It's not that I'm any less hesitant, but the boundaries needed to be drawn before we could go any further. I release the door and follow her inside. A hostess greets us and leads us to the only open table by the window.
I sit across from Camille, setting my purse down on my lap, and take in our surroundings.
"Mila," Camille says, drawing my attention to the way she fiddles with her charm bracelet, then up to where worry etches across her face, "I know you're upset I didn't tell you, but honestly, you made it clear Cole was a topic we didn't discuss."
A server sets a tall glass of water on the table in front of me. I take it, lifting it to my lips, and force the liquid down my throat, which insists on clamping up every time I hear his name.
"How long has he been back?"
My stomach hurts. I'm not sure I could eat if I wanted to.
"I'm not sure. This isn't his first time back, but he never stays with me," she says.
Her tone is tart and I catch subtle traces of suppressed resentment. Camille had been barely two when her mother, already pregnant with Cole, married into the Van Buren name. Growing up, she'd never considered herself a Van Buren. Not just because she didn't bear the name, but because she'd always felt like a castaway child from a previous life her mother wanted to forget.
Here she is now, a castaway from a life I'd like to forget, too. I cut everyone else off, I untangled myself from anyone from that time in my life, but I've never been able to fully disconnect from Camille. She's remained one of the last strongholds from that era.
She goes on, "You know it's true. You couldn't say his name for months. I honestly thought the only way we would remain friends was if I pretended he never existed. But he's my brother, Mila. Every once in a while I'd get the stray email, and without fail he'd eventually ask me if I'd heard from you. He'd ask what you were up to."
"So all this time," I say, "you've been keeping tabs on me for him?"
My eyes lower to her hands, which move from fiddling with her bracelet to twisting the napkin on the table.
"It wasn't like that."
"Tell me what it was like then."
I lift the glass to my lips again, this time taking only a small gulp of water. I'm careful to keep my words unemotional. It's the only way I can make it through this conversation.
"I knew you wouldn't like him poking around, so I never told him anything he couldn't find out on his own. I swear."
"You could've just not told him anything at all."
"God, this is exactly what I didn't want." Camille lets out a breath then brings her twitching fingertips to her temples. "I never wanted to get in the middle of you two."
It's such a cowardly move of Cole to leverage his sister to keep tabs on me. He knew my number and never called. He walked out on me without a single explanation and yet thinks he's entitled to check in on my life?
Fuck Cole Van Buren.
Fuck his entitled face straight to the pits of hell.
"What does he want from me?" I snap.
"All he wants is for you to see the exhibit."
"Well that's too damn bad because I'm not going."
Disappointment floods Camille's face. She goes quiet, but her mouth moves in tiny twists as though she's chewing over her next words.
"You should think about it. Really, you should consider going. You inspired his art."
"Look," I say, "I'm glad he's finally doing something with his life instead of wasting his talents. But I don't owe him anything, Camille. In fact, I owe him exactly nothing."
"Yeah…I know."
"What would be the point of me going? Does he want me to be happy for him? To be proud of him?" The questions fly from my lips in quick succession before I take a breath and settle myself down. "I inspired his art? Big deal, he inspired my tattoos. Look, I'm glad he got his life together, but I managed to get mine together a long time ago and I have zero interest in being pulled backward."
Camille appears to be trapped in an impossible situation. And she is. The truth is, nothing good could've come of her telling me Cole had been asking about me. A part of me is glad she didn't.
I sigh. "I'm not upset with you, Camille. I'm sorry for how I'm coming across, you don't deserve it."
"It's fine, Mila. If I were you, I'd react the same way."
I reach into my purse and pull out the invitation. I took it from the trash bin on my way out of the office, not knowing what I was planning to do with it.
I set it on the table.
"Tell him I said congratulations. And tell him I said to not reach out to me again. I'm serious."
Camille's green eyes take in the envelope, but she doesn't try to reach for it.
"Just hang on to it, Mila. You might change your mind."
"No, I won't." I slide the envelope across the table.
Her mouth opens then closes again, as she shakes her head. For the first time, I see it.
She knows more than she said.
"What are you not telling me?"
She shuts her eyes for several seconds then takes a breath.
"Maybe you're right. Maybe you shouldn't go," she says. "I used to think you two balanced each other out, but sometimes I wonder if all you do is consume each other and everything that comes between you. You know, Mila, when everything happened, I lost my best friend. You realize that, right? You wanted nothing to do with me anymore."
"That's not true," I say, but the sting in my eyes proves it's a pointless lie.
Now I'm the one rubbing my temples, taking a deep breath that rakes against a hollowness I spend most of my days pretending doesn't exist.
"I didn't mean to upset you," she says, genuine regret in her eyes. "You know I care about you. Always have."
I nod, my heart aching along with my stomach. I let Cole take my best friend from me. I let my aversion to him push space between her and me. Maybe one day we can find a way back to how things used to be. But right now? All the emotions from the day are a stew of discomfort inside me.
"I'm sorry," I say, getting to my feet. "Camille, I'm feeling sick to my stomach. I really should get going."
