I return to the front. It’s not as if he was in the back and didn’t hear me knocking. Now
how long does he intend to leave me standing out here?
Suddenly, the door opens and I suppress a gasp of surprise. Graham’s expression is as dark as his t-shirt and jeans. Not exactly overjoyed to see me, I’d say. His gaze drops to the application in my hand before returning to my face.
“You came.” Two words. Harsh and blunt. Telling in his feelings about it.
“I said I would.”
Silence follows, ratcheting up the tension. Neither of us move. I clear my throat. That doesn’t elicit a response. Shifting my gaze from his cold stare, I peer behind him. “Are you going to let me in?”
He continues to regard me, blocking my entry with his broad shoulders and wide-legged stance.
After another long pause, then a weary sigh, he opens the door all the way. I step inside, giving him the widest berth possible. He locks it behind me as I stand awkwardly looking around.
“I’ll take that,” he says, hand out for my application. I relinquish it immediately. “Now have a seat.” He’s already striding away, gesturing at the stools at the bar before quickly taking up a position on the other side.
I take a seat in front of him and watch as he thumbs through the four pages. His jaw ticks. He doesn’t look up when he asks, “How long have you been at Warwick?”
I swallow. “Since last year.”
His gaze lifts to mine. “You transferred from…?”
“Berkeley. California.”
“Why?”
“Does that matter?” If it had been John asking, I wouldn’t have thought anything of it. But this is Graham. And right now, he’s looking at me with an intensity in his eyes. As if he knows why I did. Or can guess.
“Berkeley’s a good school.”
“Personal reasons.”
To my surprise, he shrugs and resumes reading. Another minute goes by before his head comes up again and his eyes lock with mine.
“Why are you here? It’s not for a job, so why are you here?”
I’m surprised how swiftly it comes down to this. The truth. A frank discussion of my motivation. For a while there, I’d thought he’d continue to skirt the issue.
“I wasn’t the one who told your boss I’d been here looking for a job,” I remind him.
His lips thin. “I told him I didn’t know you. What other reason was I supposed to give for you showing up?”
“Well the thing is, I do need a new job.”
He sighs, the weight of it between long-suffering and anger. “Not here. You can get a job anywhere else but here.”
“Graham—”
Backing away from the glistening bar top, he bows his head, pinches the bridge of his nose and says wearily, “Okay, Emily, you win. Go ahead, apologize. Say whatever it is you’ve been wanting to say. I’ll listen. But you have to promise that after you’re done I won’t ever have to see your face again.”
I refuse to acknowledge the sharp stab of pain in my chest. If I’m not, I should be inured to it by now. At least I know his plan. What’s he going to do? Close his eyes, screw up his mouth and suffer through my apology?
“Apologizing isn’t about winning,” I reply softly, resting my clasped hands on the bar top.
His mouth tightens. Although he’s looking directly at me, I don’t think he actually sees me. Everything about him is closed off. His expression shuttered and the emotional wall around him fifty feet high. And that’s when it finally hits me, the fruitlessness of such an endeavor.
“I would apologize if I thought you’d actually hear me. If I thought you were open to it, but I can tell you’re not.”
At those words, his expression comes to life. Alarm? Anger? Frustration? A combination of all three? It’s hard to tell but the one thing that does come through very clearly is his surprise.
“What?” With the sharpness of a knife’s blade, his question slashes the air between us.
“What would the point be?”
It’s obvious by the look on his face that he doesn’t know how to respond.
“Up to fifteen minutes ago, I thought me saying the words would be enough. That once I’d done it, apologized, a huge weight would be lifted off my shoulders. My guilt would diminish. But I know now that’s not going to happen. You might as well be listening to me with your fingers in your ears, which would make the whole apology a sham.”
“Alright, then don’t bloody apologize. But don’t take the job if you ever want me to be in a place to hear it.” Sarcasm as thick as honey drips from his lips.
I get that he’s mad. I get that he doesn’t like me, but I’m not a murderer for heaven’s sake. I’d been a stupid sixteen-year old too head over heels in love with him to consider the consequences of my lie. I’d felt older than my age, modeling and working with men and women years older than me. It hadn’t seemed that momentous a lie. I’d realized it too late and have been paying for that mistake ever since.
“Graham, I haven’t seen you in four years. So if in four years without contact you’re still this angry, I don’t think another month or even a year is going to change that. I really think that if you got to know me—the person I am now—you’d see I’m not the monster you’ve made me out to be.”
He stares at me hard for a second and then looks around as if searching for someone else to share his I cannot fucking believe this sentiment with.
“Are you seriously going to take the job?”
I flinch inwardly at the fury and disbelief in his voice.
“Yes.” As much as I want to change his opinion of me, maybe being around him will change my opinion of him. Maybe I’ve always viewed him through lenses that were rose-tinted. Guilt and youth probably has a way of distorting reality. Maybe if our relationship had lasted longer, I wouldn’t have such a hard time letting this go.
The next breath he draws is slow and controlled as if he’s desperately trying to hold it together. I’m not sure which I should be guarding, my feelings or my throat.
