War and Love

by Winter Renshaw

“For being you,” she says, in a way that breaks my heart in two. “For everything.”

  Love collects the hem of her summer dress in her hands and tugs it over her head before reaching for my belt and her panties. Last night she was lying on my shoulder, her hand against my thrumming heart, and she told me she’d never been this voracious before, but I make her comfortable, I make her feel like she can let her hair down and enjoy this, and I’m the only man who’s ever done that for her.

  Love straddles me, reaching for the lamp on the side table and dimming the lights before grabbing a rubber.

  “You have ten minutes until I’m out for the night,” she says, flicking the gold foil packet and flashing a wicked smirk. “Make ‘em count, Jude Warner.”

  Flipping positions, I pin her against the mattress. She’s already exhausted, so I’m not going to make her do all the hard work.

  Pressing my mouth against her hot flesh as I enter her, I can’t ignore the weight in my chest. It’s a reminder that I’m on a sinking ship. There’s no life preserver. Nothing that can save me from the inevitable.

  The more I get to know Love, the more I realize she’s not the evil, money hungry, Park Avenue princess Hunter described to me.

  She’s … everything, and even that doesn’t fully encompass my opinion of this woman.

  I’ve never known someone so sweet, so intelligent, so easy to be around. These last couple of weeks, I’ve all but smothered her and I haven’t grown tired of her yet, which is a first.

  The only thing I’m certain of is regardless of which direction this goes, I lose Love either way.

  But that’s exactly what I deserve, because I sure as hell don’t deserve her.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Love

  Jude straightens his tie in front of the full-length mirror on the back of the hotel bathroom door and I shamelessly ogle him. Cameo’s big day is here—thank God—and after this, we can all move on with our lives.

  “What?” he asks, meeting my reflection in the mirror. He’s wearing his tortoiseshell frames and his hair is slicked. He’s Fancy Jude today, but that’s perfectly fine because Cameo’s wedding is going to be “the grandest black-tie affair Sweet Water has ever known.” Her words.

  “Don’t give me that. You know what,” I say, biting the tip of my tongue. “I’d jump you right now, but I can’t ruin my hair or Cameo will strangle me with her borrowed-and-blue garter belt.”

  Heading to the vanity, I steal a final spritz of perfume before rising on my toes and lightly kissing his cheek. Can’t mess up my hair, can’t mess up my makeup. The only reason I had to run back to the hotel was because in the chaotic rush of trying to make my hair, makeup, and nail appointments this morning, I forgot my phone charger.

  “Can I be a total dog and say you look hot?” he asks. “I could say ravishing or something stupid like that, but I kind of feel like calling it like I see it today.”

  I smirk. “Wedding starts at two. United Church on 2nd Street.”

  “I’ll be the guy in the back row who can’t take his eyes off you.”

  “Cheeeeeesy,” I sing-song to him, trying not to laugh at his horrible one-liner. It’s only then that I notice how sore my cheeks are. I haven’t done anything out of the ordinary this week with my face … that I can think of … although I have been smiling much more than usual lately.

  Yeah.

  That’s it.

  * * *

  “Love, there you are,” Cameo says when I arrive in the Sunday school room turned bridal party dressing room at the church, her voice sugar sweet. She’s missing that crazy look that’s been permanently etched in her hazel eyes all week. I don’t know if she’s on something or if her stress level is on its way back down since the end of all the wedding madness is in sight, but I won’t question it another second.

  Mom turns toward me, slowly smiling, her eyes unfocused. She’s lit. I wonder how much Xanax she took this morning.

  Cameo waves me closer. “Mom’s doing my buttons, but I think they’re crooked.”

  “Turn around.” I examine the back of her dress, which is absolutely a hot mess of the bridal variety.

  This morning started out with a light rain that cleared out just as we were headed to the nail salon, and just before lunch, Cameo’s future stepdaughters, Tessa and Tiffin, informed the family they would not be attending today’s nuptials. I don’t blame them. Their father is getting married and Cameo made them guestbook attendees. She’s never said so, but I think it was her way of being petty for all those times his daughters caused drama in their relationship.