"I get it. It's a lot to take in." She glances at her watch. "Honestly, I'm better off just grabbing a sandwich at a stand and heading back to the office."
She rises to her feet and I join her, walking around the table to give her a hug. She squeezes me tight.
"Can we talk some other time?" she asks, and there's an eagerness in her gaze that breaks my heart a little. "About anything other than my stupid brother?"
"You've got it," I say with a tight laugh.
I watch my old friend walk away then I sit back down and stare at the invitation she left behind.
SEVEN
MILA
THERE WERE NO SIGNS. The day before the wedding, Cole and I woke up tangled in each other. He hovered over me, his arms cocooning me in place. He had the most satisfied smile on his face as he watched me with those clear green eyes. He stroked my hair back out of my face and away from my bare shoulders with a soft brush of his fingertips. He'd been anything but gentle when we'd made love the night before, but that morning he trailed kisses across my collarbone with such tenderness they made my heart throb. Even then, loving him was so intense, it was almost painful. Pain so good, I thought I could never get enough. And when those hands ran up my back and curled, I arched my body to let him in all over again. He moved over me, serving me with hard, passionate thrusts that rendered me delirious.
"Tomorrow," he said by my ear, "you'll be mine forever."
The words were too sweet to be erotic, but the tremble of his coarse voice sent shivers through every inch of me and brought me shaking into climax.
Afterward, I had wrapped my legs around him when he tried to pull away. He laughed and kissed me and suggested we could just stay in bed. But we couldn't. We had a long day ahead of us, preparing for the vows we would never say.
I spent years replaying our last encounter over and over again in my head. How
were there no signs of what was to come? There were none, not a single one, and I'm starting to think this is why I've had such a hard time letting go of the anger. Cole's groomsmen told me he was putting on his suit one second, the next he was stepping out of the room for a few minutes. He never returned. I waited in a massive gown for my cue to walk down the aisle, but it never came.
At first, I was worried, convinced something horrible had happened to him. Nothing else made sense. Cole wanted to marry me. I knew that to be true more than I knew anything else. But the truth came later that night, as a phone call came in from Grant Kreisler to tell me he'd found him.
I asked to speak to him, but he said it wasn't a good idea. I battled relief and anger, demanding answers no one would give me. Days passed, then weeks. Grant wouldn't return my calls and Cole's phone went straight to voicemail. The anger grew steady as all questions from friends and family were routed to me. It was hard to accept the truth. That nothing had happened to Cole but a change of heart and the cowardice to show his face.
He left me scattered and now every time I think of him it's a knife to my gut. How the hell does Cole think he can come into town after all these years and summon me?
He's out of his damn mind.
My breathing is still heavy when I return to the office from my lunch date with Camille. Janet starts to give me a message but reads my expression and allows her words to fade away. I close the door behind me, the tightness behind my eyes growing into a mild headache.
I plop down behind my desk and bring my laptop to life with a few taps of the keyboard. I go to check my emails but somehow end up with a browser window open.
My fingers fly across the keyboard until the words Cole Van Buren appear across the search bar. I tap the surface of my keyboard a few times without pushing down. I know I shouldn't, but if I've already gone this far, I might as well. I hit enter and the results begin to load, then the space beneath the search bar goes blank and a message appears: keyword blocked.
I laugh, relieved and annoyed. I forgot about the software I installed years ago. That's how long it's been since I tried to search for Cole. There was a time, in the beginning, when I would search for his name obsessively. I'd try to piece together what he was up to, whom he was with, and why…why he wasn't with me. It was pathetic. I hated that version of myself and I'm not going back.
The next few hours stretch out to infinity, with each human encounter I have requiring a controlled tone and leaving my facial muscles sore from holding a neutral expression. It's been years since I've experienced anger this fresh.
All this time I thought the wounds had been sealed, but they were just scabs ready to be picked.
I leave half an hour earlier than usual, packing up and slipping my laptop into my bag with the intention of bringing work home. On my way out, I stop by Andrew's office and catch him on the phone. He pauses mid-speech when he notices me standing at the door. I offer him a tight smile, and gesture for him to continue. He picks up his conversation but tilts his head at me in a silent question. My smile wanes. I'm afraid he can read me better than his nonchalant expression lets on.
I jerk my head toward the door, signaling I'm heading out. I'm not sure why I felt the need to stop by his office, but seeing him makes my anger ebb away a fraction.
He mimics eating his phone receiver then points to his watch. I take a breath and the familiar hollowness in me confirms I'm not up for company. I shake my head and give him a small wave. He turns from me and responds to the caller as though he'd been listening all along.
I walk away with an unsatisfied feeling I can't pin down because it has nothing to do with the day's events. What's happened today is a flurry at the forefront of my mind. But, no. This feeling peeks out from somewhere in my subconscious. It's like having something at the tip of your tongue but losing it again.
The sensation follows me all the way home.
