by Julie Olivia
With a jerk of her other leg, Nia stumbles out of the car. I bend to grab her other arm. As she’s lifted out with both our efforts, she groans a little. Her skin is soft, but with every breath, it seems like the alcohol smells stronger. My head swims.
Nia was going to drive. She knows better than that. She knows how I feel about that.
“Oh, are you guys going?” Ramona yells, seeing Nia and Corinne trot back toward the black doors of the club. “I need to go too!”
“We’re ten minutes from the hotel.” Wes laughs. “Can you guys not wait?”
“Bye!” Ramona yells back over her shoulder. Wes tosses her a wave she cannot see then all three women disappear through the doors.
Wes, Cameron, and I look to Grace, who stands with her hands on her hips.
“What?” she snaps, and all three of us jump. There’s nothing like an angry bride.
“Nothing,” Cameron says, hands in the air.
“Why aren’t you drinking?” Wes asks. “Figured you would be the worst.”
“Over your wife?” she shoots back.
“Well, she’s a given.”
Not even a moment later, Ramona is stumbling back out through the doors. Wes and Grace run—at least, Grace runs as well as someone can with heels—and catch her before she falls.
“Where are Nia and Corinne?” I call out. She shakes her head with a laugh, knees bending as if she can’t contain the hilarity of it all.
“Corinne is just doing Corinne things.” She giggles. I don’t have time to register what that could possibly mean before Ramona is yelling over to Grace.
“Why didn’t you drive?” she asks, squinting at her as if she can barely see her best friend.
“You called Wes, remember?” Grace says, her tone clipped. “I told you not to. I said I could drive.”
“That’s right!” Ramona yells, attempting to snap her fingers in realization, but she’s forgotten how to, which I wasn’t sure was possible. “Protecting that baby bun!”
Fuck.
“What?!” Cameron bellows from behind me.
Double fuck.
I don’t have time for this.
I storm toward the entrance, swinging the doors open like I’m barreling into a saloon, and I see Corinne locking lips with some woman, hands roaming up the stranger’s thighs.
“Where is Nia?” I ask.
Her head jerks away from the woman, who seemed to be having a fairly decent time. I recognize her instantly—the black-haired beauty with the big tits from the hotel bar.
Go you, Corinne.
“Bathroom,” Corinne says breathlessly, and I throw a salute her way.
“At ease, women.”
My feet carry me to the women’s bathroom. There’s a call from behind me, maybe the bouncer or the ticket guy asking why I haven’t shelled out the obscene amount of money required to gain entrance. Either way, I slam the women’s bathroom door open and, thankfully—or, thankfully for the other women in the club—the only sight I see is Nia against the wall, knees curled to her chest, giving me a shy wave.
I inhale sharply. I’m too exhausted to fight. I can’t bring myself to argue with the fragile woman in front of me. I just want to wrap her up in my arms and carry her home.
“Let’s go, Polly.”
Nia is the woman with a solid head on her shoulders. She’s the woman with control and responsibility. She’s the woman I need, not just the woman I want, but with the memory of her cackling in that front seat, I now wonder if maybe I had the wrong impression.
Maybe she’s isn’t the one for me, and that realization hurts like a bitch.
29
Nia
If I have to wake up one more time with a headache pounding like fireworks on the Fourth of July, I’m going to lose it. My only form of solace is that I awake with a cup of black coffee on my bedside table and a light breeze blowing the curtains inward from the open sliding glass door.
“Hello?” I ask.
The patio creaks and Harry’s head pops in, baseball cap backward on his head and strands of blonde hair sweeping in front of his face. A toothbrush pokes out from between his teeth.
“Goob mornin’,” he says, padding across the room.
“What time is it?”
He holds up an index finger, leans over the sink, and spits.
“Time for us to leave, I think.” A plastic grocery bag with clothes rests on the desk next to a wallet, two sets of keys, and a cell phone.