  Not my circus, not my monkeys.

  I work the buttons as quickly as I can, undoing at least thirty of them before redoing them all.

  “Where’s the rest of the party?” I ask, wondering where the hell her so-called bridesmaids are. I know Cameo is difficult sometimes and she’s one of those people you have to take in small doses, but her “friends” shouldn’t have agreed to be in her wedding if they were just going to flake off the whole time.

  I know Cameo is flawed and it’s hard to be around her more than twenty minutes at a time without wanting to claw your eyes out, but at least she wears all her imperfections on the outside where we can see them, because most of us don’t have that kind of courage.

  Cameo forces a smile, but her glassy eyes say it all, reminding me that deep down under all that mascara and nail polish, she has a soul, she has feelings. “They’re around here somewhere, I’m sure.”

  “There,” I say a few minutes later. “Perfect.”

  Standing behind her, our eyes meet in her reflection. Cameo says nothing, just stares at herself. And as well as I know her, I can’t even begin to guess what’s going through her mind.

  “You doing okay?” I ask.

  “You asking me or Mom?” She points to our mother in the corner, passed out in one of the chairs, snoring. “Think she’s still going to walk me down the aisle?”

  Checking the clock on the wall, I realize the wedding starts in fifteen minutes.

  “I’m sure Jude would do it?” I volunteer him.

  Cameo shakes her head. “That’d be weird.”

  “Yeah. It would be. But I know he’d do it if you needed him to.”

  “He seems like a nice guy.” Her compliment is breathy, like she’s resolved to be happy for me. “You’re happier with him than you ever were with Hunter.”

  My eyes widen. “Don’t say that name on your wedding day. It’s bad luck.”

  My sister laughs.

  She draws in a deep breath, her bare shoulders caving in as she slumps forward. “This dress is so heavy. I’ve only been in it an hour and already my back is killing me.”

  “Just wait until you have to dance in that thing,” I say, not that I speak from experience. My wedding to Hunter took place in a park, with hand-picked wild flowers and a simple white dress I found on clearance at Nordstrom Rack for eighty dollars. We were dirt poor but we were crazy in love. The wedding was all about us, not all the pomp and circumstance.

  “Oh, sweetie, I’m changing into another dress for the reception,” she says, waving her hand and scoffing. “That’s what people do, you know, at real weddings.”

  Aaand she’s back.

  “Of course you are,” I say. “I think someone just knocked?”

  Grabbing the door, I spot one of the groomsmen standing with a little Tiffany box in his hand. He must be pushing sixty, but he’s got this sexy, George Clooney charisma about him. I’m pretty sure his name is Greg, and I’m pretty sure he’s the one Jude said disappeared in the middle of the bachelor party Thursday night with some blonde he met at one of the gentleman’s clubs they attended.

  “A gift for the bride from the groom,” he says.

  “Thank you.”

  Shutting the door, I bring the little box to my sister, who yanks the white ribbon like she can’t wait a single second more. Unclasping the box inside, she feasts her eyes on a platinum necklace engraved w
ith her new initials in cursive.

  Placing her hand over her heart, she turns to give me a closer look. “Isn’t it gorgeous? He’s the best.”

  I get it now: Cameo’s love language is gifts, and so is Bob’s.

  And so was Hunter’s.

  Mine has always been quality time.

  My sister is beaming now. Her quietude morphing into excitement that I can only hope is genuine. She’s such a closed book sometimes …

  Three rapid knocks precede the wedding coordinator busting into the room. “All right, it’s time. The rest of your girls are already out there waiting.”

  She’s all smiles, and I try to imagine how anyone would actually want to do something like this for a living, but clearly she enjoys it because she still has a full head of hair.

  “Mom, wake up,” I say, tapping her shoulder until her eyelids flutter. “Time to walk your daughter down the aisle.”

