Typical Grayson. Before he left for L.A., he had a bit of a reputation around town for being a ladies’ man. He’d dated a different girl practically every week in high school. When he got older, he’d made it a habit of trying to pick up tourists at some of the trendier bars in town, especially during the summer season when local hotels were booked solid. It was the same story with every woman he met – it’s not that serious. But somehow, those little flings still always ended with a slap across the face or a drink being dumped on his head. I have a feeling this isn’t too different.
“Dating coworkers can be tricky,” I say.
“Come on, Cam. Can you blame me?”
Admittedly, I can’t.
“Wasn’t she in the swimsuit edition of Sports Illustrated last year?” I ask.
“Yeah. Pretty cool, huh?”
“I think it might be my turn to give you a lecture,” I say.
“No, honestly, it’s not anything serious. The tabloids are always going to make it seem like more than it is.”
“You were holding hands, Gray. Does she know it’s not that serious?”
“I’m not having this conversation right now! Tell mom to stop reading those garbage magazines. You too,” he says.
“Fine,” I say. “But you better bring her home for Thanksgiving. I want my copy of Sports Illustrated autographed.”
“You’re an idiot,” he says. He can’t see me, but I nod my head.
“Probably.”
ROCKY POINT, MASSACHUSETTS, July 2010
10 years earlier
“Dude, why are you being such an asshole lately?”
I turn on Grayson, who has been walking a few steps behind me the whole way home from getting ice cream at Cups and Cones, a local ice cream parlor in town and a Rocky Point staple. Their signature flavor, Rocky Point Road, is my favorite and I thought stuffing my face might cheer me up. It isn’t helping, but neither is my annoying younger brother who keeps calling me an asshole.
“I don’t know, Gray, maybe because my girlfriend dumped me and now I’m stuck hanging out with my loser brother.”
“Are you sure you’re not the loser? You’re the one that got dumped.”
I throw a glare over my shoulder at him and stuff my hands in my pockets. As much as it annoys me, he’s not wrong. I feel like a loser.
It’s only been a few weeks since Lizzie left for school, and left me behind, but I guess I just thought it wouldn’t hurt as bad by now. I guess I thought that when she was gone, like really gone, it would somehow be easier to move on from. Out of sight, out of mind, right?
Not so much.
“I don’t get why you’re so upset, anyway,” Gray continues, his long legs and lanky frame suddenly appearing next to me. “You’re a free man. You can date any girl you want.”
Typical Gray. Ever since starting high school, Gray has developed a bit of a reputation as a lady killer. I really can’t understand why. His long, skinny legs make him look more like an antelope or some shit than a dude, but I guess that’s what girls are into these days. I guess it probably doesn’t hurt, either, that he’s already on the varsity track team, despite just finishing his Freshman year.
“I don’t want to date any girl,” I say, keeping my eyes focused on the road in front of us and not on the pitying look Gray is sending me. “I want Lizzie. You couldn’t possibly understand.”
“You’re right, I don’t understand. Seems stupid to waste all this time wanting a girl you can’t have,” Gray scoffs, causing me to stop walking and roll my eyes, sighing loudly.
“I was going to marry her, dude. I wanted to ask her after graduation.”
Gray stops walking too, turning to look at me with wide, surprised eyes. “Are you for real?”
“Yeah, man. I even looked at rings, but hadn’t bought one yet because I was still saving up the money. And then...”
“And then she dumped your ass.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Yeah. And then she dumped my ass.”
We continue walking in silence, Gray finally shutting up long enough to let me fester in my gross feelings. I had yet to reduce my breakup with Lizzie down to such terms, but in reality, it’s the truth. Lizzie dumped my ass. And for some reason, I would do anything to have her back.
“I just wish I could turn back time and convince her not to go,” I say.
“Why don’t you just call her? You have her phone number, right?” Gray asks, condescension dripping from his voice.
“I can’t, it’s over. She won’t talk to me, and she made it really clear she doesn’t want anything to do with me anymore.”
