by R.S. Grey
No.
While there is a dance floor, it’s currently occupied by only three couples, and each person is upwards of 80. They’re just sort of shuffling around while they lean on each other. James and I would stick out like sore thumbs.
He smiles tightly and extends his arm to encompass the room. “I’m sure there are plenty of men who would be more than willing to oblige.”
My cheeks flush with embarrassment. Not only did he turn me down, he did it in front of the weathergirl, and when she snickers and tries to hide it behind her hand, I’ve had enough for one night. Martha will have to understand. I’m leaving early.
I turn on my heel, prepared to beeline for the exit, but Ellie’s hand digs into my back and she pushes me toward him.
“Plenty of men, sure, but you’re the closest!”
Cupid had enough tact to use arrows in his matchmaking. Ellie, on the other hand, seems to have chosen a hatchet.
I’m not sure if I’m angrier with her for throwing me at James or with James for standing there, actually contemplating turning me down a second time. I narrow my eyes, daring him to do it. He meets my gaze head on, and a muscle in his jaw twitches as he tries to grind his teeth to dust. It feels like I’m winning even though his searing gaze is hot enough to burn through flesh.
Finally, with a heavy sigh, he grabs my hand and turns to lead me toward the dance floor, or at the very least, away from Ellie. For all I know, he could be on his way to depositing my body outside in the dumpster. I’m sure that’s what he’d like to do, though I have no clue why. When we last spoke in Austin, we left things on good terms. Our breakup was mutual and healthy—adult, even. Now he’s suddenly acting like some scorned lover. He’s holding my hand in a punishing grip I don’t particularly enjoy, so I tug hard to extract it, right in time to nearly trip into an ambitious waiter holding a massive tray of hors d’oeuvres. James’ hand settles around my waist as he gently pulls me against him, saving me and the poor server in the nick of time. I stiffen at the familiar warmth that radiates from his touch. He squeezes my waist and then quickly releases me, taking a step away as if he’s trying to put a healthy distance between us. I glance down at the offending hand in time to see him clench it into a tight fist.
“The dance floor is that way,” he says with a cold, distant tone.
I whip my gaze to his face and for one wild moment, I contemplate leaving him right then and there. I spy an exit a few yards away; I could be outside in a minute, two tops. He sees where I’m looking and shakes his head with a quiet reprimand. “Don’t.”
I lift my chin and walk purposefully toward the dance floor, stopping at the very edge. James’ hand hits the small of my back and he continues forward, sweeping me into his arms. One of my hands rests delicately on his shoulder while he grips the other one tightly. His touch is exciting, and strangely familiar after so much time. The band is playing Nat King Cole’s “L-O-V-E” and the upbeat jazz song is no trouble for James, who’s clearly spent time learning how to lead a woman around a dance floor. He’s not making it easy for me though. I’m sure he’d love for me to stumble in front of everyone—and I do mean everyone—but too bad for him, Martha enrolled Ellie and me in a few months of ballroom dance lessons when we were teenagers. I hated every second of it, but now I can foxtrot with the best of them—that is, until James picks up the pace, spinning me out and back in with a hard tug. I collide with his chest and manage to step on his foot. He smirks and I resolve to stomp harder next time.
There’s no time to try to plan ahead for another opportunity to maim him. With James at the helm, towering over me in his midnight black tuxedo, we breeze across the dance floor so quickly that all my focus goes to trying to keep up with his long strides. The song hits a crescendo, and the trumpet player takes a solo. James uses the opportunity to toss me out and roll my body back into him before he dips me sharply toward the ground. I squeeze my eyes closed, bracing for impact, but then he pulls me back up and swings us back into the rhythm of the song with confident ease. There are whistles and claps from the crowd of onlookers. Thanks to James’ moves, I doubt there’s a guest in attendance who isn’t watching us. I hope Ellie is happy. In fact, I know she is.
Together we move to the beat, our feet in perfect sync. I’m actually enjoying the pace of the dance. It’s thrilling to be led by someone like him, right up until he opens his mouth.
