After the Climb

by Kristen Ashley

  As such, I’d given him my virginity and he’d treated accepting it like it was the greatest gift God had ever created.

  That was a memory, even with all that had come in between, that I still treasured. Every girl should have that experience. And in all that had happened between Duncan and me, there was no taking away that he’d given it to me.

  Then he’d dumped me the day before school started my junior year.

  He’d gone then too, but just to move to the city in order to continue his promising career of being a mover.

  And right then, as I watched him commandeer a letter opener, raring to get this done, I remembered other things too.

  That he wasn’t as confident and cocksure as everyone thought he was. Those good looks. That body. His prowess on the gridiron. Everyone knew Bowie Holloway was the guy. Popular. He could get any girl he wanted (and this was true). He could best any challenge (this was not true).

  They all bought into the ideal.

  Except Bowie.

  I remembered, too, that there was a reason he and Corey got along so well.

  Because under that hot guy exterior was a nature nerd, but the relationship Bowie had with his father meant he had to keep that buried way down deep.

  I also remembered that the first time his father made him kill a deer, and gut it, earning the nickname “Bowie,” he’d come to my house that night. He’d climbed through my window and cried in my ten-year-old arms his twelve-year-old tears, declaring he was never going to do that again, “Even if Dad hates me.”

  He didn’t do it again.

  And his father grew to hate him.

  I had wondered, and as I ended up being his girl, twice, but I was his friend what seemed like forever, so I did not hesitate to ask why he’d kept the name Bowie.

  “To remember…never again,” was his answer.

  It was implacable.

  He could be an intensely stubborn kid.

  And I’d lived the nightmare of him being that same kind of man.

  But there was more to him that I had not allowed myself to remember, until now, as I watched him standing behind his large, handsome, masculine desk, slitting open that box that he’d set smack in the center.

  This was what sent me to stand opposite it, and say, “You look well.”

  His head came up. His hazel eyes locked on me.

  And his mouth moved.

  “Let’s not.”

  Well then.

  “Of course,” I murmured.

  “I don’t know what Corey was thinking,” Duncan stated. “And as usual, I have no goddamned clue what’s goin’ on in your fuckin’ head,” he continued. “But for the kid I knew who was my brother, I’m doing this. With you.”

  He would obviously not know what was going on in my head because he didn’t ask, and if I spoke anyway, he wouldn’t listen.

  I did not get into that.

  I was right then just as keen to get this done. See what was in that box. And get the hell out of there.

  I nodded.

  Duncan slit open the box.

  I took a step closer to the desk.

  He folded open the flaps.

  I leaned, peering in.

  And I did not understand what I was seeing.

  It looked to be filled with reems of paper, computer printed, and there was one lone #10 envelope on top, sealed, with something handwritten on the front.

  Though as my eyes processed what I was seeing, I could make out what the papers said.

  And my blood ran cold.

  Over and over…

  And over and over…

  I’m sorry.

  Three tall stacks, side by side, the box filled, the top pages all covered in the same thing.

  I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

  Duncan’s large, veined hand reached in, nabbed the envelope and then shifted some papers aside, exposing the same underneath.

  If it was all like that, it was thousands and thousands of I’m sorry.

  “This says…”

  My eyes darted up to Duncan, who was reading from the envelope.

  His voice was quieter.

  And I was very aware that I was incredibly disturbed by the literal thousands of apologies when I had no idea what Corey would need to apologize for—to Duncan and me—and I did not think that was a joke.

  I still saw that Duncan had lost some of the color under his healthy outdoors-man tan.

  “…I’m supposed to read this out loud with you here,” he carried on. He looked to me. “I’m not allowed to read it myself. He says he wants us to hear it first at the same time.”

  “Duncan—” I could not hide the disquiet in my voice.

  “Let me just read it, Genny,” he whispered.

  There he was.

  There was my Duncan.

  My Bowie.

  Mine.

  Mineminemineminemine.

  I couldn’t stop my head ticking, which made his eyes narrow in concern he didn’t hide, before I again nodded.

  He didn’t hesitate to slit the envelope open. Pull out the tri-folded letter that was on such fine-quality stock, I could see it without feeling it.

  Duncan unfolded it, and through a dead man’s hand, delivered a blow neither of us was prepared to absorb and neither of us would recover from.

  Ever.

  “Dun and Genny, I can’t say it enough. I’m sorry. It was me. And it was me because I loved you, Genny. God, you never figured it out. I thought I was so obvious. But you never figured it out. And you picked him.”

  “What?” I asked softly.

  Duncan didn’t even look at me.

  “So I told him. I told you, Dun. I told you Genny and I slept together. And I told you because I knew you’d believe me. And I loved Genny so much, I was willing to sacrifice you to have her. So I lied and told you we’d had sex.”

  The chill of shock slid over my skin, forcing me to take a wooden step away from the desk.

