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by Adriana Locke

  Words are lost to me as I lose myself in his eyes. There’s so much to the depths—pain, sadness, hope. My heart is torn in my chest because I don’t know what to do.

  The confusion over how to respond, what words to piece together, leaves me speechless.

  He tugs at his hair, his head buried in his hands. “I hate feeling this way.”

  “Don’t,” I say, grabbing his wrist. “You were honest with me. You just told me something you didn’t have to and something that was obviously not easy to say.”

  “I’ve never talked about it out loud like that.” He wraps my hand in his and brings it to his lips. He doesn’t kiss it, but just holds it there. “But I wanted you to know what you were dealing with.”

  “Dealing with?” I say, scooting closer to him. “You’re a man that’s had his heart broken. I’ve had mine broken too. I get it. It hurts.”

  He drops my hand and smiles more beautifully than I’ve ever seen from him before. “I hope you find love someday. I hope you find some guy that thinks of you the way I do.” His grin falters. “I hope he can give you what you need back.”

  I look away, unable to see the look on his face and deal with the emotions swirling on mine. Just knowing that he thinks of me the way I think of him, yet can’t, won’t, go forward, breaks my already shattered heart.

  “I think I should go home now,” I say, needing space.

  “I’ll get your jacket.” He takes my hand and pulls me to my feet. As I turn to walk away, he hauls me in his arms and holds me close. His heart strums steadily in his chest, the smell of his cologne dancing over my senses. When he pulls back, I know things won’t quite be the same between us. “You ready?”

  “Let’s go.”

  Mallory

  THE LEMON SLICE DROPS INTO the tea, creating a ripple on the surface. I wonder how far down the undulation goes. If it goes as deep as what I feel from tonight.

  “Come in,” I shout when I hear the knock at the door. I wait for Joy’s face to come around the corner, and when it does, I feel a little relief.

  “I came with brownies,” she says. A white box from the grocery store is plopped on the coffee table. “What happened to you? You look like shit.”

  “Gee, thanks,” I sigh. “I’m fine.”

  Her brows raise. “I don’t think that’s true.”

  I give her a look of warning as I take a hesitant sip of my tea. I didn’t mean to alert her to my demise when she called as soon as I walked in the door. I guess it was somewhat obvious.

  “Want to tell me what’s wrong?” she asks.

  “No.”

  “Mallory . . .”

  I take a deep breath. “Graham and I had dinner tonight.”

  She squeals, curling up in the secondhand chair next to the sofa. If she’s concerned about what the material might do to her name-brand shirt, she doesn’t mention it. For once.

  “Then we ran back to his house to grab some files. We fucked. Then he basically told me, as carefully and sweetly as possible, that we would never be anything.”

  “Okay then,” she gulps, slowly uncrossing her legs. “Um, that doesn’t sound sweet. ‘Thank you for fucking me. Now go home?’”

  “No, not like that.” I recount more closely the events of the evening. “You know, I didn’t really think there would be anything between us. I mean, I didn’t set out for that to happen. He was just a walking check-off list of all the things I’d want in a man and he wanted me . . . on his desk, in his office, in front of his neighbor.”

  She fans herself. “I’m so turned on by that.”

  “Stop,” I say, shaking my head. “I don’t even know why I’m so . . . saddened by his admission. I had no reason to think anything else.”

  “But it’s natural that you hoped, Mal. Or at least entertained the idea. Wouldn’t anyone? He’s leading you on, screwing you—”

  “He really didn’t lead me on,” I admit. “He never said anything other than an occasional direction to remove my clothes, which I so happily did.” I sigh, taking another sip.

  She taps her pink, perfectly manicured finger against her lips. I hate the way she looks at me, like I’m some kind of project or a lesser woman because I’m struggling in every department of my life.

  “You know what? Forget it,” I tell her. “I’ll figure it out.”

  “Nope. Not that easy,” she says. “You have to decide what’s best for you.”

  “Yeah. But I don’t know what’s best for me.”

  She catches my gaze. “Yes, you do.”