I peel off my shoes as soon as I walk through my door and step down to my natural height. That's the first unwelcoming shift in vantage point. The second comes when I tread across the cold tile of the entryway, past the collection of paintings and sketches hanging along the wall. My movements echo throughout and I stop to consider the vastness of the space around me. The rooms in my house have more art on the walls than furniture on the ground. Nothing's changed from yesterday or the day before, but I somehow notice it more than ever today.
There's a third unpleasant shift in vantage point, which comes after I settle down in my living room with freshly delivered Chinese food in front of me. The current image of myself snaps into focus. I've removed my suit jacket, but I'm still wearing my work shirt and pants, button undone, bra unclasped. I'm shoveling Chinese food into my mouth like it's going to help me not feel feelings anymore.
I'm moping and it needs to stop.
Andrew's face flashes in my mind, the disappointment there when I shook my head at his offer to get dinner. Just like that, I nail down the discontent that followed me home from the office. I've had a nagging feeling about Andrew lately. His recent increase in outing invitations hints at his aversion to being alone. He's the quintessential extrovert, craving constant social interaction, and I'm sure now more than ever he's avoiding being alone with his thoughts. I don't care what he says, hearing an old flame is engaged is always a mindfuck. I stare at the phone for several seconds before I make the call. Andrew answers on the second ring.
"Hey, Drew. Can I come over?"
EIGHT
MILA
THERE'S SOMETHING JARRING ABOUT catching someone in casual clothes when you're used to seeing them in business attire. Whenever I think of Andrew, I picture him wearing a suit. Even the times we've gone out, he's dressed in crisp button-down shirts. But when his apartment door opens, Andrew is in a sleeveless t-shirt, running shorts, and sneakers.
I blink a few times at the disorienting sight.
"Hey," he says. "Come in."
His face is flushed and his hair slightly disheveled. He catches me eyeing his appearance and runs a hand through his hair to smooth it back.
I hold up the bag in my hand. "I come bearing half-eaten Chinese food."
"You really shouldn't have."
He takes the bag from me and walks ahead into the kitchen to set it on the counter. When he peers inside, he chuckles.
"You weren't kidding, you really did bring half-eaten Chinese food."
"It came in before I called and I was starving."
"I already ate."
"Ah. Well…I'm going to need to take that back, then."
"Nope." He grins. "It's going away, I'm saving it for later."
He ties up the bag again and turns to his fridge.
Music plays at a low volume from the living room, where a set of free weights sits in the center of the carpet. Andrew moved into this apartment a few months ago. The last time I saw this place, there was no furniture and all of his belongings were in boxes stacked along the walls.
The place is put together now. Most of the furniture is dark wood or black, and the accents are gray or light blue. A large, sophisticated painting of the Brooklyn Bridge hangs over his tan leather couch. On either side, drapes frame large windows overlooking another building right across the way. I make no attempt to be subtle in my analysis of the space and do a full circle to take it in.
"I'm impressed," I say. "The place looks great."
I take off my shoes and sink my feet into the plush carpet. Andrew responds from behind the open refrigerator door.
"Wish I could say it was me. My sister decorated it. I wrote her a check and she took care of everything."
I lean against the countertop behind him as he talks.
"Ah, well, for a minute there, I thought you had good taste."
"Never. I have awful taste."
He shuts the fridge door and gives a small start when he turns to look at me. The space is small but I didn't anticipate him being so close. He lifts his arms to keep from colliding with me, stopping inches sh
ort. There's a protein drink in his hand and he holds it overhead like an offering.
"Jesus," he says, stepping back. "I keep forgetting how short you are. I thought a squirrel had gotten in from the balcony."
I cross my arms and glare up at him. "Why are we even friends?"
"Sometimes I ask myself the same thing. Only thing I can come up with is you like looking at my pretty face."
He shakes up the protein drink, his arm flexing in the process, and proceeds to chug the drink down in front of me. He's not lying. I hate how he can't manage to be unattractive even when he tries. My gaze moves up his arms, across his chest, and down the front of his shirt.
His head cocks to the side.
"What?"
"Do you do competitive jar opening on your time off? You work at an office. What do you do with these things?"
I poke at his biceps with my finger and find them to be as hard as they look. The action does nothing to minimize their appeal.
"Make yourself at home," he says. "I've got to hop in the shower real quick. I'll be back in a few minutes."
It's a simple statement, but I catch my gaze before it starts to move over his body again. Not that it matters, because I'm now picturing him naked. I wish he'd just put on a suit, or a shirt with sleeves. Seeing this much of his skin messes with me. There are some logistical issues with having a friend who I am, at times, attracted to. It's hard to forget he and I would've had sex once, had I not collapsed in a heap of tears.
"Alright, I'll just…be out here." I clear my throat, scratching at the back of my neck.
Andrew disappears into his bedroom. A few minutes later, the muffled sounds of the shower trickle from under his door.
I pour myself a glass of water. I'm warm all over and can't understand why. My hormones have been on a bizarre ride today. From sadness to shock to anger to…whatever the hell this is.
I know exactly what it is.
This is the first time in a very long time that I've been alone with Andrew in private. We're around each other all the time, but when we hang out outside of work, it's always out in public and almost always in a group.
The Edge of Us Page 5