But holy shit. I’ve really done it! And I didn’t even have to kill anyone.
He gets in, the start of the engine a muted roar. He clears his throat. “You ever been to Nelly’s? The Irish bar?”
I smile. “No. But I’m good with wherever.” And I am. As long as I’m with him, I’d bathe in pig shit on a sweltering day.
As he’s reversing out of the driveway, I spot an unfamiliar car in the side mirror, idling in front of my neighbor’s house. Strange, I think. I thought Alicia and Devon were out of town. I crane my head to get a better look as we pass by. I swear I could see someone slumped in the driver’s seat, but I shrug it off as my imagination.
I stare straight ahead, not daring to make eye contact during our small-talk about my new house. I fear I won’t be able to control myself if our eyes meet. Briefly, I wonder if Brooks is feeling okay. If people knew about our date, they’d say he must have always had a thing for me, even before he found out Eliza was a cheating witch. His parents, Deacon, the witch herself—they’d all shun him. But good. I’d rather have him all to myself. I simply didn’t expect things to happen so quickly today, but I’ll take it.
“You good?” His head turns to me at a red light.
“Fine.” Quietly, I pull in a long breath. Drink in his scent—the bite of his cologne and body wash tainted by something else, something I can’t pinpoint.
Once we’re parked, I get out of the car before he can come around, because I’m a dumbass and am not used to this shit. I trail behind him half a step, avoiding the awkwardness of our first date, and allowing him time to get to the door first. He holds it, and I’m hit with the smell of greasy food that’ll pack pounds onto my thighs. The décor is typical for an Irish pub—all dim lighting, wood paneling, and rustic brick. The bar area is jammed, entertaining an interesting mix of people—from newly-legal to horny couples and packs of bored housewives.
“Hi, welcome to Nelly’s,” a quite ordinary hostess says, her eyes gleaming at Brooks and avoiding me.
He nods politely. “How’s it goin’? Any tables open?”
Anna—as it says on her name tag—looks around before grabbing a menu and whispering to a coworker. When she turns back to us, she shoots me a flicker of disapproval before smiling at him again. “Follow me!”
We’re shown to a booth in a corner. I take the seat facing the wall, because I want to focus on nothing but Brooks. His face. His words. Us.
The fabric of his shirt pulls taut over his muscles as he presses against the table to slide into the booth. He smiles at me. I start to smile back, but we’re interrupted by the hostess. Pesky gnat.
“We’re in the middle of shift change since it’ll be a late night, so your server will be right out. Can I get you something to drink in the meantime?”
Brooks tilts his head in my direction—his “ladies first” prompt.
“Water with lemon,” I say curtly. I changed my mind. I can’t drink tonight. If I drink, I will fuck. Not that fucking him would be a bad thing, but my goal is a wedding ring, not an orgasm, and Brooks has had enough sluts in his life.
“And for you?” Her voice rises in pitch as her pen is poised to fulfill his wishes.
He struggles to pull his wallet from his pocket. Purses his lips together as he flashes his license. “Corona.” He looks at me. “You sure you don’t want something? A beer? Girly drink? Anything?”
I second-guess myself, because he obviously wants me to drink. Hell, maybe he wants me to be a slut for him. His special slut, not a regular slut. “I guess one won’t hurt. I’ll take a vodka and Red Bull.” I show her my license, thankful I checked every conceivable box and had it rigged to reflect my new two-years-younger birthday. Smart.
Hostess girl scribbles in her notepad, says the drinks will be right out, and jets away.
My eyes flit to his, my breath catching upon a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What?” I ask.
The tug pulls his mouth into a wide grin. He shrugs. “Just a little awkward—you and me.”
I swallow, my heart growing heavy as I pray he isn’t having second thoughts. Maybe I do need to be drunk. Maybe his penis is lonely, and needs a friend—a permanent one. Yes, his penis needs to meet my pussy and become friends with it. Penis Jansen, meet the future Pussy Jansen. Ha!
Our waitress, Kelsey, appears to bring our drinks and take our orders.