  * * *

  The reception is held in an old train depot in downtown Sweet Water complete with painted brick walls and at least twenty Swarovski crystal chandeliers. Now that the ceremony has ended, photos have been snapped, and we’ve taken the required limo drive for the past hour, we’ve finally arrived.

  Heading for the open bar, I grab a glass of white wine and scan the room for my date. Er, the guy I’m dating? Whatever he is.

  “Who does he belong to?” I heard a woman say to my left to her friend as she points.

  Her friend cranes her neck. “I don’t know, but I don’t see a wedding ring …”

  Following their greedy gazes, I realize they’re talking about Jude, who’s currently cutting a rug to some Earth Wind and Fire Song. His partner? The six-year-old flower girl.

  I let them finish their dance before cutting in.

  “Hey,” he says, taking my hand in his and giving me a spin as an Al Green song begins to play.

  “Seems like you’re having a good time.”

  “Told you. I love weddings.”

  “I see that,” I say as he twirls me one more time. “Don’t look now, but there are a couple of ladies at the bar that were, uh, noticing you a minute ago.”

  He looks anyway. Of course.

  “Did you tell them I’m taken?” he asks.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Should I have?” I ask, nose wrinkled.

  “Nah.” He smirks. “Just thought it would’ve been funny, you getting all jealous.”

  “Never been the jealous type.”

  “Good. Me neither.” He kisses me, something quick and appropriate in front of Bob and Cameo’s hundreds of wedding guests, and then he pulls me against him, swaying to the music. The boy can dance.

  I’m smitten.

  Utterly, irrevocably, shamelessly smitten.

  But still, as I dance the night away with this too-good-to-be-true Romeo who waltzed into my life when I least expected it, I can’t help but wait for the other shoe to drop.

  It always does.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Jude

  I wheel our bags to our apartments Monday night, just past eleven. With a wedding that spanned an entire weekend and a six-hour layover due to mechanical problems, I’m feeling like I could use a good, hard sleep.

  Stopping outside our doors, Love yawns as she turns to face me.

  “I had a good time,” I say.

  “You lie.” She yawns again. “My family’s insane. No one could possibly enjoy a straight week of their nonsense.”

  “Nah. They’re more entertaining than anything else,” I say. She hasn’t begun to see crazy until she meets the rest of my family, and that’ll never happen, so …

  Love’s mouth pulls into a drowsy smile.

  “That’s putting it nicely.” She closes the space between us, her hand splayed across my chest as she rises to kiss me goodnight. It’s going to be weird sleeping alone tonight. I got so used to having her there. Her warmth and softness, her perfume clinging to the sheets and pillows. Waking up with her legs wrapped around me and her head tucked under my arm. If anyone else did that, I’d grab my shit and go sleep on a sofa, but with Love, I stayed put. And sometimes, through hazy eyes, I’d watch her sleep, listening to the soft cadence of her breath and smirking when she’d occasionally simper.

  Love is peace and contentment.

  Love is a soft place to land.

  Love is a smile on my face when I wake every morning.

  “Night,” she says, backing away, head tilted as she looks at me like I’m the best thing to ever happen to her.

  “Night.” I watch her disappear inside her apartment, and god damn it, I miss her already. There’s this void where she was standing a second ago. I feel it in the center of my chest, like a cannon-sized hole, and that means something.

  I think I’m falling in love with her.

  I can’t do this.

  I can’t hurt her—not the way Hunter wants me to, even if it means sacrificing my dream and everything I’ve ever worked for.

  Jabbing my key into my lock, I head inside, leaving my bag by the door and shuffling down the hall. Peeling off my clothes, I climb in a cold bed by myself, body succumbing to exhaustion but my mind running a hundred miles per hour.

  Closing my eyes, I roll to the side and shove my hand under my pillow. I try to imagine how I’m going to tell her. How I’d start the conversation. Whether she’d break down in tears or hurl a crystal vase at my head. I try to imagine the things she’d say back to me—all of which I’d have rightfully earned.

