by Amelia Wilde
“You haven’t been answering my calls.” The woman stepped fully into the kitchen and trailed a finger over the marble countertop like she was testing for dust. “And you blew off our last three appointments with the lawyers, including our meeting this morning. I know you’re having a little fun right now, but I really do need those tickets we discussed. Mother is expecting you at the Cape next week for her birthday, you know. Are you still planning to go?”
“What the hell is going on?” I exploded behind Brandon, having since ducked behind the kitchen island to shield my bare legs. “Who are you, and what are you doing in Brandon’s house?”
I glared at the woman, who twisted her perfectly glossed lips into a smirk.
“Ooh, aren’t we familiar? Do you want to tell her, Bran, or should I?”
I glanced at Brandon, who seemed unable to speak.
“I’m his wife, sweetie,” the woman—Miranda—said, dusting her hands off on one another as if she had exposed them to some germ on the immaculate countertop. Her dark-brown eyes had all the warmth of a glacier. “This is my house. That’s my lovely furniture you’ve been defiling. And that’s my husband you were just fucking.”
37
“Skylar, wait!”
Brandon’s words fell on deaf ears as I rushed upstairs, only able to hear the roaring of my inner thoughts. I hadn’t wasted time watching any kind of exchange between him and that woman, nor did I allow her to see more of my naked ass longer than it took to beeline out of the room. It took me approximately fifteen seconds to reach the bedroom, fifteen seconds to feel exactly like a teapot ready to boil.
His wife. The words kept filtering through my ears, like a bad record snagged on repeat. His wife? I threw the few things I had brought to the house into my purse, stumbling about his bedroom looking for the rest of my things. Ana had somehow already laid my ironed suit on the bed. Of course it had to be the ugly brown one I’d bought at Daffy’s before even graduating college—of course that was the suit I’d be wearing when I faced off with Jackie Onassis downstairs, a woman who not only looked like she’d just walked off the cover of Vogue, but who also happened to be Brandon’s wife.
A sob came, hard and fast, choking the back of my throat and swallowed back as quick. I wasn’t going to cry. I was not going to cry with that woman here to see. Goddamnit, where was my bra? With a stifled shriek, I realized that if Ana hadn’t brought it up, it was probably still lying somewhere in the living room, just a few feet away from where Her Royal Highness was standing. The thought resurrected more memories of the very intimate things he had done to me down there. Last night. Many nights. All while he was married.
Fuck.
With trembled hands, I managed to put on my pantss and jacket, keeping the Red Sox t-shirt on as I also couldn’t find my blouse. I shoved my feet into the sensible brown pumps that I’d bought on clearance at DSW. I would have killed for my Manolos right now.
If I had forgotten anything else, Brandon could fucking have it. I needed to get out of here as soon as possible. I grabbed my coat and bag from the closet by the door and ran out, barely registering the argument Brandon and she were having in the kitchen.
Outside, a blast of frigid rain hit my face. I hardly noticed the inclement weather; all I could think about was how phenomenally stupid I had been.
How could I have not known this? I knew how to do research, and if any of the clients at the clinic had taught me anything, it was that people were capable of all sorts of treachery. People broke the law all the time. People lied. People had skeletons in about ten different closets. Why would Brandon be any different? His Wikipedia page was obviously edited to omit this very important detail of his life; the only thing it had said about his personal life was a list of charities he supported. No doubt a slightly more thorough search would have revealed a wife. Maybe even a family.
Complicated, Kieran had said. Sometimes a prince is really the devil in disguise. Christ. I’d convinced myself that she was supportive of our relationship, but she was actually trying to warn me off. She’d yelled at a client about a woman named Miranda just yesterday and practically invited me to listen. Everything clicked together. Kieran wasn’t working on business deals; she was Brandon’s divorce lawyer. And she’d watched, pitifully, as I’d been ensnared by a client she knew to be bad news, but about whom she could say nothing.