“I’ll have the drunken clams,” Brooks says after glancing at the menu.
I chuckle quietly, because he’s gonna get a second helping of clam tonight after I get all boozed up. “I’ll have the truffle mac,” I tell her.
She takes our menus. A loud, golden-years couple directly next to us lays a tip on their table and leaves. Aw. That’ll be us one day.
The loud squeal of the microphone’s adjustment commands our attention to the bar area. The screeching is remedied, the band preparing to play. Our eyes turn back to the table again, and I realize I’m having a hard time with this—believing it isn’t a dream. Four months of not knowing how this would play out, if I’d ever enjoy the fruits of my labor. But here we are. I pinch my arm hard, the dull throb solidifying this is happening.
“So, tell me about the weirdness.”
“Weirdness?” He squints before his eyes eventually widen. “Oh! Nothing … just you and me being here together.” He picks up his beer and puts it to his lips.
My breathing picks up, and my neck prickles. “Like … a bad weird?” I realize one of my fists is squeezed tightly in my insecurity. I relax it.
He stops mid-sip. Licks his lips, his eyes growing wide in apology. “No, not a bad weird. Sorry. It was unexpected is all—running into you in the park today.”
“Oh ... yeah, it was, huh?” My throat is tight, my attention diverting to my drink.
“But I’m glad I did.”
I look at him, my eyes metal, his magnets—attracting, holding on. “You are?”
“Of course. It’s always fun to catch up with people you haven’t seen in a while.”
What? That’s not the answer I want. I’m a special slut, not a regular slut!
I let my irritation go, chalking his complacency to nerves. After the food comes, he asks about Lucy, so I tell him about her difficult early days. How she’d shit all over my living room and pissed in my bed in defiance of a new owner. Then, he tells me about Janie, and how heartbreaking it was for him to have her stay with Deacon.
“Sounds like you’ve had a really rough time,” I say, stabbing some macaroni. “I’m sorry.”
His eyes dig through mine. For a moment, I wonder if they’re trying to uncover manipulation behind my words, like a curtain pulling back to reveal a bogus prize. But then they soften, and turn sad. He spears a clam with his fork and drops it into his mouth. Holds up a finger as he chews and swallows. “It’s been fucking brutal, to be honest with you.”
He pushes his plate to the side as I stew. He cannot still be hung up on that cunt booger … can he? “I’m so sorry, Brooks. Are you still … you know … in love with her?”
Laughter erupts from his mouth—deep and hurried—a tiny droplet of his spit landing on my wrist that I want to lick from my skin. “Fuck no. I’ve been over her.”
I make a “hmm” noise, my involuntary brow raise cluing him in that I’m unconvinced. “I’m not just saying that. I hate what she did, but I don’t hate her. Not anymore, anyway. I’m not the least bit in love with her, though.”
I smile. Scoop my last forkful of macaroni into my mouth. “Have you dated anyone since?” My tone is playful and confident, yet seeking. “Found a rebound yet?”
He shakes his head. “Nah. Haven’t been interested.”
Relief. I was fairly certain he hadn’t. I’ve kept moderate tabs on him, but there’s always room for surprises in life. Just look at Eliza.
“Speaking of rebounds and stuff—I just wanted to say I think it was fucked up what happened between you and Deacon and how he got back with Kara. I don’t know what he w
as thinking.”
I lift a shoulder nonchalantly. Ugh. I don’t want to talk about Deacon, that fucking drug addict. “Honestly, I don’t think that situation would have progressed, anyway.”
“Really? You seemed really into him.”
“I was at first, but … things change.”
“Gotcha. I won’t pry.” He sounds satisfied, and the cloud of doom clears from above me.
“Thanks.” I swirl my empty glass, the ice clinking together.
“You want another?”
“If you don’t have anywhere to be.”
“No plans on my end, so yeah, unless you have a curfew.”
His wink makes me laugh, and makes my nipples harden just a bit. “Definitely don’t have one of those, though Lucy does need to be let out at night.”
“Oh.” His mouth drops in what could be interpreted as disappointment. Hopefully. “I can take you home now if you need to go.”
