There’s a lilt to his voice, but the words cut anyway. It goes from feeling like a joke to feeling like a dig as soon as it hits my ears, and I can’t hide the emotion in my response.
“You know, that’s kind of unfair.”
He snorts—one incredulous gust. I give him a second to agree with me, to elaborate, to apologize, but he doesn’t. He just does that guy thing where he holds all the power by not saying words and all the words in the world from me, from women, can’t serve any purpose but to convince them that—they’re right—we’re crazy and emotional and incoherent.
I already can’t win, and this thought lights my blood on fire.
I cannot help myself.
I start huffing and puffing, sputtering and spewing in defense of myself that night.
“You didn’t even let me explain. There was no discussion with you. You just up and left. Guess I’m the asshole.”
“As I seem to recall, you were making about as much sense then as you are right now.” His unaffected demeanor, the way he glances at the cherry of his smoke instead of at me, the smile in his eyes—like he’s enjoying this, like he’s taking pleasure in taking these digs—scalds me from the inside out. I’m pretty sure my skin is about to melt off.
This is exactly one of the biggest reasons I haven’t dated in forever, because this dude knows exactly how to push my buttons and when to push them for maximum effect. The idea of willingly giving someone the keys—the ability—to dismantle you, that another person could know you so well that they have the power to take you down? With a couple of words and a snort? Like it’s just nothing?
Sorry, but no thanks.
Henry happens to be pretty adept at doing this to me, even given the limited amount of interaction we’ve had. More than I realized a person could, based on so little.
And not only does he know he’s doing it, but he’s fucking enjoying it.
That’s a big fat NOPE right there!
“Hey, let’s not do this.” He lays a hand on mine, Eddie Haskell once again permeating his tone.
I yank it away in a flourish, but he continues. “That obviously meant a lot more to you than it did to me. It was a one-time thing, like you said. A drunken mistake. But you’re right. I’m being unfair. Being shallow doesn’t make you a bad person. Hey—it’s okay.” He flips up his palms like they’re two white flags.
He’s saying it like I’ve apologized for something, and—“hey”—I haven’t.
He continues, not noticing or maybe just ignoring the fact that I’m about to grind my teeth into dust.
“I’ve been ‘that guy’ with dozens of girls and not given it a second thought. Totally no big deal. I’m sorry I got butt hurt the first time it happened to me.”
Even this pisses me off because he’s still the victim—but now, not only is he the victim, he’s the hero too, because he’s “forgiving me.”
In just about the most passive-aggressive way possible.
Or something.
I stand. I can’t take this cocky bullshit anymore.
“Yeah, I don’t think we’re on the same page about any of that, but I assure you I haven’t been sitting around thinking about it. I had pretty much forgotten you existed prior to you showing up this evening.”
He gives another cavalier chortle and runs a hand through his hair. It’s shorter now than it was. Cropped close. Almost military. I wouldn’t be able to grab a handful now.
For a second, I think he’s going to say something, but then he shakes his head like he thinks better of it—like there’s no arguing with me and he’s back to the cigarette until there’s nothing left.
“Well?” He flicks the butt like he’s James Dean. Faces me with a frowny smile. “Good seeing you again, Four-eyes.”
And before I can counter, he’s back inside.
* * *
Once he’s gone and Graham has retired to watch SportsCenter in his den, Isla and I work on the dishes. She’s been suspiciously silent since we started, so I know her mind is working overtime.
“Go ahead and ask,” she finally says, rinsing out the coffeepot.
“What do you mean?”
She stops and pops a hip at me.
I grab a dish from the rack and study it. Laugh. “Okay, I’m really bad at this.”
“At dishes? Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
I swat at her with the towel.
“Ohhh, you mean at feelings?” she asks. “Yes, I got that.”
I soften. “I don’t even know where—”
“Just be normal, okay? That’s all I want is for everybody to be normal. You’re doing a great job. And I know you care. The last thing I want is to be treated like some sick, incapable person. I’m fine. Things are fine.” Her hand quavers as she passes me a glass she just rinsed and she gives me a look like SHUT UP.
I say nothing and take it from her.
“I have time,” she continues. “I’ve got everything I need. I’m going to make the most of it. But I don’t want to be treated like this delicate piece of crystal in the meantime. Got it? I can’t sit around and dwell on the negative. I’ll never get through it this way. I don’t want to be remembered like that. And plus, I’m not dying. Not right this second anyway.”
“We’re all dying,” I say.
She blows her bangs out of her eyes with an exasperated breath, and I snicker my way to the cupboard.
“So what’s going on with you? I can’t even remember the last guy you were excited about. The last one I met. When are you going to get out there again?”
My mind drifts back to the patio. That stupid elephant. That stupid Henry.
I glance away. Feign a yawn. “I’m not.”
“Just because of your parents? I know it sucks no matter how old you are when parents get divorced, but…seriously? You’re almost thirty.”
The number makes me lose my footing, and I glare through a smile. “You’re just on fire today, aren’t you?” I put away the last of the plates and toss the damp towel over my shoulder. Face her. “For the record, no. It’s not just because of my parents’ divorce.”
“When’s the last time you talked to them? The last time you went to see either of them?”