“Why?” I ask, propping myself up on my elbows. I point to the coffee. “Is this mine?”
Harry nods, brushes some more, and spits again.
“Well, for one, we weren’t invited to this wedding.” He pockets the wallet, phone, and one set of keys. I notice my pink rabbit’s foot on the other ring.
“Are you leaving my car?” I ask.
“That leads me to my next point,” he says. “Grant can’t exactly drive since he doesn’t have a wallet, so I’m taking him back.”
“You’re not staying?”
He laughs. “Nah. This was fun and all, but I have a daughter to tend to.”
“And Grant?”
“He’s getting breakfast with the other guys.” Harry walks over, the mattress dipping under his weight as he sits on the side of the bed. “I’m going to talk to Mom and Dad about rehab.”
Rehab. It feels like both a dream and harsh reality that we’re even discussing the word.
“Good call,” I say. “Wow, this is a lot deeper than I figured this week would go.”
“Yeah, some deep shit,” Harry says, patting me on the leg and rising again. “Well, you’ve got your car here. It’s fixed for the time being, but you should probably still buy a new one. I don’t trust it.”
“Neither do I,” I mumble. “And, you know, I’ve been really liking Cameron’s Jeep. I’ll look into one of those or something.”
“Wow. Did you just admit you need a new car?”
“Oh hush.” I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stretch. I’m still wearing my dress. It’s pretty wrinkled, and I’m sure my makeup and hair are worse for wear as well.
“One small step for mankind, one big step for Apollonia Smith.”
“It’s just a car, Harry.”
“First, a man. Now, a car. Who are you?”
I halt mid-step, a t-shirt inches from my reach, but I’m somehow unable to grasp it. “What was that?” I ask.
“Ian. Aren’t you guys…I don’t know, a thing?”
Are we? I think back to last night. He didn’t exactly seem happy to see me. I was drunk—my pounding head will attest to that—and it was much worse than the night before.
“I’m not sure,” I admit.
Harry grins. “I am.”
It’s weird how Harry seems to know me better than I know myself, or at least what I want.
“I feel like a teenager again,” I say to him. My ankles twist around each other and I find I’m biting my lip at just the thought of Ian.
Harry’s arms are crossed, and his mouth is pointed to the corner of his face in some knowing smirk.
Butterflies, jitters, nervous energy flowing through me…I don’t know what this is, but I want to explore it. I finally want to explore Ian.
30
Nia
Three years ago
“So, we just left.”
“You left?”
If I had to pick one thing I dislike the most about Ian—which includes various things—I would say his stupid I was a total badass in my twenties stories take the cake.
“At least you’re a better person now,” Cameron says with a chuckle, scribbling on his tablet as he leans back in his chair.
“Maybe. But, yeah, no tip,” he says, as if dining and dashing isn’t one of cruelest things you can do to someone in the service industry. “Nothing.”
“Okay, I’m done with your ridiculous showboating today.” I exhale and go back to typing. Ian sits across from me, his laptop resting on his thigh w
ith his ankle crossed over his other knee. Cameron is in the chair next to him, engrossed in his design work. The chairs are the white standard ones awarded to the staff members with an office. I tried to decorate my space by hanging some canvas paintings of oceans. They’re supposedly meant to calm people, though with the number of irate employees who storm into my office, I’m realizing their effect is more for me than the people complaining about the food on snack Fridays.
“Why do you hate me so?” Ian asks, adjusting his posture and grinning. It’s that same charming grin that puts his gorgeously straight teeth on display. I’d be lying if I said my chest didn’t flutter at the sight of it. After years of enduring his smiles, you would think the emotions would fly away just as quickly as they appeared, but nope, not a chance.
“Because you’re infuriating,” I say.
“Was,” Cameron says without looking up. “He was a horrible person.” He blindly reaches to pinch Ian’s cheeks, and the grin widens. Cameron twirls his pen between his fingers and clicks the lock button on his tablet. “So, are we in detention? Because it sure feels like it.”