Gray claps me on the shoulder. “I’m sorry, man.”
I shrug away from the gesture, turning up the driveway toward our house. There’s no use in being sorry. I can’t change anything, despite how much I’d like to. Lizzie is never coming back, and the sooner I get used to it, the better off I’ll be.
Chapter Nine
Elizabeth
I SHOW UP TO RYAN’S about twenty minutes early, hoping to down at least one cocktail before Cam arrives for some liquid courage. I find a seat at the shiny mahogany bar, and quickly take stock of the room and other patrons. There’s a couple all the way down at the other end of the bar, sitting close to each other and talking quietly. A group of four younger guys are sitting at a nearby table, talking and drinking beers, checking out another table of girls giggling over fruity mixed drinks and a plate of nachos. There are a few other guys in the back of the bar, shooting pool and talking smack. I’m grateful for the low-key atmosphere, because I can chug the vodka soda the bartender sets down in front of me without drawing too much attention. I hold up a hand to signal for another one, and within seconds, it appears in front of me.
I feel Cam enter the bar before I see him. Maybe it’s the alcohol I’ve just shocked my system with, or some weird spidey-sense, but the hair on the back of my neck stands on end and I can feel his eyes zero in on me. I quickly gulp down my second drink and inhale a sharp breath.
Be...cool...
“Hope you weren’t waiting too long,” Cam says, his deep voice rumbling in my ear as he slides onto a chair next to me. The bartender comes over to us and Cam orders bourbon, then eyes my empty glass. “And another for the lady.”
The bartender, an older woman with long silver hair and big, wide-set blue eyes, gives me a sideways glance, as if to remind me that this is my third drink in twenty minutes. I smile sheepishly at her, and she shakes her head as she walks away. Traitor.
"So, this is weird, huh?" Cam asks, causing me to laugh. I can feel the tension leave my shoulders as I relax a little.
"Very."
"You know, when Trisha called me the other day... the last thing I expected to hear was that you were back in town," he says, lowering his voice slightly as the bartender comes back with his bourbon.
"Trust me, I didn't expect to be back," I say, wanting to take it back as soon as the words leave my mouth.
"Life in the big city everything you hoped it would be?" He asks, turning to face me. He takes a swig of his bourbon, his eyes never leaving mine.
"Well..." I start, thinking of all the good things about my life in New York. My condo is nice, and in a pretty good area in Greenwich Village. I have a great job with even better benefits. I try to think up all the other perks, but am coming up embarrassingly empty. The silence drags on, and the bartender walks over with my drink in the meantime.
"Wow," he says, shaking his head. "I must admit, that sounds enthralling." The sarcasm drips from every word, and I can't say I blame him. I've done a pretty terrible job at justifying my choices.
"It's great," I say, ignoring the way he narrows his eyes at me.
"You know what you've never been very good at?" He asks, and I shrug my shoulders.
"What?"
"Lying."
I roll my eyes, but he and I both know he's got me there.
“Ok, well, it is great,” I say. “New York is a fantastic city. Su
re, my job gets stressful and competitive, but I love the work.”
“What do you do, again?” he asks.
“I work for an ad agency. Think Mad Men, but with Keurigs and a lot more feminism.”
“Right,” he says, taking another sip of his bourbon. “Sounds fancy.”
“Not as fancy as owning my own company,” I shoot back, taking a long sip of my own drink from my straw. “Your offices are pretty impressive. Plus, you hire models to work for you.”
“I’m sure I have no idea what you mean.”
“Come on,” I say. “The redhead at your front desk looks like she should be on the cover of Vogue.”
“Oh, Kylie?” he asks, acting as if a lightbulb has just gone off in his head. “She’s just a college kid who works for us part time. Why, you jealous?”
I roll my eyes again. “Not even close.”