Jesus, those eyes, how clear and bright. I want to fuck him so badly. Ravage him, make love to him, introduce him to Pussy Jansen—anything that involves him and me naked. I have the bluest lady balls ever, and I need release. I wish I could skip to that part, but then again, I want to savor every moment of our journey like a slow-building climax. “Not until I get that second drink.”
He smiles, his head searching the bar. He holds up a hand to flag our server, and orders another round for us. Hands her one hundred bucks.
After the drinks are delivered, he grabs his beer, and stands. Motions for me. “Come on. Let’s go watch the band.”
I pick up my drink, deciding to be brave and hold out the other hand for him to grab. He takes it. Closes it around my own—his fingers lukewarm and damp, the connection giving me goosebumps. Is he nervous, maybe? I wiggle myself out of the booth, but then his hand disappointingly let’s go of mine. We weave our way to the bar, and I’m certain—okay, praying—he’ll take my hand again. But he doesn’t. Instead, we take swigs of our drinks, the music blaring into my ears, and the odd patron bumping into my shoulders.
Our bodies sway to the modern blues, a song about love gone wrong. I peek at him, hoping I don’t find hints of longing on his face—for his relationship with Eliza prior to it going rancid. Despite how fucked up things were, part of me wonders if he’s one of those people who subscribes to the notion that ignorance is bliss. Maybe he spends his nights drinking, wishing the affair had unfolded differently. The baby meant done. But … what if the baby hadn’t existed?
“...and I wonder what I did to have you do me so wrong...”
He tenses on that last line. Yes, he definitely did. I saw it, the stressing of his skin over his jaw. God. Is he not over it?
“You okay?” he whisper-screams.
“Fine!” I yell back.
I don’t know what I expect—him to put his arm around me, pull me in for a side hug or something? But he does nothing. We stand shoulder-to-shoulder, and it’s as if I’m not even here.
“I miss your touch, your smile. But you’re long gone...”
The droop of his eyes and subsequent abandonment of his untouched beer on the counter are worrisome. I chug my drink. Put my glass down, too. His hands jerk to his pockets, searching, like his phone is ringing. He holds it long enough to peek at it, his eyes briefly widening before he puts it back.
Odd.
“Let’s get out of here,” he says.
“Okay.” But it isn’t okay. It’s terrible. Who was it? And why are we going? The music just started. Doesn’t he want to spend time with me? Doesn’t he want more clam?
In the parking lot, his walk is brisk and with purpose, shoes slinging pebbles with every step. I struggle to keep up. His demeanor has suddenly flipped so much that I almost think he’s not going to open the car door for me, but he does.
“All right if I take you home now?” His words are tense, his eyes are serious—like there’s no room for objection. Not even if I said, “Only if we’re having sex.”
“Of course.” I keep calm and smile, rubbing my arms to warm them up.
It’s clear something is on his mind, and I can’t stop racking my brain as to what it might be, so I don’t bother to engage him on the drive back. This first date has totally gone south. I don’t want to tell our grandkids that!
When the car comes to a stop in my driveway, he stares straight ahead, knuckles tense on the steering wheel. Lucy’s bark flows through the cracked windows.
I grab my purse from the floorboard. Put the strap over my shoulder. My hand moves to the handle, but he ends up opening the door for me again. The walk to the porch and up the steps occurs in painful slow motion, every sweep of our feet a repeat of “Will we kiss?” playing in my mind.
“Thanks for tonight,” I say, as we reach the door. “I had a good time.”
“Yeah, no problem.” Wow. I can’t even get a Me too?
Finally, his eyes find me. His mouth curls into a smile. Hmm.
“What?” I ask, instinctively stepping closer.
Lucy’s barking escalates, followed by the spark of a neighbor’s porch light.
“Uh oh.” His eyes move to the pristine bungalow across the street. “Looks like you’d better get in there.”
“Do you want to come in?” My mouth blurts the words before my brain can process what I just asked.
Brooks draws in a sharp breath, bottom lip pulling under his teeth. “Uh...” he hesitates, turning his head to the door.