The two men have been in my office for approximately an hour and have accomplished nothing. I hadn’t even noticed until Ian’s stories became more and more ridiculous as time rolled on.
“I wanted your opinion on the new company handbook considering you’re fairly tenured employees. Plus”—I point my finger at Ian—“the lawyer is nice to have.”
“Oh, so now I’m nice to have?” Ian settles into his chair and closes his laptop. I swear, this man is testing my patience.
“Is that why we’ve gotten nothing done?” Cameron says. He’s smiling at me. In the course of only a couple years, I’m already suspicious of Cameron Kaufman. He’s starting to learn how to push my buttons almost as well as Ian. But, despite his cocky nature, he’s supposedly a talented junior designer, so at least he’s adding value. His potential promotion to become creative director has come down the pipeline more than once.
“You and I can sit down alone,” Ian suggests, and even though he appears indifferent, I can tell he’s trying to conceal a smile tugging at the edge of his mouth.
I can’t count on one hand, two hands, or even all ten of my toes how many times he’s tried to conceal his challenge of authority. He knows he’s defying every employee handbook published since his arrival, as this would surely qualify as workplace harassment if I wanted to twist it as such. I wrote that damn handbook.
Even so, it’s hard for me to give him a write-up because, if I’m being honest with myself, those twisted smirks improve my afternoons more than I’d like to admit. Ian makes me feel wanted—something I never feel in my life outside of work—and it’s harmless enough for me to pretend no lines are being crossed.
Sometimes, I’m a bit ashamed I let this kind of thing slide, but then I see his grin and my guilt very discreetly melts away. Nothing will ever happen. I can banter with him if I like, right?
“I like employee input,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “That’s why it’s necessary for Cameron to be here.”
In fact, employee input has zero effect on the creation of this document. There is absolutely nothing Cameron could say that would change my dress code policies or the laws impacting employee termination and due process, but I’m logical enough to know there needs to be a buffer between Ian and me.
Cameron lifts his wrist to check the time and pats his knee. “Well, would you look at that, it’s quittin’ time. This was a fun waste of an afternoon. See you tomorrow, bud.” He claps Ian on the shoulder and throws me a wave over his arm.
Ian blows out a low whistle, and I shrug because I can’t think of anything else to do.
“Then there were two,” he says. The statement should be casual, but it sucks the air right out of the room.
I look down to my screen and type out words for an email I will undoubtedly trash later.
After a moment or two of silence, he clears his throat. “We paid, you know.”
“What?” I say, glancing up at him with a raised eyebrow.
“That story—we went back to the restaurant. My friends wanted to experience the whole dine and dash thing, but we definitely went back and paid. I wouldn’t do that.”
The confession drops my stomach and I gulp. He could have touched me and I’m not sure it would have had the same effect. Call me weird, but honesty is more attractive than any other factor. I find myself inhaling slowly and continuing to type.
Harry always says I should be more open, and I know it would make me a much more effective human resources professional. I like to think I roam around the office striking up conversation with enough employees to be relatable, but with Ian, it’s never been as easy for me. I almost want to hate him at this point. It’s comfortable, familiar, and knowing he’s a good guy doesn’t help me accomplish that.
“Why tell lies then?” I ask.
His ice blue eyes stare back at me. They’re shifting down to my lips then up again. I lean back in my chair to put extra distance between us.
He shrugs. “It’s not as much fun when people know I’m actually a decent person.”
“You are the most difficult person I’ve ever had the misfortune of knowing,” I say.
“I accept the compliment.”
He grins, and I smile back without my consent.
31
Nia
Present day
Harry and I walk down to breakfast, and the grin across my face doesn’t falter for even a moment. He’s trying to discuss which route home will be more scenic, but I’m too caught up in the nerves radiating down to my fingertips to contribute anything—not even a There are some good peach stands on the way! because round peaches only make me think of the nasty things Ian and I could, and should, be doing together.
