by K. Bromberg
When he turns to face me, his expression is stoic, at best, emotionless at worst, and I scramble for how to fight with someone who looks like the fight has already been taken out of them.
Then my thoughts click into place. The lie. The lack of communication after we’d been talking daily. Nightly. Every moment in between. It all makes sense. He wasn’t? Was he?
“You were testing me, weren’t you?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You lied about Luke being sick and canceled our dates to see how I’d react.”
His chuckle is condescending. “Well, your little tantrum right now pretty much proves my theory right.”
“Your theory?” I yell as rage riots within. It all makes sense. The sudden disappearance of Grayson and him blaming it on Luke. His accusations that I’m like Claire. He wanted to see if I’d bail on him like she did.
When he was the reason he couldn’t see me.
“Yeah. Your little tantrum because I haven’t been at your beck and call proves me right. You only think about you. You only care about you. You’ll get mad if I have to cancel because something happens with Luke.”
“I wasn’t mad at you at all until now! Until you lied to me to try to prove I was like Claire. Until you didn’t trust me.” I scream. “You can take your theory and shove it up your ass. You can take the homemade soup that I made two different times because the first batch was horrible that’s sitting on the counter in your house and shove it right along with your theory. I was worried about the two of you because Luke had been sick for so long that I tried really hard to make something for you when I don’t cook.”
Tears burn as they well in my eyes, but I blink them away. I will not give Grayson the satisfaction of seeing me cry over him.
It’s my turn to move. To pace. To abate every ounce of anger I have vibrating within.
“This is my life, Sidney.” He throws his arms out to his sides and matches me shout for shout. “Luke gets sick. I have to cancel things. Luke’s needs aren’t always first, but they are a lot of the goddamn time. Can you handle that? Can you handle being second place in your first-class world?”
I stare at him. He’s so fucking gorgeous I don’t want to look away, yet the sight of him makes me want to scream and yell and tell him to go to hell.
“Screw you.”
“Apparently, that’s the one thing we’re good at.” His nonchalance only serves to enrage me. The way he just cast aside, with those few words, how close we’ve become hurts more than expected.
“What the fuck is this, Grayson? What are we doing here? Because I can’t figure you out. One minute, you want me, and the next minute, you don’t. One minute, you’re lying to me, and the next minute, you’re giving me some kind of fucked-up test to see if I’m good enough to be a part of your life. Is this just sex? Is this more? Because you send so many goddamn mixed signals that I don’t know which way is up anymore. Do me a favor and make up your mind and quit playing with mine.” I fight the tears that threaten as he stares, the muscle in his jaw pulsing and tension radiating off him.
“Sid . . .”
“I’m fighting for you, Grayson. Is that what you want? I’m fighting for you when she wouldn’t, but I sure as hell won’t compete against your ghosts.”
“I’ve never asked you for anything.”
I feel like every part of my body has been wrapped as tightly as possible in barbed wire. Like I’m suffocating although I’m in the open air.
Fuck you.
I hate you.
Screw you.
I don’t say any of those things because as much as I tell myself that I don’t care, that this is just a fling like he says, I know I feel more from him. I know there is more between us than this.
I love you.
Oh. God.
“We never talked parameters, Sid. All I can offer you is fun and done. I never promised you more.”
“I never asked for more,” I whisper to save face when every part of me is reeling from those three words that never grace my lips.
“Good,” he says and turns back to the cushions on the damn chairs as if we didn’t just close the door on whatever this was between us.
“Good.”
Without another word, I turn on my heel, walk inside, pull the brownies from the bag on the counter, and leave.
Go.
Wait.
Fuck this.
When she slams the door, it reverberates in so many more places than just the house. It’s in every part of me.
Christ.
I scrub a hand through my hair and tell myself to go after her, a split second before I tell myself not to.
That I should just leave things be.
I made my point. To myself. To her.
And now, guess who feels fucking miserable? Guess who feels like a fucking asshole? Guess who just messed up the best thing he had going for him in the longest of times and doesn’t know how to fix it.
Track her down. Say you’re sorry. Beg if you have to.
Fuck. The past few days have been miserable without her constant presence in some way, shape, or form. I’ve felt it. Luke’s felt it.
It isn’t just the lack of sex I’m missing. If it were, I could fix that with a phone call.
It’s the companionship. It’s the ability to laugh over something stupid. It’s the wish to tell someone something after a chaotic day and have someone care. It’s the need to share and not feel so fucking alone.
But I don’t chase after her.
I walk into the house, see the bag of food on the counter and cringe, the sight of it reinforcing how much of a prick I am.
Fuck, yes I tested her.
Fuck, yes I waited to see if I’d get the whiny texts complaining about how she hasn’t been able to see me and how she wants me to just get a babysitter. I waited for her to send that so that I could then sit around and wait for her silence after I told her I couldn’t.
But I received none of the above.
Instead, I got text after text asking me how Luke was doing. Seeing if I needed anything. Asking if I wanted her to watch him for a bit so I could get a break.
It was a great fucking test.
Great way to make me look like more of a fucking asshole than I already am.