  “And I was married. God, what a fuckup. I did it to myself, giving up on Genny and marrying Samantha. Of course, both of you would come to my wedding. Of course, both of you would remember how into each other you were. And of course, you would hook up and be inseparable again. I couldn’t even get either of you on the phone because, if you weren’t working or sleeping, you were fucking. And every day it kept going on, turning to weeks, months, an entire year. It was torture. It made me crazy. I had to make it stop.”

  I was trembling.

  Duncan stopped reading, I knew he did when he said gently, “While I finish this, why don’t you come over here?”

  I tore my eyes from the letter in his hand and looked to him.

  I should have kept them on that despicable, foul, hideous letter.

  Because Duncan looked ravaged.

  Not pale.

  Not stunned.

  Not angry.

  Destroyed.

  I knew why.

  His best friend had betrayed him.

  Not in the way he thought, in a much more selfish, vicious way.

  And he’d done that by convincing him that the woman he’d loved had done the same.

  Corey was that good authority.

  I got it then. I understood.

  I even understood why he didn’t tell me who told him.

  He didn’t think he had to.

  But he’d believed Corey beyond doubt.

  Because there was one person on this earth at that time that Duncan would trust more than me, even if that person was b
etraying him at the same time, something that would never in a million years occur to him.

  Corey.

  “Just get it done,” I said.

  “Genny—”

  “Just read the damned letter, Duncan,” I snapped.

  It took a moment, and I knew why.

  Duncan despised his father and all he stood for.

  But he could not escape his blood, and in having Burt Holloway’s blood, he did not like to be told what to do.

  And he did not like it when he was denied something he wanted.

  In this instance, he beat that back and returned his attention to the letter.

  “I told Sam the same thing so she’d leave me, and she did. I had no idea she was pregnant.”

  And that explained that.

  Goddamned Corey.

  At the end of them, Sam had cooled to me, significantly.

  It hurt, because I had no idea why she suddenly disliked me so much, outside the fact their marriage was ending, I was Corey’s friend, her not-even-two-year-old-marriage was over, and she was carrying a baby.

  We hadn’t been close, but we’d liked each other and were becoming friends.

  And she’d never let that go. Not in all these years. Not even after her son became a part of our family so we could take care of him when Corey didn’t.

  Now I knew why.

  “But that was the end. She didn’t forgive me, and Dun, you didn’t forgive Genny, and I got part of my way, you two were over. But then Gen, you moved to LA, and Duncan, you went to Utah, and all I managed to do was make certain no one had what they wanted.”

  He certainly did that.

  “I knew, way back then, I should say something. I knew way back then, I should come clean. I should tell you, Dun. Or you, Genny. Make it right, at least between the two of you. But I didn’t have the guts. I told myself I was working up to it, but—”

  “You can stop now,” I interrupted. “I don’t really care to hear Corey explain why he betrayed the both of us, and his pregnant wife, in order to have something it was not his to have.”

  Duncan tossed the paper to his desk and looked across it, into my eyes.

  It was very bad form, and moot at this point, not to mention childish, to tell him I told you so.

  Therefore, I refrained.

  It wouldn’t matter.

  He knew it. I could read it on his face. In fact, it was written on every inch of him.

  But that was not my problem.

  “Well, there you go,” I stated. “Corey proving indisputably that Corey was what the media alluded to repeatedly. Socially awkward. Single-minded. Driven to extremes. And willing to do absolutely anything, walk over people, tear them down, annihilate them, to get what he wanted.”

  It was just, I never believed that.

  That wasn’t my Corey.

  I was very wrong.

  Duncan had no response.

  At least not verbally.

  But Duncan was not a man of limited emotion and he fought hard not to be like his father. A man who hid the fact he was the same because having emotions was not what a real man had.

  And now, Duncan was processing.

  He did this by reaching into the box and taking a sheaf of the papers out. He sifted through the I’m sorrys. Then he tossed them on the desk beyond the box.

  Out came more papers, which Duncan inspected while I watched.

  And again, he tossed them, most of these sliding to the floor at my feet.

  There were many things I had loved about this man beyond reason.

  One of them was what I was witnessing now.

  It might seem weird, but I’d thought it was incredibly mature, especially back then, when we were so very young.

  Because Duncan had a temper. It was explosive. He let it loose, and if you were not used to it, it would be terrifying.

  But he knew enough about himself to do it. Even in his early twenties. Enough to know those feelings had to be let go and he had to control them to the point he didn’t hurt anyone or himself.

  But that was all the control he wielded.

  Best of this, it was then done. He flamed bright and searing.

  Then he flamed out.

  And this was going to happen now.

  “Du—” I began.

  Too late.

  The box was up, and with a powerful heave, it flew across the room, hitting a winged-back chair. The box tipped, the apologies flooding the seat of the chair and the floor, the box wedging itself between the arms.

  I did not move through this maneuver, or after.

  He then turned burning eyes to me.