  My head falls back, my eyes shut. She’s right and I hate it. I do know what’s best for me. That’s the little niggle in my gut, the reminder to listen to logic and not my heart and certainly not my vagina.

  “Put your two weeks in,” she suggests softly. “File it with Human Resources and not him so he can’t just . . .”

  “Just do what he does and veto what he doesn’t like?” I offer.

  “Yes. That. File your notice and come work with me. I have some pull, you know,” she winks. “Or go to LA with Sienna. Mal, you’re single. Young. Gorgeous. There’s no reason you have to stay here. Do something that your soul tells you to.”

  I laugh. “Whoa, wait. When did you get deep?”

  “What?” she blushes.

  “Do something your soul tells you to? Really, Joy?”

  “It was on a card at the pharmacy,” she shrugs. “I liked it.”

  Taking a deep breath, I set my tea on the table. “I don’t know what my soul tells me to do. I just want things to be . . . okay.”

  I can’t tell Joy the rest of the truth, that I hope Graham is okay too. My heart breaks for him. I worry that he’s hurt or sad, and I wish I could show him how great he is and how capable he is of more than just being a CEO. Although he listens to me sometimes, I know he wouldn’t listen to that.

  She opens the box of brownies and hands me one. It’s gooey and soft and the icing almost runs off the end. After getting herself one, she holds it in the air. I clink mine against it.

  “Sucks being an adult, doesn’t it?” she asks, her mouth sticking together with chocolate.

  “Yeah. It certainly does.”

  We sit for a while, Joy eating brownies and me watching her. I’m not hungry. And even though chocolate bingeing is how girls deal with things, it doesn’t seem appealing. I don’t need emotional support. I need answers. Solutions. The fact that I realize this is empowering.

  Joy leaves, promising to check on me tomorrow. I lock the door and wind up at my computer. The email from the university is still in my inbox.

  With a slight hesitation, I click on it again. The form is at the bottom to apply for enrollment. It sits there, luring me in with the promise of excitement and possibility.

  I could be done in a couple of years. Most of my generals are done and transferable, and I know I qualify for student loans.

  I remember Graham’s words, that I have potential. Is he right? I know I could do it if I had him to ask questions, but I may not have him at all. In any capacity.

  A fleeting feeling falls over my soul. My spirits fall, my excitement dampening, as I know what I’m going to have to do. There’s only one answer that’s logical when it comes to Graham. At least I can see it now.

  “Fuck it,” I say, filling out the interest form and clicking “Submit” before I can stop myself.

  Graham

  Ford’s face lights up as he recounts a story of giving a child a soccer ball somewhere on the other side of the planet. His tale is interesting, but watching him light up like I’ve never seen him before is the best part of it all.

  “He would come up to us every time we saw him and say, ‘Thank you,’” he says, leaning back in his chair. “It was really gratifying.”

  “Well, look who it is . . .”

  We look up to see Barrett walk in the kitchen of the Farm, Huxley on his heels. He pulls Ford into a quick hug and then smacks me on the back. “What’s happening in here?”
<
br />   “We were discussing the security company,” I say. “There’s more to do with this than there was your fucking campaign.”

  “Just think,” Barrett jokes, “you would be bored out of your mind without us.”

  “Or sane,” I mutter.

  “Hi, Graham. Hey, Ford!” Huxley, the well-mannered kid that he is, waits his turn to talk. He dashes to Ford’s side.

  Lincoln has always been Huxley’s favorite, but after spending a few days fishing with Ford while his mom and Barrett did political things in Atlanta, I hate to tell Linc that he has competition.

  “Want to go see if the fish are biting?” Huxley asks.

  “Hey, Hux. Ford is working with Graham today,” Barrett says, ruffling his hair.

  “True,” Ford calls, shoving his chair back, “but fishing is way more fun than talking to Graham. Let’s go see what we can get into, buddy.” As they walk out, Ford leans in to Barrett and whispers just loud enough for me to hear, “Your turn to deal with him. Graham has a stick up his ass today.”

