“Where is he? Let me at him, I’ll beat his ass.” I hold up my dukes, and Ryan chuckles.
“Lost track of time?” She saunters to me on those fuck-me heels, wrapping her slender arms around my waist.
I nod, bending down to cover her mouth. God, she smells good … like warm chocolate chip cookies, the kind you can never just have one of. The kiss stretches on, until someone opens the door of the restaurant and almost hits Ryan in the back. The man walking out looks at us with a knowing smile, and I shuffle us backward as Ryan drops her forehead to my shirt.
“Well, guess that asshole might be getting to second base.” I wiggle my eyebrows at her, and she hits my chest with a weak tap.
“Maybe even third, since he’s taking me to eat sushi, which he claims he doesn’t like.” Ryan smiles over her shoulder as I hold the door open and we walk in.
I chuckle. “Can we stop talking about me in third person?”
“Yes, please. It’s getting hard to keep up with.” She laughs, agreeing, and we’re led to our table. “So, I have the real story. I called Forrest, and he told me that you’ve never even tried sushi.”
My jaw drops, but in good humor. “You called my twin? Behind my back? The nerve!”
Ryan gives me a sly smile. “He said that he brought Penelope here when they were dating because she claimed she didn’t like it either. Now it’s one of her favorite foods! So, I’m going to give you a crash course in raw fish.”
Now it’s my turn to school her. “I don’t need any help when it comes to you and raw fish.”
My tone is complete innuendo, and Ryan balls up the wrapper she just plucked off the end of the straw in her water and throws it at my head.
“You’re a dirty man.”
I run a finger up and down her wrist where it rests on the table. “And you like it.”
“I’m not going to confirm or deny.” She turns her attention to the menu in front of her.
I don’t even bother, because I won’t know what to order anyway. I’m here for her, because she’s done so much for me. Staying in Fawn Hill, taking a job that is out of her norm, spending so much time with my family … she’s given up a lot to fit into my life. The least I can do is shove seaweed in my mouth for her.
Honestly, I’d do just about anything for her. My heart is a beat up, scarred, mauled thing. Before her, it didn’t beat correctly and barely felt. But with every touch, every whisper, every moment spent with her … it has come alive. It’s not perfectly healed, but it is hers. And … she claims she wants it. Apparently, miracles do happen.
Ryan places our order and then squares her shoulders to grin at me. “I can’t wait to watch you try this. You’re going to fall in love.”
I roll my eyes. “We’ll see. Is it your favorite food?”
She tilts her head to the side, her eyes going to the ceiling in thought. “Hmm, no. The best meal I ever ate was at this little shack by the ocean in San Diego. This place was like, right off the highway. It literally shook every time a car drove by. But, they had the best scallop tacos I’ve ever eaten in my life. God, thinking about those just gives me a food orgasm.”
Her joy about the food makes me smirk. She’s so damn cute when she gets passionate about her travels. “If you could travel to one place in the world, where would it be?”
I ask because I know she loves this topic of conversation, and Ryan doesn’t even hesitate.
“Well, I’ve already been there. But, I’d go back to The Maldives. It’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever been in my life. The water is clear, the bluest blue you’ve ever had the honor to view.”
“That rhymes.” I lace our hands together on the table. “But it sounds picturesque.”
Ryan regards me for a moment. “If you could travel to one place in the world, where would you go?”
She hasn’t asked me this before. Normally, she’ll just regale me with her tales of adventure, and I listen, truly interested. But now that she has, I’m stumped to realize I never thought about it.
It takes me a few moments, but then I speak. “I’m … not sure. Maybe Italy, or France. For the art. I’d love to see the ceiling in the Sistine Chapel, or some of the works in the Louvre. I’d like to see these pieces that are so iconic, that were made centuries ago.”
Ryan nods, grinning from ear to ear. “The artist seeking his passion.”
“Something like that.” I nod. “But, that’ll take a lot of clock towers. You know anyone else looking for a new one?”