Great way to try to mess up her feelings because I can’t figure out my own.
Nah, I can figure them out all right.
They’re just ones I swore I’d never let myself feel again.
“You’re being a miserable fuck.”
“Grady Malone. That is no way to talk at the dinner table,” my mom says, shooting him a scowl that can make any one of us shrink.
“He kind of is, though,” Grant chimes in.
I glare at both of them and then tip my Coke back and make sure my middle finger is front and center, so they get the point.
“Is there trouble in Sidney-ville?” Grady asks as he scoots back to avoid the quick kick to his shin I just missed.
And despite my mom’s ears perking up like a damn jackrabbit at the sound of Sidney’s name, she says, “Leave him alone.”
“We fought.” It comes out of my mouth without thinking, but I’ve been sitting on it and stewing about it for the better part of a day, and the longer I keep silent, the more I feel like a jackass for the things I said to her.
“Best part about fighting is the make-up sex,” Grant says as he eyes Emerson. Her response is a swift swat to the back of the head before she presses a kiss there and takes off to make sure their girls haven’t gotten into too much trouble with Luke.
“What did you fight about?”
“Drop it, Grady,” I say.
“You’re the one who brought it up.” He shrugs and grins at me over his beer. “Did you finally tell her you want more than just slipping and sliding and she said screw you?”
We all burst out laughing at the look on our mom’s face, and she just shakes her head.
“Not quite.”
“Oh.” Th
e chorus rings out around the table, and Dylan twists her lips as she stares at me.
“Let me guess, you told her there was nothing there when there is.”
“Not exactly—”
“Can I just call it now? He’s trying to sabotage it because she’s actually a keeper, and that scares the fuck out of him,” Grant says with a sarcastic edge that has me clenching my fists and my mom patting my arm to calm me down.
“Hey, Grant? Stay the fuck out of my—”
“Look who I found at the store!” My dad’s voice cuts me off and has everyone turning toward the patio door.
Every part of me falls at the sight of her. She looks nothing like the girl I saw the other day on the street with her friend. She has on jean shorts, a red tank top, and red Converse. Her hair is piled on top of her head, and her face is completely free of makeup.
She steals my fucking breath is what she does.
Our eyes meet. Hold. And I hate the hurt that flickers through hers. The hurt that I put there.
A chorus of greetings ring out, but I just nod, needing to say so much to her but scared to fucking death to form the words. I know that if I do, all I’ll be doing is opening myself to more hurt.
To more of everything I swore I’d never allow myself to feel again.
“Shit, Gray,” Grant whispers as he leans in to my ear, “beg, borrow, and steal, but don’t let that walk away, especially when she looks at you like that.”
“Fuck off,” I mutter under my breath as Sidney is pushed into my family with introductions. I wait to see if she shrieks when Moose comes up and puts a wet nose against her hand.
She doesn’t.
I study the looks on my sisters-in-law’s faces as they meet her because women are judgmental and an approval from them goes a long way.
They approve.
“She was walking in when I was walking out, and I thought she might like to have some company.”
“How noble of you,” I mutter to myself, knowing damn well my mom and her matchmaking skills are starting to rub off on my old man.
I get a glare of a rebuke from my mother and then just shake my head, telling her I’m confused as fuck about what to do.
“She said she had been looking for Gray so she could give him some good news. That he must be so busy he isn’t returning her calls,” my dad says, and I see Grady shake his head in my periphery.
Yeah. Yeah. I’m a disgrace. I get it.
“What’s the good news?” This comes from my mom, who has graciously taken a break from mapping out my and Sidney’s wedding, honeymoon, and first three children together.
“You’re a finalist. You made the top five.” I know she’s addressing me, and I let the cheer go up around the table. I grit my teeth at the pats on my back and let them distract me from meeting her eyes because . . . fuck, Grant’s right. She looks goddamn gorgeous as she stands with my family. Fitting in when I don’t think I want her to. Think being the operative word.
“Calm down, guys. It’s just a popularity contest,” I say and roll my eyes.
“No, it isn’t,” Dylan interjects. “It’s a beefcake contest, and you’re grade-A prime.”
Grady turns his head to spit out his beer because he’s laughing too hard to swallow it. “See why I married her?” he says of his wife. “She gives as good as you fuckers.”
“Grady.” A warning by our mom that gets completely ignored. “You’ll have to excuse the manners of my boys. They seem to have reverted back to second grade for some reason.”
“It’s fine. I promise you I’ve heard the F-word before,” Sidney whispers and winks, a smile warming on her lips.
“Sit. Drink,” my mom says as she wraps her arms around her in a motherly welcome and then ushers her to the table. “Food will be cooked shortly.”
“Thank you. I feel bad, though. This was so unexpected, I should have brought something to contribute to the meal.”
“Nonsense. The more the merrier, I say.” Mom is clearly in her entertaining element. “I’ll grab you a chair.”
And she does. She grabs a chair while Sidney stands there awkwardly and waits to see where she puts it. Of course, she positions it right next to me.