  “Fuck off,” I chuckle. But he’s not all wrong.

  I had to leave the office today because I couldn’t stand the proximity. Not because I wanted to be away from her. Because I wanted to be inside her. I wanted to scoop her up and listen to her laugh and hear her yoga stories and watch her face bunch up as she thinks of a response to something I’ve said.

  Everything about this is impossible. I watched her pull away from the office last night after dropping her off. Her taillights dimmed as she vanished around the corner, and it took everything I had to not jump in my car and follow her.

  Purely selfish. That’s what I am. There’s nothing I can give her, nothing I’m willing to give her, more than what we’ve been doing. That’s not fair to her in any way. Yet, I want to keep her in my office so I can breathe her in, feel her closeness. I want to sneak away for a few hours with her wrapped around me and just enjoy being with her. But if I do, everything will fall apart.

  “What’s up, G?” Barrett sits in the chair previously occupied by Ford. He twists his head as he considers just how right Ford may have been with his interpretation of my demeanor. “You are pissed off.”

  “Nah,” I say, drumming a pen against the table. “I’m fine.”

  “Talk to me. What’s happening? Something with Ford?” When I don’t respond, he snickers. “Oh, I see.”

  “You don’t see shit.”

  “Oh, I think I do, little brother.” We stare at each other across the table, him laughing, me glaring. “Just to be clear, I may be in Atlanta most of the time now, but I still talk. Specifically, to Linc. So I know things.”

  “If Lincoln is giving you information, and you’re taking it, you aren’t nearly as smart as I give you credit for.”

  “Let’s see how credible my sources are. I get one guess, all right?”

  “Barrett,” I warn.

  “It is . . . Mallory?”

  I shrug.

  “I’ve seen her. She’s hot.”

  I shrug again.

  “Ford also chipped in that she was really smart, and believe it or not, Dad likes her.”

  I shrug for a third time, but this time with a warning shot. Barrett laughs.

  “Ford also said if you weren’t eyeing her—”

  “Enough,” I shoot, sitting up and clasping my hands together on the table.

  “I was only kidding. Ford didn’t say that last part, but I knew if I said he did, I’d get a true reaction out of you.”

  “You are such a fucking politician,” I say, relieved that Ford wasn’t seriously looking at Mallory. As the relief lifts off me, I slump back again. “Barrett,” I wince. “I’m in trouble.”

  He leans back in his chair, kicking his feet up on the table, looking all smug.

  “Mom will kill you for that,” Lincoln blasts, coming in the room. “Trust me. I got smacked yesterday for something pretty similar.”

  We all laugh as Lincoln grabs a seat next to Barrett. As we settle down, I realize they’re both looking at me like I’m a suspect in some investigation. Suddenly, I feel very outnumbered.

  “So, what are we talking about?” Lincoln asks, blowing a huge pink bubble and letting it smack against his face.

  “Your happiness is annoying,” I say.

  “That’s what good pussy will do for ya, G. Try it.”

  “We were just talking about that,” Barrett notes, smiling smugly at me.

  “So he has been tapping that,” Lincoln exclaims. “Ford said—”

  “Shut up, Lincoln.”

  “Graham was just about to ask me for advice,” Barrett tells our brother.

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  “Good thing I stopped by then. I feel like this is my area of expertise,” Lincoln says. “Women are my thing. I mean, look at it. I’m the one that’s engaged and a little Landry on the way. Bring it, G.”

  “I don’t need your advice.”

  “So we’ll give it to you without you asking,” Barrett quips. “Does that make you feel better about it?”

  I groan, putting my head on the table.

  “You go first,” Lincoln tells our brother. “We’ll save the best for last.”

  “Lincoln, you’re still on a thin fucking line over this wedding bullshit.”

  “I can’t help it you don’t have balls,” Lincoln sighs. “When I see what I want, I go for it.”

  I’m not sure what happens, but I hear a scuffle and the two of them start laughing. When I look up, they’re looking at me. “Okay, G. What are the problems with Mallory?”