I purse my lips and squint into middle space, trying to figure out the answer to that. “I think Brad and Angelina were still together—”
She smacks me.
“They had been cheating on one another, apparently, for years. When, here, I went on and on about what a great marriage they had. What a solid foundation.”
“Some people claim open marriages work—”
I shut her up with a cock of the head, and she laughs. “I’m just saying…”
“I don’t need to visit them. I can’t trust a damn thing they say now. Three years lying to me, God knows how many lying to each other.” I shake my head. “And what about Dina? Sue Ellen? I’ve watched every significant relationship around me implode in the last year. So how can you even ask me this stuff?”
“You can’t seriously say you’re not going to date because of what happened to Sue Ellen and Steve. It’s not an everyday occurrence that your husband runs away with an old frat brother during an alumni weekend.”
“Maybe not. And maybe poor Su does fill that quota in our friend group—” We both wince. “But—”
“What about me? Me and Graham?”
And suddenly, my whole posture deflates. I take a breath, take a moment.
“You and Graham are great. You’re beautiful. The kind of love they write poems about. I know.”
“Well, what then?” There’s venom in her tone, and it kills me that I put it there.
I can’t look her in the face because she just said—she just said it—
“Blanche.”
“What?” I meet her gaze, my own watery with anger, and she knows. She does.
That’s why you never look Isla in the face because she always knows. That’s her superpower.
It’s how she always knew what
was going on in the Delta Gamma house. Let me see your face, she’d say to the rushes, to the sisters whose stories about why they’d skipped an event didn’t quite add up.
And she’d always get them to spill, no matter what.
She holds my stare and makes me say it.
“It’s just not fair. If you’re not getting divorced or having your husband run off with some fireman he used to room with, if you’re one of those people who’s lucky enough to actually be happy? You can’t even enjoy that for two seconds without—boom—getting some disease that’s gonna kill you. You tell me what the point even is.”
She presses her pink lips in a thin line, and a frown tugs at her mouth. She hugs me. Ten years of friendship, God knows how much unsaid hurt, flowing through our arms.
We’re quiet a long moment.
But once she pulls away, takes a breath, the sadness is gone, just like that. Like—snap—the decision’s been made in her brain not to bring down the party, and a brightness flickers in her brown eyes.
“It’s not my right, I know,” I say to my hands, twisting the towel in them. “I know I’m not even involved.”
“Sure you’re involved.” She loops an arm through mine. “And it’s okay. This whole business affects everybody in different ways. I don’t know how it affects me yet.”
“It’s not that I’m feeling sorry for you—I’m being morbid and I’m feeling sorry for myself.”
She snickers. “I know. But it’s pretty stupid that you’re going to let others’ misfortune keep you from finding happiness in love.”
I force half a grin. “Yeah, yeah. I have plenty to be happy about. I know. Can we talk about something else?”
“Of course,” she says, and she gives me another squeeze.
Chapter 4
My keys jangle against the door, and I can already hear Samantha humming away to herself on the coffee shop side of the store. Even at the ass crack of morning when only a sliver of dawn peeks through the shades, even when I’d rather not hear any noise at all, her jaunty little tunes put me in a chipper mood. Every day.
Except today, because Isla’s little pep talk from last night is on a loop inside my brain. It stirs self-loathing in my chest like the caramel Samantha stirs into pretty patterns on top of my latte.
The store is quiet.
Peaceful thus far.
I settle into the corner booth and spread all my papers across the tabletop. There’s nothing to hear but the whistle of steamed milk and the occasional beep of the register as customers start to file in and obtain their morning java. Samantha’s laugh dances on the air.
And I hunch over my iPad as I check out these sales figures. Burn my tongue on my drink.
“Looks pretty good,” comes Gordon’s voice from over my shoulder. I nearly spit a sip of latte all over the keyboard, my heart ka-thunking in my chest.
He’s wiping his eyes from laughter and the other two coffee drinkers by the window are yukking it up right along with him.
A huff and an eyebrow.
“You know, I’m starting not to remember a time when you weren’t reading a screen over my shoulder.” I’m still clutching at my heart.
He glances over at Samantha, who’s fooling with her head wrap in the back mirror. “Maybe only one shot of espresso next time?” he says to her.
She gives a consenting nod, her perfect waves framing her oval face.
“You’re high strung today even for you.” Gordon sits, crosses a seersuckered leg over the other. Plops his elbows on the table. “So what’s got you sporting Resting Bitch Face already?”
I glance up at him, ignoring his playfulness and returning to my internal struggle.
Tone defeated, I sink my cheek in a palm. “Am I so terrible?”
It’s a needy question, but after my failed attempt of being placated after asking it to Henry last night, I need Gordon to help a girl out even more with his answer today.
“You’re gonna have to be more specific, babydoll.” He’s up again and flipping his way through the bottled teas.
I snort. “It’s just—Isla. Like, she’s the one that’s dealing with this, and she’s comforting me in dealing with it?”
He returns with a Snapple—classic—and gives my forearm a rub. “I wouldn’t worry.”