I choked back another sob. No, I was going to hold this in, wait until I was safely under a hot shower where no one—not even Jane—could witness my heartbreak. I focused on the biting wind; the rain sent icy streams down the collar of my jacket. I picked up my pace.
The familiar red and white T sign was only a half block away when I heard my name rise out of the storm.
“Skylar!” Brandon yelled again. He was clearly out of breath.
A hand on my elbow jerked me to a stop, and I whirled to face him.
He had dressed as hastily as I had in whatever was most readily available: a pair of jeans, one of his zillions of undershirts, his worn Red Sox hat, and untied sneakers. He looked nothing like the billionaire lawyer whose face had been on the front page of magazines. Instead, he looked just like any other guy from Boston, without a coat in the middle of a nasty downpour.
The thin t-shirt was pasted to his body, translucent like some kind of frigid version of a wet t-shirt contest. If I hadn’t felt so angry, I might have appreciated the way the thin material clung to every square line of his pectorals, every chiseled edge of his abs. He sucked in air like his life depended on it—for him to have gotten dressed and still caught me before I entered the station meant he must have sprinted across the park. For a moment, I wanted to throw myself into his big arms and pretend none of this had happened. But only for a moment.
“Fuck off, Brandon,” I spat, turning around. The Park Street T-stop glowed like a beacon.
Puddles soaked my pants up to my calves. Again, my arm was grabbed, and I would have fallen over if Brandon’s strong chest hadn’t been there to catch me.
“I said fuck off!” I pushed him away, although it had little effect. “I don’t want to talk to you, asshole! What don’t you get about that?”
Before he could answer, I darted down the escalators, thankfully void of people so early on a Saturday morning. I could hear his footsteps following, but I focused instead on locating my Charlie card so I could zip through the turnstiles. Brandon didn’t even have his wallet.
“Skylar!” he called as I slid my card through the reader.
Behind me, I heard a grumble and a distinct “Fuck it” before a loud thump and the sound of feet hitting the pavement. When I turned to check, he was on the other side of the turnstiles and wasn’t putting anything back in his pockets.
“So we’re back to this?” he asked in between still-heavy gasps. “Chasing you down everywhere you go. I’m starting to feel like I’m training for a marathon.”
“Did you just jump the fucking turnstiles?” I asked incredulously.
Brandon smirked, which made me want to smack him and kiss him. “Keep it down, Ms. Goody-goody. What did you expect me to do?”
“I expected you not to commit a Class A misdemeanor,” I snapped. A train was just pulling out of the station, and there were no others approaching. Fucking weekend schedule. “You’re probably the richest man in Boston—”
“Third richest, actually.”
“I don’t give a shit,” I bit out. “This is ridiculous. I don’t want to fucking talk to you, so just go back home to your wife.”
I spat out the last word so hard it practically cut my tongue. I congratulated myself for keeping my voice from shaking. Brandon scowled and shivered. His arms were a vibrant red from the cold, and he rubbed them absently while he sucked in another lungful of air.
“Skylar,” he said slowly. “Please. You have to let me talk.”
“Is she actually your wife?”
He said nothing, just continued to rub his triceps.
“Right,” I said and strode
across the platform toward another track, where I found a seat on one of the worn, empty benches.
Heavy footsteps approached, and I didn’t need the signature almond scent to know who had joined me. We sat there for a moment in silence, staring down the empty train tunnel.
“It’s really fucking cold in here,” Brandon remarked.
For some reason, his nonchalance pissed me off even more.
“Maybe you should go get your coat,” I sneered. “I’m sure your wife would warm it up for you.”
“Goddamn it, Skylar, will you stop?”
I whipped around to glare at him. “Isn’t she? Because that’s what she said, Brandon. You know, while I was lying naked on top of you. So, which is it: is she lying or are you fucking married?”