  “You told me,” he said softly.

  “I—”

  “You fucking told me!” he roared.

  Yes, his temper was terrifying.

  Though I knew him, even though the years had been long since I’d witnessed it, so I was not terrified.

  I remained silent.

  “I didn’t believe you,” he stated. “I didn’t believe you because he told me. He told me the two of you got drunk, and you fucked him. Because you weren’t sure of the future I could give you. But you were sure of him.”

  Well, hell.

  Apparently, Corey was socially aware enough, or humanly aware enough, to know just how to dig right into those soft, vulnerable spots.

  And then shove the blade deeper.

  Because even then, Duncan was a mover.

  By that time, he was foreman of a crew, but he was “only” a mover.

  But Corey had been hired out of college on a six-figure salary, was on a rocket trajectory, and even at the time, I thought it was strange (not to mention, it annoyed the hell out of me), not just more of Corey’s overcompensating and lack of confidence, how much he didn’t let Duncan forget it.

  Though, perhaps what Corey didn’t know was that Duncan already wasn’t ever going to forget it.

  Or perhaps he knew that all too well.

  “And you were. You were so sure of him,” Duncan continued. “So proud of him. ‘Corey’s gonna rule the world someday, wait and see.’”

  My words of yore coming back to me in this instant made me feel nauseous.

  “He was remorseful,” Duncan informed me. “He told me he’d understand if I never forgave him. It was a moment of weakness. You were beautiful and he thought the world of you and admitted he had a crush on you and the booze made him stupid. He’d take that hit, of losing me. But I had to forgive you.”

  Which, of course, would lead a man to think, Yeah, he was drunk, it’s a guy thing. I get losing control. But her? She’s a slut out for the best thing she can get.

  Not to mention the reverse psychology.

  Boy, Corey had this down.

  At age twenty-six.

  However, this water was so far under the bridge, it had evaporated, rained down, flowed back under that bridge, and repeat.

  Therefore, it was no matter.

  “There’s no point going over this,” I declared. “What’s done is done. Corey’s dying gift was a one final fuck-you. However, I’m taking it as finally having the understanding he was who he was and the relief that my grief at losing a lifelong friend will not last as long as I thought.”

  “No point?” Duncan asked.

  “Sorry?”

  “No point going over this?”

  “Well…no.”

  “You were the love of my life.”

  My stomach folded in on itself so powerfully, I thought I would vomit.

  “And you were that from the minute I met you when you were eight,” he carried on. “I knew it when I threw that frog at you and you marched up to me, shoved me and said, ‘Gentlemen don’t throw frogs. You’ll hurt the frog.’”

  God, I remembered that.

  And I also remembered how disappointed I was he threw that frog, because he was so cute, but he was also clearly a jerk.

  It didn’t take him long to reverse that opinion.

  “It was little kid love, but it never died,
” he finished.

  “Yes, it did,” I pointed out.

  He flinched.

  My heart hurt.

  Time to go.

  “I’m sorry I pressed this. I should have just opened the box without subjecting you to—”

  My preamble to my departure was interrupted by Duncan.

  “You wouldn’t want me to know? You wouldn’t want me to know that you didn’t cheat on me with my best friend?”

  “It hardly matters now. You haven’t seen Corey or me in over two decades.”

  “It hardly matters?”

  “Yes.”

  “You ride around in that Rolls everywhere, Genny?”

  Damn.

  I forgot.

  I knew Duncan.

  And Duncan knew me.

  Duncan didn’t let up.

  “Hollywood’s down-to-earth female Tom Hanks throws on some heels and folds into a Rolls to take a two-hour trip up to a mountain house in the middle of nowhere?”

  His tone was dripping disbelief.

  “I think we’re done here. Goodbye again, Duncan.”

  And with that, I turned on my Prada kitten heel (when normally, for the most part, I went barefoot, and if I needed to put on shoes, they were slides or T-strap flat sandals, and yes, the slides were Valentino and the T-straps were Chanel, but neither were Prada slingbacked kitten heels), and I started to the door.

  I stopped when Duncan cut around me and barred it with his big body.

  “We’re not done,” he declared.

  “We’re very much done,” I stated.

  “Genny, we need to talk this out.”

  “What is there to talk out?”

  His head jerked, violently, and angry lines formed between his brows.

  And his answer was, “Everything.”

  “Everything what, Duncan? Seriously, what? There is nothing to salvage from this. You’ve been out of my life more than half the time I’ve been living it. And if Corey has not just demonstrated to you that he is not worthy of your time or emotion, he has to me.”

  “I fucked up.”

  “Yes, you did, twenty-eight years ago.”

  “And we need to talk that out.”

  “I disagree.”

  “Gen, you’re single. And I’m single.”

  He had to be joking.

  I felt my eyes grow wide. “Are you mad?”

  “If you mean angry, fuck yes. Blind with it at Corey and me for fucking up so colossally.”