Ryan taps her chin. “Not that I can think of. But, don’t worry … someday, we’ll go see those places. Together.”
It’s the first time she’s said the word someday, and my heart begins to bloom with the possibility.
31
Ryan
Fletcher and I lay in bed after having sex, our labored breathing mingling as our legs tangle in each other and the sheets.
He brushes my hair behind my ear, a quiet smile ghosting over his lips.
“What’s going on in that head of yours?” I ask, curious.
While he’s always honest, there are a lot of moments where Fletcher goes quiet. I’ve learned this about him in the time we’ve spent together. I’ve never asked why, but I think he’s trying to fight away those demons in his mind. Should I tell him I know all too well what that’s like?
“Why did it take us so long, do you think?” he asks, twirling a lock of hair in his finger.
“Why do you think it got so deep, so quickly?” Because to me, everything seemed to happen so fast.
Fletcher seems to ignore my question. “I think … I’ve spent a lot of the last few years denying myself every urge. The urge to drink, the urge to fuck, the urge to get close to someone or make something of myself. See, Ryan, my brain has taught itself that when I really do want something, it’s probably bad for me. Alcohol? Ruined my fucking life and I wanted every drop of it desperately. From there, every base need was detrimental, and it stripped away who I was, right to the core. I had to build myself back up. I wanted to be worthy of you, Ryan.”
I love that he only calls me by my name, and not babe or baby or sweetheart. I’ve wanted to hear those endearments from men in my past, but the fact that he says my full name every time he’s talking to me … it almost seems more intimate.
And the confession … my lord.
A streak of moonlight dusts over his hair as I skim his temple with my thumb. “You’re more than worthy. The way your brain works, my brain works.”
“Is it too fast for you?” He pulls me in closer, if that’s even possible with how snug our bodies are fit against each other right now.
I don’t need to think before I shake my head. “Maybe a part of me was delaying the inevitable. I think we both know that there is … something unspoken that connects us. I thought I knew what having a spark with someone was like, but this is different. When I saw you for the first time, there was just this … shift. Not one that was difficult, or some flame that I was trying to keep alive … it was just there. This constant buzz that I knew would be so right when I finally acknowledged it, but that’s the thing, isn’t it? Sometimes we avoid the things we know will complete us because we think we’re not ready.”
Fletcher’s eyes bore into mine. “I’m ready.”
In the quiet of our bedroom, I feel more vulnerable than I have in my entire life. Like a nerve that’s been exposed, trying not to get shocked.
“Me too,” I whisper.
Looking at him, I know I am. Maybe I had to go through those bad times, the periods of my life when I thought I’d never find someone to truly love me … that I’d never find someone to be my family.
But what I’d said to Fletcher at the restaurant had been true; I had been looking for someday, and with him, I could finally picture it.
32
Ryan
After a long day of teaching, which is really only eight to one but feels like three years, I head to Presley’s studio for a much-needed yoga practi
ce.
My muscles are tense and stiff after a day trying to get through to stubborn pre-teens, and nothing relaxes me more than down dogs and child’s poses. That isn’t to say I don’t really enjoy what I’m doing. When Hattie used her pull to get me hired on as an aide to Mr. Billings, the middle school computer teacher, I was a little hesitant. A job here, especially one in the school district, meant permanence. But for the last two months, it has been going rather well. I enjoy getting up the three days a week that I help Billings and interacting with the kids. I’m more of an adult friend to them than a teacher, and it’s why they’re all clambering to tell me their ridiculous pre-teen drama.
Secretly, I love it. This is the best job I’ve had in years, and it’s opening my eyes to just what life could be like if I stay in Fawn Hill.
Not that I have any intention of going anywhere, anytime soon. Fletcher and I spend every night together, and I’m so close to telling him I love him, it freaks me the hell out. In a good way.