Me. I’m doing this to him, driving him crazy. Furious to the point that deep calming breaths are called for. There was a time when the sight of me brought a smile to his face and caused his eyes to smolder. Now, it’s as if I’m his worst nightmare.
“You’re making a mistake.”
The warning note in his voice chills the room, plunging the temperature to subzero levels. The goosebumps that form on my exposed arms have nothing to do with the air conditioning blasting from the vent above.
If things don’t work out, I’ll quit, I tell myself. But I won’t tell him. He’d go out of his way to make my life hell.
You don’t think he will regardless?
In the blink of an eye, all emotion is stripped clean from his face, his expression a mask of composure. “I’ll make sure John gets this.” He holds up the application, his statement delivered in a distant voice.
I guess that’s my signal to leave. Feeling painfully self-conscious, I hook the strap of my purse over my shoulder and stand, my legs giving me a moment’s doubt that they will hold me up. I’m not sure when’s the last time I’ve felt so unsure of myself.
Last month at the mall. Then again at Zenith’s two weeks ago. Basically, every time I’m anywhere near Graham.
Is this the way it’s always going to be?
I sure hope not. This whole thing is excruciating enough. But as much as I’ve withdrawn into myself over the past few years, I possess an innate stubbornness that won’t let me back down. Because I know I won’t get another chance. Not like this. Another chance for him to get to know me, and me him. To hopefully get beyond his acrimony.
“Okay, thanks,” I say, not knowing what else to say.
His response is to continue to treat me to an icy stare.
I take that as my cue to get out of there fast. Just as I reach the door, he says, “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
Another warning that doesn’t warrant a re
ply. I keep moving, turning the lock on the door and letting myself out.
Behind the wheel of my car, my hand isn’t quite steady as I start the engine. When it hums to life, I bow my head and inhale a calming breath, trying to slow my racing pulse.
I’m doing the right thing. I’m doing the right thing. Everything will work out for the best.
On another deep inhale, I raise my head. Straight ahead stands Graham framed in the doorway staring at me.
My breath hitches. After what seems like forever, I avert my gaze and put the car in reverse.
The last image I have of him is in my rearview mirror standing motionless in the exact same spot.
Chapter 8
I return home to the familiar scene of April and Troy snuggled together on the sofa in front of the TV. Because it’s me and I’m used to their physical displays of affection, they don’t exactly spring apart when I’m close enough to be considered a voyeur to their exhibitionism.
I take in my best friend’s tousled hair, plump lips, flushed cheeks and overly bright eyes and conclude that the activity they’d been engaged in had been far more active—and pleasurable—than mere kissing or watching TV. I make pains to keep my eyes well away from Troy’s lap.
“So, how’d it go?” April asks, her head popping up from the curve of his shoulder.
“I dropped off the application. I guess I should hear in a day or so.”
Troy flashes me a quick smile hello before peering back down at his girlfriend. “Does this mean we’re going to be spending more time at Zenith’s?”
She cups his bristled cheek with her palm, and sweetly replies, “It’s going to be our home away from home.”
He directs his attention back to me, a dark eyebrow raised. “Free drinks?”
“Not if I want to keep my job,” I reply dryly.
April must sense something’s wrong. I can feel it in the way she’s studying my expression, which I trying to keep fairly impassive.
The lovebirds share a look—a silent communication I can’t decipher—before Troy extricates himself from her, kisses her hard on the lips and then pushes to his feet. “I gotta go. Practice in half an hour.”
April’s hand trails lingeringly down his arm as he steps away. They exchange another look, this one brimming with a love so acute, watching them feels like an invasion of privacy. Then he heads toward the bedrooms.
“You’ve trained him well,” I comment, hanging my purse on the kitchen chair and take up the vacated spot on the sofa beside her.
She smirks. “Girl talk. He knows when it’s time to leave.”
“Or it could be that an estrogen dominated apartment intimidates him.”
April giggles at that. “Are you kidding? He loves it. He says the guys on the team are always razzing him, asking him what it’s like to live with two hot girls. We’ve both now officially been deemed hot. How do you like that?”
“They’ve always thought Miss TMZ’s Best Ass in America was hot,” I reply, laughing lest she forget her reigning title. When TMZ declares you have the nicest ass in America, your friends will never let you forget it. I’m merely doing my part.
“That’s only because you barely let anyone see yours. I’ve seen it and it’s definitely in contention for the title next year. I’d watch it if I were you though, because Rebecca and Liv are coming up the rear.”
Amusement dances in her eyes as she waggles her brows. “Get it? Coming up the rear. Best Ass.”
Ba dum dum.
I try not to smile but keeping a straight face with a joke that lame is impossible. “Of course, I get it but I suggest you don’t quit your day job.”
“Yeah, that’s why you’re laughing.” She gently elbows me in the arm.
“I’m not laughing. And I’m smiling because it’s so lame.”