  But every scenario I dream up always ends the same way.

  I thought I could do this.

  And I committed myself to being a heartless bastard.

  But at the end of the day, that’s not who I am.

  It’s not who I’ll ever be.

  The man Love is falling for? That’s me. Every quip, every kiss, every lingering gaze and cheesy line … that’s one hundred percent me. And the crazy thing is, she likes me in jeans with messy hair, drinking beer in a dive bar. The apartment never mattered to her. Neither did the bullshit consulting title or the pretentious wardrobe.

  She likes me for me.

  Rolling to my back, I exhale and pinch the bridge of my nose. I need to get some sleep. I need to gather my thoughts and figure out the best way to tell her—if there even exists a best way—because tomorrow? I’m calling this off.

  Only there’s one complication—Hunter had me sign a non-disclosure agreement.

  I’m not allowed to tell Love about anything Hunter and I have ever spoken about, be it the weather or the intricate details of this arrangement.

  All I can tell her tomorrow is that this isn’t working out.

  And that I’m sorry.

  No explanation … just an apology and a goodbye … and after the incredible week we just spent together, she’s going to be confused—rightfully so—and I’m going to walk away looking like an insufferable piece of shit—which I am.

  I can only hope for her sake that this will feel like more of a sting than a sledgehammer to the heart. That maybe someday I’ll just be that guy she dated briefly one summer, her memories of us fading with the years. And eventually she might even forget me, even if I couldn’t forget her if I tried.

  By tomorrow, Jude Warner and Love Aldridge will become a thing of the past. A brief, passionate fling that was never meant to be. And I should have known from the start that War and Love don’t belong together. They don’t even belong in the same sentence.

  She’s all that is perfect and right in this world.

  And I’m a destroyer, sent to demolish and ruin and devastate.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Love

  The break in the curtain pulls me out of one of the deepest sleeps I’ve ever known, and in my half-awake stupor, I reach to the other side of the bed before realizing he’s not there.

  A persistent knocking echoes down my hall, again and again, over and over.

  Smirking, I roll my eyes and
step out of bed. It’s probably Jude and he’s probably going to surprise me with something … breakfast in bed maybe? An early morning romp?

  I bet he missed me last night.

  I missed him.

  We got home so late last night and we were so exhausted, we both decided to sleep in our own beds.

  “I’m coming,” I shout as I shuffle down the hall. A grin grows across my face as I reach the door and squint through the peephole. Only it disappears the second I see who’s standing on the other side.

  It isn’t Jude.

  Running back to my room, I grab a robe from my bathroom and cover my silky sheer pajamas before heading back.

  A second later, I clear my throat and greet my ex-husband’s assistant.

  “Marissa, what are you doing here?” I ask, and I mean that in the most literal of ways. I don’t know how she got my address unless Hunter gave it to her. “Did he send you here?”

  “Can I come in?” she asks, worrying her full lower lip that looks even bigger than it was last time I saw her. Something about her looks different, and I realize she’s dressed down today, leggings and a casual top, and her face is void of her signature caked-on Instagram-worthy look. She’s absolutely stunning this way, so natural, but I won’t tell her that. Once upon a time, we were friends and I convinced Hunter to hire her. But after the divorce, I never heard from her again.

  Mulling it over, I release a held breath before stepping out of the way.

  “I tried to stop by yesterday, but you weren’t home,” she says, a lanky arm resting on her hip as she stares at my floor. This isn’t Marissa. I’ve never known her to be uneasy or uncomfortable, and I’ve witnessed her spending time around some of the biggest names in music without batting a mink eyelash.

  “I’m so confused,” I say, arms crossed. “Why are you here?”

  “You might want to sit down,” she says.

  “If this is about Hunter, honestly, I don’t care,” I say. “I’m happy and I’ve moved on.”

  Her immense, round eyes flick into mine. “It’s about that.”