His phone rings, the default chime shrill and uninvited. Again, he takes it out enough to see who is calling. Returns it to his pocket.
“Sorry, I think I gotta call it a night.”
Damn, really? I smile, thinly but politely. “It’s okay. Lucy doesn’t sound like she wants to share me tonight, anyway.” I pull my key from my purse, stick it in the lock, and push the door open.
“Well, you have my number. Let me know if you have any other problems with the disposal, and I’ll put a new one in. Probably wouldn’t be worth fixing at that point.”
“Sounds good.” My hand lingers on the doorknob.
He clears his throat. Shifts on his feet before snaking an arm around my neck and leaning in for an awkward I’m-not-sure-what’s-appropriate hug. My cheek presses against his neck, the stubble on his face rough against my temple. That smell from before—the one I detected when I’d first gotten into his car. It’s barely there, just a hint on his skin. Something powdery, something sexy, something … feminine.
My veins chill at the realization he could have been with a woman before he came here—that he could be going to a woman after he leaves here. Is that why he’s leaving? Is he seeing someone?
Did he … lie to me?
No. Brooks wouldn’t lie, not about something like that—not after what he’s been through. I’m jumping to conclusions. It’s a natural reaction when you love someone.
He releases me from the hug. Turns for the steps. “Good catching up with you.” His eyes stay locked with mine.
“Same,” I mutter, wanting to stab him with my keys. Catching up. Oh God, the friendliness is killing me. This wasn’t a date. At all. Not even close.
I watch him bounce down the steps, not looking back like you would at someone you loved … or even liked.
I step in my living room. Slam the door shut.
This may be way fucking harder than I thought.
I’m on my knees in the front corner of my yard, the cool, damp soil of my mini garden staining my legs. It’s early, not even nine yet. Usually, I sleep in on the weekends. But here I am—up, showered, and murdering weeds. My hands grab at them furiously, ripping them from the ground, blood wicking from the web of tiny lines that cross my palms—the give of the roots from the earth satisfying.
Two days. Two fucking days, and Brooks hasn’t said shit to me. I’d tossed and turned all night after he’d dropped me off, wondering what he was thinking.
Does he miss me?
Did he have a good time?
Is he with h
er now, if she even exists?
Will this be the end of my chance? Not because of Eliza, or because he finds out who I was, but because of some random cunt?
Am I panicking for nothing?
Am I crazy?
Should I text him?
Should I wait?
I frown at the hill of the weeds I’ve gathered to my right, because I haven’t even made a dent. Rip. Throw. Rip. Throw. My hair is sticking to my neck, the dew of the morning wetting me. I look at my hands, the rawness of my work—the blood smears dyeing my flesh orange. I get off my knees and sit on the ground, giving in to my sadness.
Love sucks. It fucking hurts.
Something mobile catches my eye—a car. The car from the other night. Early 2000s, red sedan, creeping curiously slow up my street, a large dent in the driver’s side door. I crawl quickly to the looming Maple some feet away, my wounded hands stinging with every push against the grass, until I’m safe behind the trunk. I turn around. Scoot my back against it, my head peering around to watch it. I’d texted my neighbors yesterday morning, and asked if they were home. They confirmed they’re still away at a horse show, and have no idea whose car it could be. Neither of them seemed concerned, though, so I calmed down. But now that it’s back, my active imagination has me officially paranoid.
The car finally rolls to a stop. I can’t see who’s in it, because of the angle, but it’s there, engine idling in the middle of the street. I pull my phone from the back pocket of my shorts, hoping to snap a pic. But by the time I get the camera app open, the car is driving away—slightly screeching wheels rounding onto the next street. I couldn’t read the full plate, but it was BK something …? T? I? J? And then a 3. Or an 8. I’m not sure.
I tell myself not to jump to conclusions, but this is a quiet street, and everybody knows everybody. I’ve never seen that car before, and why the speeding off?
The Evolution of Ivy: Antidote (The Evolution of Ivy, Volume 2) Page 2