  They’re both looking at me, their gazes affixed on my face. There’s no way out. I’m as stuck in this situation as I am in the one with Mallory, only with this one, I see a way out. It’s going to be painful and potentially humiliating, but there is a way.

  Sucking in a breath, I say, “The problem with Mallory is there isn’t one.” Neither of them respond immediately and that annoys me. “Are we done here?”

  “Nope,” Lincoln says. “So, just let me get this straight, she does like you? Right? Not saying you aren’t all—”

  “Knock it off, Linc,” Barrett laughs. “What’s stopping you, Graham?”

  “It just won’t work.”

  “I told you I have tips to fix that,” Lincoln winks. “They also make these pills . . .”

  I sigh. “Look, guys, I appreciate your desire to help. I do. But I don’t need help. I just need . . . to figure it out.”

  Barrett leans against the table, his watch clinking against the wood. “When you meet the right one, it’s never easy. There were a number of women I was with and it was so fucking easy,” he says. “They did what I said. They had the right last name or were on the right track to add to my persona for public office.”

  “Or they wore black fishnets,” Lincoln grins.

  “And that,” Barrett says, pointing at Lincoln, “is how you know they aren’t the right one.”

  “True.” Lincoln takes off his hat and twists it around backwards. “What Barrett is saying is true. With Dani, it wasn’t easy. Hell, it’s still not. She tells me when I’m wrong and sets me straight. And then we had the whole baseball thing. Shit is complicated. The key is—”

  “Wanting to figure it out instead of just replacing them,” Barrett says, smiling at Lincoln. “It’s when you’d rather take all these problems, all this headache, and fight for it because when you imagine another woman’s perfume on your skin or someone else’s smile looking back at you . . .”

  “You can’t.” Lincoln smiles at me. “Someone told me once that maybe I couldn’t have the job and the girl. Maybe you can’t have this delusion that it ‘just won’t work’ and whatever that fucking means, which is stupid, by the way, and the girl. You’re gonna walk away with one of them, G—your dumbass excuses or Mallory Sims. You pick.”

  The door opens and Ford and Huxley walk back in. I’ve never felt more relieved to see a kid in my life.

  “This isn’t over,” Li
ncoln warns.

  “Did you have fun?” Barrett asks Hux.

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you cheating on me?” Lincoln asks, grabbing Hux by the arm and giving him a quick hug. “How are you, buddy?”

  “Good. Hey, I heard you were having a baby. I was thinking. If you want to name your kid after me, I’m okay with that.”

  “I’ll pass that along to the boss,” Lincoln laughs.

  “All right, guys, I need to get back to the office. Ford, I’ll get that final insurance paper faxed back before the end of the week. As soon as that’s in place, I think we’re good to go.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Now go get some puuuu. . . . Puppies,” Lincoln chokes, looking at Hux. “Puppies. Go buy yourself a new puppy, Graham.”

  We all laugh, Huxley looking confused, as I walk out of the Farm.

  Graham

  MALLORY’S SEAT IS VACANT WHEN I enter our suite at Landry Holdings. Her phone and keys are in a clump on her desk, wrappers from some kind of candy in a heap by her keyboard.

  I can’t resist. Picking them up and tossing them in the garbage, I head to my office. Door left open.

  I try to focus on the contract in front of me, but every time I hear a sound, I look up to see if it’s Mallory. It’s some Pavlovian dog bullshit and I hate I’m to this point with her.

  Mulling over my brothers’ words on the way over here, I know they’re right. This is going to end one way or the other. It always does. It’s the natural progression of things.

  Mallory deserves more than this. She should have the world, someone she can love and mean it. She needs a relationship in which she can fall in love like Alison or Danielle and be safe in it. Besides, I couldn’t watch her decide she loves me, then realize she doesn’t. I wouldn’t survive that.

  I’ve avoided her today. She’s avoided me too. Getting to the end of this might be easier, and less of my decision, than I thought. That should afford me some relief. Instead, it just winds up my anxiety even worse.