“Hey,” I murmur but don’t look her way. Every single one of the people sitting at this table can read how I feel about her clear as day, but that doesn’t mean I want her to as well.
“Hi,” Sidney says as she takes a seat and accepts the beer my dad offers her.
A beer.
Sidney drinks beer?
“I tried to get out of this,” she murmurs under her breath. “The last thing I wanted to do was make you uncomfortable.”
Now I feel like more of a dick.
“It’s fine.”
“Do you think my boy here really has a shot at winning?” my father asks.
“Jesus, Dad,” I mutter as Grady and Grant begin the catcalls.
“You’re the ones who signed him up,” Sidney says with a shake of her head. “You don’t get to talk shi—crap now.” She blanches as the kids giggle down on the lawn.
“No worries,” Grant says. “Sadly, they’ve probably heard it more times than they should have.”
Small talk ensues. The weather. The kids. The influx of tourists to Sunnyville for the harvesting season.
My attention is on Sidney, even though I still refuse to look at her.
How she interacts with my family. How she slips right into the conversation as if she’s always belonged. How Luke comes and sits on her lap and she wraps her hands around his waist and rests her chin on his shoulder. How, every so often, she’ll say something that makes him giggle.
All the while, I sit and brood and watch and listen, trying to figure out how this all fits into my life.
If it could.
If I want it to.
It always comes back to how I’ve already been left once, and I refuse to put Luke or myself in the position to be left again.
And then the focus turns back to Sidney.
“So why journalism?” Emerson asks as she leans forward, hands propped under her chin, eyes kind and genuinely interested.
“Probably for the same reason you all do what you do. It’s a passion. I love helping to tell stories or be part of the narrative.”
“But a parenting magazine?”
She looks down to the label of her bottle and then back up with a smile. “Fashion is where I’d like to end up in the future. Being an editor of a fashion magazine is my dream job.” She shrugs. “What can I say? The opportunity came up to help save the magazine, and I took it.”
“That’s wonderful, dear. And when the contest is over? Do you have other plans for the magazine? Will you be moving on to an editor position?” My mom fishes as my brothers glance at each other.
Sidney looks at me and then my mom and draws in a shaky breath.
She doesn’t need this shit. The Malone inquisition.
And neither do I.
Without caring what my family thinks, I shove my chair back abruptly and stand. “Can I speak with you inside for a moment?”
Sidney’s flustered by my request, that much I can tell, but she makes a quick apology to everyone at the table and follows me into the house. I head for the living room—the farthest room from where everyone sits on the patio—and wait for the squeak of her shoes on the hardwood floors to come to a stop.
He knows.
That’s my first thought when Grayson turns around. It’s as if every emotion a human being can feel has been thrown in a blender, turned on high, and then blended again. His eyes swim with the words his lips can’t seem to form.
He already knows I’m leaving. He found out.
I panic with what to say since he’s not saying anything. I fumble for words, with how to explain, then chicken out and choose avoidance. I let him take the lead. “Congratulations, again, on making the top five. You should be ecstatic.”
He grunts. “Hmm. I don’t feel very ecstatic.”
He
doesn’t know?
“Grayson?” Nerves take over every single part of me as the realization hits that I have to tell him that I’m going to be leaving. I can’t . . . I shouldn’t put it off anymore.
He’s already mad. I’m already miserable. Wouldn’t it be better to just tell him right now and cut ties while I’m already a step back? “I need to tell you—”
He takes a step closer and holds his hands up to stop me. “Look, I fucked up. Again. I owe you an apology but . . . but those are just words, and for a man who takes a lot of pride in standing behind his every word, I sure seem to keep fucking them up when it comes to you.” He takes a step closer to me. “I’ve picked up the phone a million times, and each time I knew I was going to fuck this up further because, honestly, you have no reason to trust that I’m not going to be an ass again.”
“I need to—”
“It’s been a shitty couple of days knowing I hurt you, and the only time it hasn’t been was when you walked in here tonight. It seems the only way I’m good at expressing myself to you is by showing you.”
And without preamble or pretext, Grayson pulls me against him and kisses me. I’m completely shocked by it at first. From the caged look he had to the restlessness he exuded, I for sure thought we were in for a huge fight but this . . . the kind of kiss that is so tender and soft that I feel like I just crawled inside him and melted . . . this is not what I expected.
I tell myself to fight it. To push him away because he doesn’t just get to kiss me and make all the hurt from what he said go away. After the misery I’ve felt over the past few days from fighting with him—the loneliness, the sadness, the everything—it feels so damn good to have his lips on mine. It also doesn’t hurt to know that he has been just as miserable as I have.
When the kiss ends. When the laughter from the backyard seeps in through the open windows. When my thoughts are so scrambled I can’t remember what I was supposed to be telling him. When his hands framing my cheeks direct my face so I can look up at him . . . I know without a doubt my heart has been lost to this man.
I also know I still have to stand my ground.
“That doesn’t fix everything,” I murmur, still floating on air from that kiss. My body a mix of contradictions. My mind telling me to take my hands off him but my heart saying not yet. Just give me one more second of this feeling.