My voice rose with every word, and I couldn’t quite stop the crack that broke through “married.” Tears rose again, and I did my best to sniff them back, praying that they would disappear before they betrayed me. Brandon stared at me sadly, the crease between his eyebrows more pronounced than usual. Our eyes locked for at least a minute, and I was determined not to look away first. I’d stare the truth out of him if I had to.
Finally, he sucked in another deep breath, heaving his broad chest out and in before he opened his mouth.
“I...am,” he said slowly, not breaking eye contact with me. “Married.” His eyelids shuttered, and he finally looked away.
I stared. The teapot had reached a boil, and for a moment I forgot where I was, who I was. It was true. He was married. I was nothing but a…fuck.
“Skylar?” he interrupted me from the inarticulate mess of my thoughts. “Please,” he said. “Say something.”
Before I knew what I was doing, I reached a hand back and slapped him as hard as I possibly could. I closed my eyes, reveling in my throbbing palm. When I opened them, he was holding one hand to his face with a mixed expression of shock and respect.
“I guess I deserved that,” he said. “Again.”
“Get the fuck away from me,” I replied, this time not bothering to control the uneven tenor of my voice. “I mean it. Again.”
I stood up, and Brandon stood with me. He reached out a timid hand, which I batted away.
“I’m serious, Brandon. Leave me alone!”
“Skylar, stop,” he pleaded as he started toward me, but was interrupted.
“Do you need some help, miss?”
We both swiveled our heads towards three rather large construction workers approaching with concerned looks. With their beat-up baseball caps and worn-out jeans, they looked like they were on their way home from work. On the Red Line, that meant South Boston, maybe even Dorchester. They weren’t the kind of guys you messed with.
I looked back at Brandon.
“Do I?” I asked evenly.
Brandon just stared, frustration emanating from his stiff posture and clenched fists. He looked like he wanted to throw down with all three of the guys, sling me over his shoulder, and carry me away as a booty of war. I would have rather thrown myself on the tracks.
Finally, he exhaled.
“No,” he said, and with a forlorn look, he jogged up the escalator and out of the station.
Threat neutralized, my impromptu rescue brigade returned to their side of the station while I took my seat.
Less than a minute later, my phone buzzed in my pocket.
Skylar, we WILL talk about this!
What was there to talk about? He was married. Which made me a cheap home wrecker and him a philandering asshole.
With a bit too much gusto, I deleted the message and put my phone away, ignoring the continued buzzing. He could try all he wanted. I wasn’t interested anymore.
It took me nearly two hours to get home. Too absorbed in the maze of my thoughts to notice the automated announcements of train stops, I stared vacantly all the way to the end of the line, where I had to wait another thirty minutes until the train went back to Harvard Square. I trudged the last ten-minute walk to my apartment through another horrid downpour, but I couldn’t feel the rain. Brandon’s simple admission echoed through my head as numbed shock replaced my anger. A deep sadness filtered through it all.
By the time I approached my building, my suit jacket was saturated and dripping, and my hair was plastered to my forehead and neck. The water in my pumps made them squish with each step. I noticed none of it. It wasn’t until I pulled my keys from my waterlogged purse that Brandon’s familiar voice rang out.
“Where the hell have you been?”
I looked up. He stood against the glass doors of the building, arms crossed in front of his expansive chest, and a frown fixed on his face. Waiting for me. Always waiting for me.
He had changed—while he still wore jeans and his Red Sox cap, he had replaced his t-shirt with a fleece and raincoat, his running shoes with waterproof boots. He had come prepared to wait in the wet, despite his Mercedes at the curb.
He looked cold. And really, irritatingly fuckable. But his martyrdom didn’t impress me—it felt manipulative. My numbness disappeared, replaced again with anger.
“I told you to leave me alone,” I said in a low voice. “I need some space, Brandon.”
“I give you space, Red, I’ll never hear from you again,” he said, pushing off the door. “That’s not gonna cut it for me.”
“Yeah, well, maybe you don’t have a choice,” I said. “You need to stop chasing me.”
I feigned right and tried to dodge around him to the left, but Brandon moved with me, forcing me to look at him in the eye.