“If you wanted to talk to me so badly, you could have just asked. You didn’t have to use your sister.”
His smugness rubs me the wrong way. I tilt my head back to meet his gaze and reply coldly, “I didn’t put her up to it. She’s convinced we have some unfinished business.”
He grunts as if he was expecting nothing less. “Do we?”
I ignore his question. “Y’know, you admitted yourself that I’ve done nothing wrong. Why are you treating me like this?”
He turns away, granting me a reprieve from his intense gaze, though his profile isn’t much better. His smooth jaw and sharp features are just as tantalizing as I remember, maybe more so now that I’ve had so many long nights to fantasize about them.
When he finally glances back to me, he’s removed the emotion in his eyes. He’s a cold, unfeeling blank slate as he tips his head and studies me. “What did you call it once? Self-preservation?”
I flinch. His honesty catches me off guard. I was prepared to deflect another harsh comment from his barbed tongue.
“James.” My shaky voice only further angers him. Clearly, he doesn’t want my sympathy. “You don’t have to be like this. Soon enough, I’ll be gone again.”
He furrows his brows angrily. “How would you like me to be? Polite? Talkative?”
“It’d be a good start.”
“Ellie tells me you’re popular in Barcelona,” he says acerbically.
I flush, aware of what he’s insinuating. “Ellie was exaggerating.”
“Rest assured, Brooke, I realized you’d moved on the day you boarded that flight to Spain. You didn’t need to have your sister rub salt in my wound.”
I stiffen, finally aware of the barely concealed pain emanating from him. The song fades and he tries to step away, but I tighten my hand on his shoulder. “James.”
A soft piano starts to play, introducing the next song, and I pray he won’t leave me out here alone, not when I have so much I need to tell him. My fingers dig into his tuxedo jacket and I plead with him to turn and look at me.
“You have it all wrong.”
“How?” he asks harshly. “Please, enlighten me.”
I can’t stand this version of him, the unyielding jerk who makes my legs shake and my lip quiver. I look away and try to inhale deeply so when I speak again, my voice doesn’t sound so small. “I didn’t ask her to give you updates about my time in Spain. That was her…sisterly way of trying to make you jealous.”
“Why?”
I nearly laugh. “You expect me to know what motivates Ellie?” I shake my head as we move slowly around the dance floor, and I can’t meet his eyes when I offer him the whole truth. Instead, I focus on a point just over his shoulder.
“She thinks you’re in love with me, and I suppose she thought it might spur you into action or something.”
I expect him to flinch or sigh or give me some kind of sign to prove or disprove Ellie’s hypothesis, but James is first and foremost a savvy businessman. His poker face betrays nothing. If I want to know the answer to that burning question, I’ll have to ask him outright. At the moment, I’m scared his reply will be colored by misconception and hurt. I wonder just how hyperbolic Ellie’s tales of my time in Barcelona actually were. Sure, I got asked out a time or two, and I had a pretty good setup with those free croissants for a while, but there weren’t men sweeping me off my feet right and left. In fact, there was no sweeping, whatsoever. For the last year and a half, I’ve been singularly focused on the man I left behind, the man currently doing his best to slice me in half with his gaze. Still, I trudge on, offering him
a bit of honesty in the hopes that it will melt his hard exterior just a little bit.
“I would never play games with you after how we left things,” I say earnestly. “If I’d known Ellie was doing that, I would have insisted she stop, believe me. I couldn’t even handle her giving me updates about you. For the last year, she never once mentioned your name because she knew how I felt…how much it would upset me.”
His dark brown eyes widen and then quickly narrow, as if he’s trying to pick apart my words and find the deceit in between the syllables. His hand tightens around my waist and the animosity between us starts to fade, slowly, faintly, but I feel it in the way he holds me. There’s no longer malice in his grip. He presses me against him, not so he can try to outmaneuver me on the dance floor but because maybe, hopefully, that’s how close he wants me.