Troy reappears, changed from apartment comfortable into athletic rugged, which consists of dark-blue sweatpants and a Warwick Warrior t-shirt. Since yesterday was laundry day, he has his football bag in hand, carting his gear back to the locker where it belongs.
“Babe, I’m out.”
April looks up at him, a smile wreathing her face. “Bye, sweetie. Call me when you’re on your way home.”
“I will. See you later, Em.”
“Bye,” I reply with a little wave.
We watch his retreating back. Seconds later, the front door opens then closes with a soft click. April immediately turns her attention back to me. “So really, how did it go? Was he there? Did you guys talk?”
The barrage of questions, I expected, the constriction in my chest, I did not. I glance down, idly studying my unpolished fingernails. When is the last time I had a manicure? It’s been ages.
“Oh, he was there alright.” I glance up then, in plenty of time to see her grimace.
“I take it things didn’t go well?”
“You could say that.”
“What did he say?”
I tell her everything, not skimping on the details. After I’m finished, she lets out a gusty sigh and runs her hand through the entire length of her curly mane. “Are you sure you want to take the job? I’m not sure it’s worth it at this point. Your Brit sounds like…well to be honest, like an ass.”
“Arse.”
“What?”
“Well since he’s British you have to call him an arse.”
April snorts lightly. “Well, here in the good ole US of A he’s an ass.”
True. Very true.
She goes silent for a beat and then says, “I’m going to ask you a question and you have to promise to be honest.”
“Boy doesn’t that sound ominous,” I tease, giving a nervous laugh.
“I promise, it’ll be less painful than oral surgery.”
With that analogy, I might go with a root canal.
“I’ll try.”
“Try hard,” she instructs sternly, an indication that she’s not joking around. “Are you one hundred percent sure you don’t still have feelings for him? Romantic feelings,” she clarifies as if I could mistake her meaning. “He was your first. And you know what they say about firsts.”
“Actually, I don’t. What do they say?”
April doesn’t look as if she was prepared for the question because she has that surprised deer caught in the headlights look in her eyes. “Well that—that you never forget them.”
“Unless someone is blackout drunk or unconscious, does anyone forget someone they’ve had sex with whether they’re their first, last or somewhere in the middle? Do you still have feelings for the first guy you ever had sex with?”
April is quick with a response, her “no” quite emphatic.
“How about before you and Troy got together? Did you have lingering feelings for him then?”
She shakes her head.
“See? So no, I’m not in love or even infatuated with him anymore. Now, I’d be lying if I told you I don’t think he’s attractive. He is. But so are Troy, Zach, Scott and Alex Benton. Hell, they’re a lot of guys I find attractive but that doesn’t mean I’m attracted to them. Most important of all, Graham hates me. And no matter what you think of me, I’m not a glutton for punishment. Having any sort of romantic feelings for him would be an exercise in futility and an act of masochism.”
“Then what are you doing considering taking a job to work with him when he’s this dead set against it? Do you really believe you can change his mind about you?”
“Don’t you think it’s at least worth a try? What I did to him was…horrible.” I can’t say unforgivable because then I may as well hang it all up and go home. “I was horrible.”
April makes an irritated sound. “God, Em, you’re talking as if the sixteen-year-old you was all bad and I’m absolutely sure that’s not the case. You did everything you could to make things right. Everything.”
I used to be able to take solace in that. But the things I did, what I went through can never compare to what happened to him. “That doesn’t change what I did.”
/> April places her hand on my back and gives it an affectionate rub. “You’re being too hard on yourself. If Graham knew what you did, I bet his tune would change.”
“I don’t want him to know.” And unlike my friend, I doubt it’d make a difference.
“Maybe you can talk to his mother. Maybe she—”
My spine snaps straight. “No. Oh my god, have you lost your ever-loving mind?” My voice is one horrified squeak of indignation. “His mother has nothing to do with this and I don’t want her to.”
“Well, I thought since you’re still in touch…” April let’s her voice trail off as she tiptoes back her rejected suggestion.
“Do you honestly think his mother could get him to forgive me? Accept my apology? And even if she could—although I doubt she has that kind of influence on him—I wouldn’t want her to.”
“Okay, okay, okay,” she says, holding up her hands up signifying surrender. “I understand. It was just a—a thought.”
At her chagrined expression, I offer up a sad smile. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. I know you mean well but I just need to handle this my way.”
April sighs. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
A wry laugh escapes. “That’s exactly what he said today.”
“Did he?”
I nod.
“And do you? Do you know what you’re doing, Em?”
Do I? Probably not. When it comes to Graham, my decision-making abilities seem to always be out of whack. The last time ended in a nightmare. This time I’m determined to lead with my head not my heart.
“I sure hope so.”
You know what I’ve learned? Praying does shit for you. It’s rubbish. A waste of fucking time. I don’t do it often. I’m usually in a sorry state of desperation when I look heavenward and hope to hell someone’s really up there.
I’d prayed when I was being carted off to jail. What had that gotten me? I’d been booked, fingerprinted and spent three weeks in jail. When my dad had a heart attack, I’d sat in the hospital and tried it again. He’d died the next day.
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