“Henry thinks I am. Well, correction—he used to think I was. Now, he just thinks I’m shallow and ‘hey—that’s okay.’” I curl a lip into my cup.
“Henry!” He yanks back. Lays his fingertips to his sternum in dramatic fashion. “Am I to understand you saw Mr. Capitol Hill last night?”
I squish my face. Blow my bangs out of my sightline and try to freeze my face without a guilty smile.
It almost works.
“Did he mention—”
“Can we drop it?”
“Ooh.” He teases. Offers a cluck of the tongue. “Miss Sassypants doesn’t quite have the quips this morning, huh?”
“Psh.” I wave him off and go back to my numbers. “I just haven’t had the proper amount of caffeine yet—despite popular opinion.”
After a few minutes of suspicious-for-Gordon silence, he kicks my foot under the table.
And again.
“What?” I snap, and he shushes me with wide eyes. Gestures with a subtle nod toward a patron I’ve not seen before.
“Has he…” Gordon whispers, and I shake my head.
“I don’t think so. I never forget a face,” I say as I watch the besuited thirty-something exchange pleasantries with Samantha.
Even she seems awestruck. Her full lips part as the guy approaches the register, a newspaper stuck under one arm. She tugs at the coils of her hair, her eyes sparkle, and Gordon and I strain to hear the conversation over the steamer.
Juuuust out of earshot.
Dammit.
I glance around the place and everyone in here seems to be as entranced by this guy as we are. Every gaze is trained on this Justin Trudeau lookalike, those light eyes, that careless hair. Too careless-looking to actually be careless. He drums his long fingers on the strap of his messenger bag, but it’s not out of impatience. I can tell. He’s just fidgeting. The faint outline of definition in his forearms dances.
I take in his swimmer’s body.
Sink my teeth into my bottom lip.
I’ve just decided he can be the Prime Minister of my panties—rules schmules!—when he catches my glance. Our glances. Gordon’s and mine.
Everyone’s.
He does this embarrassed little scratch at the back of his head, but I detect the hint of a dimple. His thick black hair gleaming in the track lights. He makes his way to the end of the counter, where Samantha’s popped open her bottom lip—and if we’re being honest, she’s probably burning the hell out of her hands as she holds his hot coffee between shaky fingers.
“Let me help you with that,” he says. Slides a cardboard thing over the cup.
“He’s a hero too?” I whisper sarcastically to Gordon, who snickers in return.
“Cynicism aside, you seem quite the smitten kitten.”
I silence him with a glare. “Me and every other person on the planet? Please. There’s got to be something wrong with him.”
“I think someone needs to buy a new vibrator,” G mutters, and I’m about to deliver the zing of a lifetime, when:
Oomph.
I pivot and come face to face with him.
Mr. Prime Minister.
“You’re the manager?” His voice is warm. His eyes are warm.
Now I’m warm.
“I am.” I push up my glasses. Offer a dainty hand. Enchanté.
“This is my first time.” He slides a broad smile across his face. A blush stirs in his cheeks as he corrects. “Here. My first time here.”
There’s a flicker in his eyes. He knows exactly what he’s doing. And my infatuation with him fizzles at his nervousness since I’m now convinced it’s put on.
I toss a hand, and I can feel G’s amusement with the scene tickling
the back of my neck.
“Well, I promise to be gentle. Wink.”
Of course I actually wink on the word. I can be phony too.
But this is fun.
A snicker bubbles up from behind that striped tie of his, and I’m about to say my name, ask his, call him on his bullshit, suck on his neck, when—
Another oomph.
A crash. A cry.
Errrrr?
I flip around to the source of the awful sound, and when I do, I’m temporarily stunned by another godlike creature.
What is this, hot people day at the store?
This time, it’s a woman—a Jessica Rabbit type—pinned under what looks like the aftermath of a Glenn Beck memoir hurricane. The end cap display of his latest tome is strewn about, pages of what looks to be most of them bent and slumped over on themselves like frat boys on a Sunday morning. And although part of me wants to laugh at the sentiment, I also know Mr. Beck was in last month and signed the entirety of our stock so I can’t return any of them.
Damn, he’s good! Curses!
So I’m not just startled but also panicky that some of the merchandise might be ruined beyond repair.
Now all eyes are on her. Golden tresses draped over her face like she’s a mermaid that’s been washed ashore. She’s shaking her head.
“Dammit—dammit—dammit,” she mutters, a catch to her soft voice as she attempts to brush off what I recognize as a Michael Kors jumpsuit. And then: “Nothing to see here.” Her tone carries a tinge of annoyance along with it as she pats at her clothes. Smooths her hair.
She probably thinks it’s a mess—and it is—but it still looks better than mine.
Better than anyone’s.
Probably better than anyone’s has ever looked.
Bitch.
“Hey, don’t worry about that.” I stride over and help her up.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
“It’s no problem really.”
“Are you okay, miss?” Trudeau steps in, dress shoes clacking against the hard wood.
She looks up at him. Takes in his swimmer’s body, and her mouth parts. One perfect O—a soundless orgasm. A silent cry of ecstasy.
Canada’s thinking it too—that smolder is still in his gaze as he watches the way she begins to arch her back, and he offers her an arm.
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