We chat for a while, my walls dropping the more he tells me about life since we last left off. I hear all about how Cam and his dad started Tate Construction together, just a few years after graduating high school, and turned it into a small but profitable business. How the most scared he’d ever been in his life was when his dad died suddenly of a heart attack the following year, leaving him as the sole owner of the business. What did a 21-year-old, barely of legal drinking age even and with no college degree, know about running and maintaining a business? He tells me how he almost gave up, until his mom convinced him he could do it, and that his dad would be so proud of him just for trying. He made a commitment then and there to devote all of his energy to making the business successful, working from sun-up to sun-down every day for two straight years until he was able to purchase that site and build the warehouse and offices.
I tell him about college, about working as much as I could to save up and put toward my tuition, being an R.A. for a break with room and board, and studying every minute I wasn’t working or in class. I don’t hold back when I tell him about winning a competitive and coveted internship with an ad agency on Fifth Avenue, where I went on to land a full time job immediately after graduation as an assistant to the Creative Director, eventually working my way up to director-level myself. I find it easy to be honest, and tell him the negatives, too. Like how my friends and coworkers would inevitably end up being my biggest competition, leading to many superficial friendships that didn’t last very long. Or how romantic relationships are nearly impossible when you’re working 14-hour days, so dating would be hit or miss and generally not get past a few dates before things fizzled out. He seems surprised at that last bit, which makes me laugh.
“I know you probably thought the high-stress atmosphere of my job and the city would make settling down easy,” I joke, “but I assure you, it takes at least three dates to be sure the guy isn’t a serial killer, and even that has some margin for error.”
“And here I thought it was the small-town vibe killing my chances,” Cam laughs.
By this point, the bartender has brought us two more rounds of drinks, and is making eyes at me like she’s sizing up when to cut me off. Little does she know, my limit is usually three.
“So, no one serious in your life then?” I ask.
“There’ve been a few here and there, nothing that’s lasted very long,” he says. “Not unlike you, I’ve been a little married to my job the last few years. Doesn’t exactly make it easy.”
“When the time is right,” I say.
“Exactly.”
We lock eyes, as if the weight of our history is suddenly laid out on the bar in front of us. For some reason, I feel exactly like I did that day at the coffee shop, and want to reach my hand out across the short few inches of the bar top to take his. As if reading my mind, he lets go of his bourbon glass, his fingers twitching, as if daring me to. I look from him, to his hand, back to him, and watch his eyes go wide as saucers.
Should I say something first? I wonder. Or just go for it? I ready my hand for the possibility, the electricity in the air hanging between us like a curtain made of lightening.
“Lizzie, I...” Cam stutters, gulping audibly. His eyes widen even further, and I wonder if he’s just as nervous as I am.
“What?” I ask, but he doesn’t answer right away. He’s starting to look... panicked? A bead of sweat is making its way from his hairline down the side of his face, which is now pale as a starched white sheet. Oh boy, I think to myself. What have I done? “Cam, what is it?”
I hear the disturbance in the force before I see it.
“Cameron Tate, you absolute dog of a man.”
The hair on the back of my neck stands on end as I watch a tall, slender brunette stride past me, wearing a flowy sunflower-yellow dress cinched with a thin, brown belt. Her hands on her hips, she shimmies in between Cam and I as if she doesn’t even know I’m there.
“I should’ve known you were a lying prick when you told me you needed to work on yourself,” the woman shrieks, paying no mind to the silence that has settled over the bar or the eyes that are now suddenly on the three of us. She points a shiny, red manicured nail in my direction, but still does not actually acknowledge me. “Let me guess, she’s helping you work on yourself?”
Something in the high-pitched tone of her voice, the way she stresses every third or fourth word, flashes me back to hiding in the girls’ bathroom in seventh grade. Heat pricks at my skin, and I feel myself beginning to get flushed. Oh God, I think. No. No, no, no...
“Ainsley, look, could you maybe...” Cam starts, but he is cut off.
“Could I what? Lower my voice so the whole bar doesn’t have to hear? Too late.”