Because I know now that I’ve never truly been in love. Not in this complete way, where it’s as if the man is the other half of my soul, walking around just waiting to be connected to me. When I’m not with Fletcher, it’s like a part of me is dimmed. I’m both shaken by and addicted to the feeling of needing him as entirely as I do.
Pushing through the front doors of Presley’s studio, a calmness sweeps over me. That’s what she’s designed the aesthetic to do, put her clients at peace, but I’m always amazed at how much stress comes off my shoulders the minute I walk through the entrance.
Abigail, Presley’s lone employee, sits behind the desk that’s flanked with racks of soft tank tops and stretchy pants for purchase.
“Hey, Abby. Presley in the back?” I ask, setting my shoes and bag in a cubby.
She shakes her head, the dark dreads she sports shaking like one of those dogs that looks like yarn. “Nah, she called out. Has me covering her classes. Think she might be sick or something.”
A frown has my lips turning down, because that’s unlike Presley. First of all, she’s that freak of a friend that we all have who never gets sick. The entire island of Manhattan could have the flu, and she’s healthy as a spring daisy.
The nagging feeling stays with me throughout the workout, making it impossible to calm down and give in to the peaceful burn of the exercise. I take off early, forgoing the breathing exercise that Abigail takes the class through as they lie on their yoga mats with their eyes closed.
It takes me ten minutes to walk to Presley and Keaton’s house, and I realize that soon, the weather will turn much colder. We’re into October now, and I’ll have to figure out a car situation. Walking through Fawn Hill in the snow and slush is not my idea of fun.
Using the key I still have, I let myself in through their front door, and call her name.
“Pres?” I don’t yell it in case she’s sleeping.
A sound catches my attention, and it sounds like a hiccup. Calling her name again, I listen closer, and I hear someone crying.
Following the sobbing sound, I find Presley kneeling on the tile floor of her bathroom, tears leaking down her face.
“Pres! What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” My voice is frantic in my ears as I sink to my knees beside her.
She hiccups on a sob and offers up her hand. There is an object in it, and I tear my eyes from her face to look at it.
“It’s negative,” she cries, handing me the pregnancy test.
I take it, careful not to touch the end she inevitably peed on. Sure enough, there is only one line, not two like the simple test instructs there should be if a woman is carrying a baby.
“Oh, Pres …” I whisper, momentarily stunned.
I wasn’t even aware they were trying, and with the utter devastation marking her features, I can tell this is not the first negative test she’s gotten back.
“I wasn’t even sure I wanted kids, you know? Before I met Keaton, I wasn’t sure that having a family was in the cards for me. But then he kept talking about how beautiful our little girl would be someday, or how much he wanted to play baseball with his son. And I could see that, I could picture it so clearly. And then my arms started feeling … lonely. As if I was just waiting for something to fill them. For a baby to be rocked in them. I’ve never felt such a sharp stab of longing before in my life. So, we started trying. I was so excited at first, so hopeful. It was flirty and fun, and Keaton was so thrilled he could burst at the seams. But … it’s been eight months. And I just keep getting my period or peeing on these fucking sticks and being told by a piece of plastic that my womb is hopelessly empty.”
She breaks down into heart-wrenching sobs, and I herd her into my arms. I hold my friend as the sadness wracks her body, and I grieve for her. I can’t imagine what it’s like to not be able to get pregnant, when all of your hope is riding on this tiny window of a miracle.
It’s at this moment that I realize … the happy ending doesn’t mean a person’s world lives on enchantedly ever after. The wrapped-up-in-a-bow ending isn’t a cure-all for misfortune and struggle.
Here I was, idolizing and envying Presley because she got the man and all she ever wanted. I thought that the Nash brothers and their wives were all just blissfully, annoyingly happy at all times. But, that wasn’t the truth. Everyone had problems, even the ones who found their soul mates and perfect careers.