For a few minutes, he leads me in silence as I try to come up with some way to convince him of the truth. I could drag Ellie out here and force her to redact her wild stories, but even if he does believe my time in Spain was spent largely thinking of him, wondering whether or not he’d moved on, would it even matter? As the second song fades, so does my hope of reconciliation. He leads me to the side of the dance floor and I grasp for something to say, some way to keep him here with me.
“James—”
He shakes his head and speaks with a dejected tone. “I thought about what it would be like when you came back,” he admits with sad eyes. “And not once did I think you’d show up like this.”
“Well I’m here now,” I say, my voice brimming over with hope.
“Temporarily,” he points out bitterly.
Of course. That’s when reality hits me like a ton of bricks. This isn’t some grand gesture. I didn’t fly back from Spain with the hopes of reconnecting with James. I came here for a quick visit to see my family. I’m at the event because of Martha, not in the hopes of running into him, and he knows it. It was the very first thing I said to him. Oh, I didn’t know you’d be here—how’s that for love? Any attempt I make to explain myself here will seem half-assed and coincidental. Oh yes, sorry about all the trouble I put you through all those months ago. See you around!
He turns to walk away and my hand shoots out to stop him. “If you wanted me to come back, you could have reached out, or…”
My voice fades when he laughs incredulously. It’s a sad, pitiful sound that splinters my heart.
“I already asked you to stay once.”
I get it—once bruised, a man’s ego isn’t so easily healed, especially a man like James.
As I watch him walk away, clarity sets in like a shiver up my spine: I want a second chance with James, a chance to make things right between us now. Even though every decision I’ve made in the past year and a half has opened up millions of potential paths and parallel universes away from him, there’s nothing stopping me from turning around and retracing my footsteps back to the point where they all meet. It’s true that every time a door closes, a window opens, but that doesn’t mean the door just disappears. Hell, it’s just a closed door, and no matter if it’s jammed, locked, or broken, there will probably come a time when you can break the rusted hinges and fight your way back in.
If you truly want to.
Walking backward should feel like a retreat, but it doesn’t feel that way for me, because all that time marching forward has changed me from the person I was into the person I am. I traveled, explored, and got myself lost more times than I can count. I wallowed in heartbreak over James, but I also learned that I could find my smile again, even on my own. I think that lesson was the hardest to learn, but ultimately, it’s what matters most. I don’t need James to survive; I want him. When I dig deep for my old insecurities, they aren’t there anymore.
Now, the idea of marrying James fills me with hope, not dread. I want to share my life with him and I need him to know that, but I know it won’t be easy to convince him.
Looking at things from his perspective, his behavior tonight makes perfect sense. He doesn’t owe me kindness. He surrendered his pride and begged me to stay in Austin, and I still went to Spain. Then, thanks to Ellie’s well-intentioned storytelling, he assumed I humped around Europe without a care in the world. He must think I’m the most callous, unfeeling person on the face of the planet. Why would he believe me if I told him I want a second chance now? What have I done to try to restore things between us?
Nothing. The door is still closed, dead-bolted, and rusted over.
Welp, looks I’m going to need a crowbar.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“Oh my god, Ellie, I’m such a cliché! James Ashwood wanted me and I tossed him away like yesterday’s garbage—for what?! A few sunny months in España!?”
She hums thoughtfully, doing her best rendition of Bored Sister #1 as she reclines on my bed and scrolls through her Instagram feed. I’m glad she can relax at a time like this. I didn’t sleep at all after the gala, partly because I’m still recovering from jet lag, and partly because my life just took a sharp right turn off its charted course. I feel sick. I think I’m having a heart attack, and I’ve forced Ellie to check my symptoms on WebMD three times already.
“It’s says you’re probably just having a garden-variety psychotic break,” she reassures me.
“I think I’m going to go to his house,” I exclaim, turning for my closet.