Ainsley Wells’ voice is dripping with vitriol, but I’m too stunned to move, let alone feel any sort of offense at Ainsley’s words. I can feel all of the bars’ eyes on us, but all I can do is stare at the back of Ainsley’s yellow dress, my brain trying to make sense of the events unfolding in front of me.
Ainsley’s continues her tirade, hands flailing dramatically, and Cam’s apologetic eyes drift past her to me. Seeing his attention divert, Ainsley whips around to shoot a fiery look in my direction. When her eyes meet mine, however, and after a moment of studying my face, Ainsley’s eyes grow wide with recognition. She looks from Cam, to me, and then turns back to Cam, her mouth dropping open.
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me.” Ainsley looks as though she might burst into flames. If looks could kill, Cam and I would be goners. “Her?” The word, or maybe the way she says the word, cuts me like a knife. “Break up with me, and go running back to your high school girlfriend?”
“Break up with you?” I’m surprised when my voice breaks through Ainsley’s rant, a quiet, mousey squeak. Cam’s face has drained of all color, and the surprise I felt has now been replaced by a wave of embarrassment crashing over me. I’m such a fool.
“Yes,” Ainsley hisses, turning her venom toward me. “I guess Cameron forgot to mention it to you.”
I stand up abruptly, Ainsley’s eyes bearing intently into me. Cam looks as though he might hurl, or bolt. I grab my jacket off the back of the chair, take a twenty out of my wallet, and slide it onto the bar.
“Seems like you two have some things to work out,” I say. “I’m going to head out. Cam, it was nice catching up.”
Ainsley scoffs and rolls her eyes, but Cam gets up from his chair. “Lizzie, wait a second!”
I don’t wait, as I’d rather burn my eyes out with a hot poker than spend any more time in the presence of Ainsley Wells, and instead turn and walk calmly toward the door to the bar, despite wanting to run as fast as my legs can carry me. I hear heavy footsteps behind me, but press on out of the bar and through the parking lot until I’m standing at my car. By the time I get there, the surprise and embarrassment has morphed into red hot anger. I whirl around to find Cam standing behind me, his hands in his pockets, a sheepish look on his face.
“I’m so sorry about that,” Cam says, his sincerity causing me to falter momentarily. I get over it quickly.
“Don’t be,”
I say, the words coming sharp as daggers. “I should have known you’d end up with Ainsley eventually.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
The sun has set, and a chill has settled over the night air. I slip on my jacket and wrap my arms around myself, taking my time thinking of a good answer to his question.
“She always wanted you in high school. Looks like she finally got you.”
He scowls, and I feel a little bit like a petulant teenager throwing something from high school in his face. The several drinks I’ve had, however, are doing their job and making me feel way more confident and self-assured than normal. When he doesn’t respond, I quip, “I just thought you were a better guy than that, that’s all.”
“Again, what’s that supposed to mean?”
The words are practically a growl, and the intensity of the disdain in his voice sobers me right up. Too late now, though.
“She’s awful, and you’re not. Or I guess, I thought you weren’t. I don’t know.” My words are choppy and confused as I wage a battle with the sudden nervousness and humiliation that have taken over my brain. Nervousness, because I’ve now gone down a rabbit hole. Humiliation, because for the briefest moment back in the bar, I’d wondered if there could be a sliver of a second chance for Cam and I. You sad, sorry idiot.
“People change, Lizzie,” he says, his voice a low, soft rumble.
“Yeah, I can see that.”
We stand in silence by my car for a beat, the wind picking up and causing me to shiver. The thing about being right on the coast in the Northeast is that no matter how warm it is during the day, the nights can be bitter with enough wind. Cam notices my chattering teeth and takes a step toward me, his arm outstretched as if he is going to touch me, warm me up. I shrink away from him, despite how appealing I might have found the gesture earlier in the evening.
“I should go,” I say, opening my car door and sliding into the driver’s seat. Cam nods and jams his hands back into his pockets, merely watching as I start the car, pull out of the parking lot, and drive off into the night.
Second Chance Girl Page 6