It makes me both resolved and upset. I’ve been trying so hard to fix everything I thought was wrong with myself, contend with the demons inside me to expel them from my mind and heart. So that I could feel nothing but sheer certainty when it came to being with Fletcher. So that I didn’t regret breaking my promise or leaving the life I’d worked so hard for behind.
Finding Presley like this? It makes me realize that I don’t have to be perfect to be loved. But it also makes me terrified that when I finally do give myself to the person I’m truly meant to be with, it won’t be enough.
How can life throw terrible things your way when you finally find the happy ending?
That niggle of doubt that creeps into my heart is dangerous. It festers, infecting the love that’s sprouted there even before I know it’s wreaking havoc.
33
Fletcher
Scrape.
“Fuck.” A giggle.
Bang.
“Oh, shit …” Another giggle.
I rise from my position on the couch, where I’d been lounging, watching baseball, and walk to the front door of the apartment. When I unlock it and pull it open, a drunk Ryan is standing on the other side.
“Hey, babe.” She hiccups, which makes her giggle again.
Her lipstick is smudged, and she’s removed her heels on the short walk home from the Goat, and she looks so adorably silly right now that I want to carry her to the bedroom.
Problem is, she smells like a bottle of tequila, and immediately my hackles rise.
“Hi, beautiful. Have fun tonight?” I try to keep my voice light with amusement.
She stumbles into the apartment, throwing her bag and shoes on the ground and then unbuttoning her jeans, because why not.
“Oh, gosh, yes. I love girl’s night. Don’t you love girl’s night? Just a bunch of bitches gathering around to gossip. And drink. And talk about men. And drink.”
“Yeah, you mentioned that.” I can’t help but chuckle as she moseys through our home, throwing her clothes haphazardly as she undresses.
“Come, sit down, while I regale you.” Ryan tries to throw a sexy look my way, but almost trips over her own two feet.
I should keep my distance, but she’s allowed to get drunk with her friends. It’s not her problem that I can’t control the urge inside me. So I sit on the bed, watching as she takes out her big hoop earrings.
Before I know what’s happening, though, Ryan is crawling up the bed toward me.
She straddles my lap, and instantly, my cock is straining to be inside her. How the hell does she do this to me? I’ve had plenty of experience, not much
that I remember but I do, but no one compares to the speed in which Ryan can get me hot and bothered.
It could also be the fact that I was celibate for five damn years, but we don’t need to mention that now.
I can smell the booze on her breath, and I know that if she kisses me, I’ll be able to taste the bitter fire of a margarita on her lips. Part of me wants to, so desperately wants to get just a lick of my old friend. My mistress, alcohol, the woman who led me to such highs and such lows.
Fumbling in my pocket, I grab at the chip. Five years sober. Not a drop of that poison in one thousand, eight hundred and twenty-five days. Or a little bit more than that. It takes every ounce of strength and willpower in me to push a horny, sexy-as-hell Ryan from my lap.
Her frown is exaggerated in her drunken state. “What’s wrong, baby?”
“Not tonight, babe. Why don’t we just go to sleep?” I smile at her, trying to shrug her off as she begins pulling at my pajama bottoms.
“You don’t want me?” Her smile is naughty, and while she probably thinks she’s being coy, she’s too inebriated to be subtle.
Gently, I push her hands away. “Ry … not tonight. You’re drunk.”
“And? It means you can take advantage of me.” She starts to take her top off, and I groan as her perky little nipples poke out from the see-through lace bra she’s wearing. “I was thinking about you all night. About how I wanted to come home and get on top of you. How I wanted your tongue in my pussy.”
Jesus Christ, this woman is going to kill me. Because if there is anything that has a stronger pull over me than alcohol, it’s Ryan.
But I can smell the scent of her drinks everywhere, and I know that if I don’t get out of this room, something bad will happen.
“I can’t … kiss you right now. You’ve been drinking. I can’t even smell it. It’s hard for me to even stand here with you. I’m sorry, babe … I just can’t.”
Falter: The Nash Brothers, Book Four Page 16