I’m a ball of anxiety and emotions. It’s the morning after the gala, and I need to act—NOW. I’ve thought about nothing but James all night, of how I could possibly convince him I’m sorry and deserve a second chance. I want to throw on sneakers and run to his house. I want to press play on a boombox beneath his bedroom window and light a million candles and ride up in a limo, dangling out of it precariously with a red rose stuck between my teeth. I need a grand gesture, and I need it yesterday!
“Slow down, mental case! What are you talking about?”
Oh, now she closes Instagram.
“James,” I say, flinging shoes out of my closet in my quest to find a pair of running shoes that still fit me. I haven’t lived at my dad’s house in a while, and the selection in my closet is pretty slim. Stuffed in the back, I find a pair of hiking boots and decide they’ll do. “I have to get him back.”
“Since when?”
“Since always!” I shout, annoyed with her for not keeping up. “I was just too stupid to see it before.”
“Oh,” she grimaces. “That’s pretty inconvenient considering he hates your guts.”
“Yeah, no thanks to you,” I throw back heatedly. “Really good job, by the way. I think he assumes I slept with half of the European Union.”
“No, just half of Spain,” she clarifies with an utter lack of concern for her misdeeds.
I want to throw one of my chunky hiking boots at her head, but I’m scared it’ll cause permanent damage. Besides, I need them. I plop down in the center of my room and start working on lacing them up. Ellie is trying to get my attention, but I can’t get distracted now. I have too much pent-up energy exploding inside of me. I’m jittery, and I don’t know what to do. I was perfectly fine yesterday before the gala, but seeing James and twirling around in his arms like some kind of fairy princess was like pouring lighter fluid on a slow-burning fire. I knew I still had feelings for him, but not like this. This is terrible! It hurts! See: heart attack. Speaking of…
I glance up when I’m midway through lacing up the first boot. “Are you sure I shouldn’t go to the hospital? I think I’m having pain in my left arm.”
Ellie leans down and catches my shoulders in her palms. Then she levels her gaze with mine and inhales deeply.
“Do it with me,” she says.
I breathe.
It only makes things worse. I don’t have time to breathe! I’m supposed to go back to Spain in six days! How am I supposed to convince James I love him in six days?!
It’s obvious.
“Oh my god, Ellie. I can’t go back to Spain!” I exclaim.
She smiles
. “Duh.”
I reach for my phone. “This is an actual emergency!”
“Don’t tell me you’re calling an ambulance,” Ellie says, rolling her eyes.
I settle for the second best option: the cookie delivery place down the street.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Ellie locks me in my room and makes me promise I won’t go see James on a whim. She thinks I need to be armed with a thoughtful speech, a sexy outfit, and at least half a Xanax before I attempt whatever it is I think I’ll be attempting. I think she’s being ridiculous, so I spend upwards of two hours trying to knot my bed sheets together to make an escape ladder. It doesn’t work. I grow weary, lie down on my floor, and crash hard for a solid 12 hours. Huh. Turns out, I was pretty exhausted. Something about travel, galas, and massive life decisions really conks you out.
The first thing I do when I wake up is FaceTime Diego and Nicolás. I’ve had time to consider my options, and now that I’m well rested, I still agree with the decision I came to in the midst of my mania. If I want James to take me seriously when I ask for a second chance, I have to tell him I’m moving back to the States.
FaceTime connects right away and Diego leans forward, scrunching his nose and studying me.
“What’s that on your face?” he asks in lieu of a greeting.
“Oh, nothing, just indentations from sleeping face down on the carpet. Anyway, I have news…about what Diego and I talked about the other night.”
Diego claps gleefully and turns to Nicolás. “I told you so!”
“I should have never taken that bet!” Nicolás replies with an eye roll.
“Well you did, and I won, so pay up.”
Nicolás turns back to the phone. “Wait, Brooke, are you staying for the guy?”
I nod.
“Sí! SEE!” Diego shouts triumphantly.
After Diego is done gloating, I try to turn the conversation back to a more professional topic: my resignation.
Nicolás laughs. “Wait, let me get this straight: you’re putting in your two weeks notice with one week of vacation left? What does that even mean? You’re going to fly back here for a week and then fly home?”