seeing him again was going to get to me like that. When I first saw him, for a half of a second, I thought it was Ian, but then I saw the faded t-shirt and the shorter hair and the weighted look in his eyes, and I knew.
“Is he still out there?” I ask.
Rachael rubs circles into my back like the devout mother-figure that she is and sighs. “Nope. I told him to get lost. And I told him never to come back here again.”
I chuckle at the idea of five-foot-two Rachael giving strapping Isaiah the what for.
“But before he left, he asked me to give you this.” Rach digs into her apron and retrieves a folded, faded piece of paper and hands it over.
“I don’t want it,” I say, taking a step back.
“Ritz…”
“No, seriously. I’m done.” I shake my head, staring at a water-stained tile on the ceiling. “I don’t know why he thinks a letter is going to change anything. It’s not going to change the fact that he let me go first, Rach. He let me go first.”
“I’ll hold onto it for you.” She offers a tepid smile. “In case you change your mind.”
“We should probably head out there before we get fired,” I say. “How’s my mascara?”
“You pass the raccoon eyes test.”
I glance at my face in the mirror. My rosy cheeks and glassy eyes are a dead giveaway that I temporarily lost my cool, but a couple of deep breaths later, I’m somewhat more presentable.
Stepping out into the hallway where Isaiah stood just minutes ago, I round the corner and watch out the window as he climbs into his vintage Porsche outside the café.
A second later, he’s gone.
Gone from my life just as quickly as he came into it.
“HEY, MA. BROUGHT YOU some lunch,” I call out as I walk through her door. The doctors put her on this new medication while I was gone and she’s been less sleepy lately, spending most of her time in the living room and taking the occasional five or ten-minute walk around the apartment complex when she’s feeling up to it. “Got you the clams casino from Bertocelli’s.”
It’s a step in the right direction, that’s for damn sure.
“Isaiah,” Mom says. “We have company!”
Placing the brown paper bag on her kitchen counter, I drop my keys beside it and turn to face her, only to find my brother, Ian, relaxing on her sofa.
“Corporal.” Ian rises, coming at me with his r
ight hand extended, and I glance at my mother to find her all smiles, as if she expects that we’ve suddenly made up after all these years. I shake his hand with terse hesitation, but he pulls me into a hug. “Been a long time. You’re looking good. Glad you made it home safe.”
Bullshit.
All of it.
Ian’s the phoniest fucking bastard I’ve ever known, and I know him better than anyone.
“Come on. Have a seat. We should catch up,” Ian says, waving me toward the living room. “Was just telling Mom about this girl I’ve been talking to.”
Mom turns to me, her dark eyes lit. “She sounds perfect, Isaiah. Ian, tell your brother what you just told me.”
Ian wears a shit-eating grin to go with his shit-brown belt and his shit-brown shoes and takes a seat in the center of the sofa beside our mother, taking her hands in his.
“Well, she’s sweet and funny and kind,” he says. “And she’s got the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen.”
“What did you say her name was again?” Ma asks.
“Maritza,” Ian says, directing his gaze to me as he answers. “Maritza Claiborne.”
I’m going to fucking murder him.
And now it makes sense … all those things she knew at the restaurant, she learned from him, and I’m two-hundred percent sure he painted me in the worst possible light because that’s what Ian does.
It’s what he’s always done.
We were never close.
We were never brothers.
We were always competitors—at least in his eyes.
Everything I ever had, everything I ever worked my ass off for, Ian wanted.
Everything.
My fists clench at my sides and my jaw tightens. Ian is rambling on and on about how wonderful she is and my mother is lapping it up like a kitten to milk, telling him how she can’t wait to meet her and how she’s so happy he’s finally met someone special.
“I’m going to introduce her to Benson soon,” he says, referring to his son—the son that was almost mine until my girlfriend—ex-girlfriend—dropped the ultimate bombshell on me at the last minute.
[2018] PS I Hate You Page 18