“I’ll never stop chasing you,” he said fervently. “You can believe that.”
“You sound like a stalker!” I protested.
“I sound like a man in love!” he roared.
I stepped back warily.
“Don’t look at me as if last night didn’t happen, Skylar,” Brandon warned me. “Or this morning, for that matter. I’m fucking crazy about you, and you’re crazy about me too. From the goddamn second I found you sitting in my house, I’ve been acting like a complete lunatic, and I can’t do a thing to stop it! You’ve got me wrapped around your little finger. But you know what? I know you feel it too!”
“So what if I do!” I burst out, my purse dropping on the wet ground with a splat as my arms flung out to the sides. My ponytail came loose, and wet snakes of copper-colored hair flew into my face. I pushed them away furiously. “You’re fucking married! You were unavailable, yet you pursued me, over and over again, broke down every barrier I had, mentally and physically. Do you know what that makes me, Brandon?”
“Don’t say it…” he warned, shifting back and forth and tugging anxiously on the bill of his cap.
“It makes me the other woman,” I said flatly. “But since we hardly know each other, and you insist on throwing money at me all the time, really it just makes me your whore.”
“Goddamn it, I said don’t say it!” he bellowed, yanking the cap off and throwing it onto the sidewalk.
Several students peered curiously from the windows above us. I suddenly wanted to get into my apartment as soon as I could.
“Where are you going?” Brandon asked sharply as I picked my wet bag up off the pavement and turned to the door. “We’re not finished here. Do you want me screaming up at the window like a Tennessee Williams character? Because don’t think I won’t go all Marlon Brando on you, Red.”
“Don’t call me that!” I shrieked as I whirled back around.
I gulped in a breath, surprised by the intensity of my response. For some reason, the nickname, under these circumstances, caused almost as much pain as everything else. I glanced at the heads still watching from the windows; most of them popped back inside, but I knew they were still listening.
“Have it your way,” I said through gritted teeth. “If we’re going to scream at each other, we’re going to do it where my classmates can’t stare at us. And where I can get some dry clothes. Come on.”
Brandon bent down to retrieve his now-soaked
cap. “Lead the way.”
38
With heavy, wet feet that scraped the thin, battered carpets of the building, Brandon followed me into the empty apartment. Jane was thankfully studying at the library and would be for the rest of the day. I shut the door and flipped on the lights, carefully avoiding Brandon’s gaze as I removed my soaking coat and shoes.
I set my leather bag, which I now figured for ruined, on the table. I stood there for a moment, studying the tabletop, while Brandon, who had taken a seat on the couch, watched nervously.
“I’m going to take a hot shower,” I announced abruptly, suddenly desperate to get out of my clothes, which chafed.
“Alone?”
Brandon’s sly half smile drenched the room with charisma. I glared. The smile disappeared.
“Yes,” I said curtly. “I’ll be out when I’m out.”
Maybe it was the opportunity to delay the inevitably awful conversation waiting for me, but my shower felt like I was readying myself for battle. I took my time about it, reshaving my legs and underarms, letting my conditioner sit for an extra five minutes, scrubbing down every inch of my body twice with the jasmine-scented soap I saved for special occasions. When I got out, I tweezed my eyebrows and spent another thirty minutes putting on just the right amount of makeup and blow-drying my hair into a riot of waves. I put on my favorite black sweater and gray corduroys that fit me like a second skin. Comfortable, but dark enough to fit my mood. Severe, but not necessarily polished.
When I came out, Brandon was still on the couch, facing the nonworking fireplace with his boots kicked off and his coat and hat removed. In his plain t-shirt and jeans, he looked more like a student than I did. He also looked like he was freezing.
“You look nice,” Brandon said. Despite the compliment, all traces of flirtation were gone. “I, um, like your hair like that.”
“Thanks. I’m going to make a pot of tea if you want any.” My tone was similarly devoid of kindness that should have matched my offer.