The moment we walk into the hotel bar, I can feel Ian’s presence. The scent of his cedar body wash finds me like an arrow searching for its target, and when his blue eyes lock with mine, I know it’s hit a bullseye.
But just as quick as my heart was to embrace the sharp head of the arrow, it crumbles under it when I realize that gaze holds no sense of play. Ian doesn’t lift a challenging eyebrow or have that tilt in the corner of his mouth that holds some unspoken secret.
Ian sees me, and then he goes back to his omelet.
What the hell?
I remember nothing but happy things from last night. He and the boys came to pick us up, we all laughed, and then…what else?
I don’t know.
“Don’t omelet that food go to waste,” I say with a smile then immediately cringe. What the heck did I just say? Even Harry looks at me with his teeth gritted and eyebrows pulled inward as if telling me how bad of a try-hard I am right now.
What can I say? Ian isn’t looking at me with puppy dog eyes or spitting sarcastic comments my way. This is unnatural.
“We hittin’ the road?” Grant grumbles, his fork nestled between his lips, grinding at his bottom teeth as if irritated that it’s there to begin with. He looks like he could be sitting on a porch overlooking a lawn littered with broken cars with the way it’s toothpicking in and out of his mouth.
“You bet,” Harry says, tugging off his hat and running his fingers through his locks before snapping it back on, bill backward. “Let’s get kicking.”
Ian stands, towering over both of my brothers, and wraps them in a tight three-way hug. It might be more endearing if I weren’t so startled by how uncharacteristically silent Ian is—and how the hug is not for me!
What. The. Heck?
He doesn’t meet my gaze when he says, “I’ll walk you guys out.”
“That’s my job,” I say with a strained laugh. It only gets a reaction from Harry, who swings an arm over my shoulders and pulls me in tight.
“You’re embarrassing yourself,” he whispers. I shove my elbow into his chest.
It’s odd—if I didn’t know any better, this walk to the parking lot might look like a tight-knit family p
arting ways at the end of a long adventure: the brothers, their sister, and the welcomed-with-open-arms brother-in-law. But, it’s not. Just three siblings and the estranged tall man hovering behind them like a shadow of either protection or doom. I honestly don’t know which.
“Be safe,” I say, leaning down through the window as Harry revs the engine. His eyes flutter shut as if he’s finally found solace in the sound of his sports car. He’s been through too much these past few years. He’s got the zen of a monk, and I envy it.
In the reflection of Harry’s pitch-black, buffed-out car, I see Ian behind me, hands in his pockets and a small smirk on his face.
Grant shifts in the passenger seat, unbuckling and buckling his seatbelt until he seems satisfied enough to lean forward and toss a wave at Ian. “Hey asshole, you should drop by sometime.”
With my elbows still poised on the window, I whip my head around to see Ian giving a half-hearted salute back to Grant. I expect him to flash me a grin or a wink or any single thing that would make this seem like it’s actually Ian standing behind me, but it’s like a body snatcher has come and ripped the sarcastic, devious Ian from the world and replaced him with someone I don’t know—or, more accurately, someone not interested in me for the first time in years.
I have to be imagining this.
Harry clears his throat and I back away from the car, almost bumping into Ian. I would have if he hadn’t moved out of the way so quickly—a movement which seemed deliberate. I feel like he would have stayed there were it any other day.
No, I’m just overanalyzing. It’s nothing. He’s just tired. We were both up late.
But also…why isn’t he gripping my top, pulling me close, or even having snide conversation with an undertone of sly naughtiness?
We wave as Harry whips out of the parking lot and onto the main road. Then there’s just the sounds of passing traffic, carts rolling into the hotel, and the distant ocean waves. Still no quips from Ian. He finally looks at me, gives a half-smirk, then shrugs and walks back toward the hotel.