by Roya Carmen
“Well, you’re not doing anything about it,” Gabe says, all business. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so serious. “You’re not even going to acknowledge his gift. I don’t care what you do with it. Throw it out, sell it on eBay…I don’t give a shit. I just don’t ever want to see you wearing it. And I don’t want you contacting him.”
“Of course I’m not going to wear it, Gabe.” I could never. Every time I’d see my reflection in the mirror, I’d think of him. And I definitely don’t need a constant reminder. Gabe’s absolutely right. I need to brush all of this under the carpet, and pretend it never happened.
I certainly don’t need this in my life right now.
Chapter Two
I can’t fall again.
I HAVEN’T BEEN ABLE to get him out of my mind.
I was making such good progress before I received that gift. He really messed me up, the jerk. But I haven’t reached out to him. Part of me has wanted to. To tell him what a mind-fucker he is. But I haven’t. Gabe is right—the best thing to do is ignore him. That’ll send the message, loud and clear.
I’ve been thinking about the brooch too. I could never throw it away—it’s too beautiful, and worth a pretty penny, I’m sure. I could never sell it and benefit from this gift in any way. I want no part of it. But I was thinking I could donate it to an auction for a charity of some sort, a silent auction peppered with wealthy people. One of those fancy fundraisers.
But I won’t be able to look into it until later. December is a very busy time at school and I’ve been swamped with my holiday to-do list.
Unfortunately, despite the busy season; all the festivities¸ baking and shopping, I still haven’t been able to stop thinking about Weston. He’s under my skin now, like an intolerable virus I just can’t get rid of. How I wish I had a cure. But as is my understanding, there are no cures for viruses, they just need to run their course. I simply need to wait and be patient.
The holidays were great. We spent Christmas Eve with Gabe’s family, as is the tradition. We have six nieces and nephews on his side, so things do get loud. Gabe is often unsettled by it, but me…I’m an old pro. Eight kids is nothing compared to twenty-plus kindergartners. We spent Christmas Day with my pop and my two brothers, Jake and Tommy. It was a little quieter on that side—just one niece. Kiley is three now, an adorable bundle of happiness with golden ringlets and pretty blue eyes. The girls absolutely love her.
My youngest brother Robbie is still estranged. And every Christmas, I think about him. I’ve seen him and my mother a few times over the years. Sadly, I can count the times on one hand. They’re really strangers to us. They’ve been living in France for almost thirty years now. And my little brother even speaks with a slight French accent. I wonder how she could have done this to us. I know she fell in love, but it’s still unfathomable to me.
But love or infatuation, or whatever you want to call it—does make you do very stupid things.
I certainly know.
I’m standing in a post-Christmas season line at the customer service desk at the department store, waiting to return a too-small dress, when my cell phone rings. Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies” adds a little smile to the tired expressions on the faces around me. I smile at the petite elderly woman with cat-eye glasses standing just a foot away as I scrounge in my overstuffed purse for my phone. I can’t seem to find it, yet again.
She seems amused.
“Sorry. I can never find the damn thing,” I tell her, annoyed as hell. “I should really clean my bag out,” I add as my fingers finally press against the familiar sleek surface.
“Your purse is too big, sweetheart,” she says, all-knowing.
When I finally answer, I hear a collective sigh. “Hello,” I say, knowing everyone in line is eavesdropping on my conversation.
“Hello, Mirella.”
I recognize his voice right away—the soft, sensual tone is so distinctive. He’s caught me off guard. My heart is racing and suddenly my whole body is on fire. I don’t say a word. I don’t want to speak to him. I want nothing to do with him. But my heart is pounding so hard, I’m afraid the cat-eyes lady can hear it.
“Can we talk?” he finally says after the longest pause in the history of phone calls.
Can I talk? No, I literally don’t think I can. The shock has robbed me of my voice.
“That’s fine. You don’t have to say a word. I can understand why you would never want to speak to me again.”
Truthfully, I want to speak. I want to ask him why he’s calling me, why he’s fucking with me. But I don’t make a peep. I just want to hear his voice. I’ve missed it so much.
“I know I shouldn’t be calling you, Mirella.” His words seem tired, strained. “I have no right. I should be leaving you alone.”
I finally summon the courage to speak. “Yes, you should.”
“I know. But I can’t, Mirella. Believe me, I’ve tried. These last three months have been hell for me.”
Good.
“What do you want from me?” I almost scream into the phone. Now I have about a half a dozen pairs of ears perked up behind me. For a moment, I’d completely forgotten I was surrounded by strangers.
How dare he dig up this whole mess again. It was better left buried. He’s a smart man, he should know better.
“What do I want?” The words are followed by a heavy sigh. “I want you,” he says simply.
Where does he come off? I am so angry, I could punch him in the face—if only he were standing in front of me.
“You can’t have me, Weston. You can’t say you’re done with me one day. And the next, say you want me. You fickle bastard. You made the right decision when you ended things, Weston. It was best for everyone. Let’s stick with it,” I tell him, wanting him to see things clearly. I spot eyes averting my glare in unison. They’re all pretending not to listen, but they so obviously are. I’m pretty sure they weren’t expecting in-line entertainment.
“I know I have no right,” he presses on, his words soft. He’s getting to me. I want to see him so badly. I remind myself how much he’s hurt me. I consciously tell myself to pull away—even if I don’t want to.
I’m still so drawn to him. It’s almost painful.
“Did you get my gift?” he asks, his words soft.
If he thinks he can win me over with a fancy brooch, he’s got another thing coming. “Yes, I did. A butterfly, How very clever of you,” I say, the words drenched in sarcasm. “But let me tell you something, I’m not your eager little butterfly anymore. And why did you address it to Miss Mirella?”
“Well, I was trying to be discreet, in the event that Gabe should stumble upon it.”
“Oh, how very smart of you,” I say, not hiding the disdain in my voice. “I have no secrets from Gabe. He was there when I opened it.”
“Oh,” is all he says.
“I’m planning on donating it to a charity. Someone should benefit from it.”
“You do with it what you want. It’s yours.”
This conversation is pointless. It’s toxic. I need to end it.
“Listen, I need to go now,” I tell him. The words drag, scrape the back of my throat. I don’t want to go.
“I want to see you, Mirella,” he says softly and my heart swells.
I want to see him too. My eyes well up. I can’t take this right now. Not after all the work I’ve put into forgetting him. He can’t be doing this to me. My voice cracks as I tell him I can’t. I’m sure he can tell I’m in shatters. The emotion in my voice is unmistakable.
“I know you want to see me, Mirella.”
The arrogant mind-fucker.
Tears stream down my cheeks and I turn away from the people behind me. I’m almost up at the customer service desk. I’m next in line, and I’m certainly in no condition to speak to anyone.
“Bye, Weston,” I say before pressing end call with the tip of my trembling finger.
The jovial brunette at the counter calls me up. Her smile quickly fades
when she spots my expression. “Are you okay?” she asks, full of concern.
Slightly embarrassed, I tell her I’m fine. I tell her I’ve just received an upsetting phone call. She goes about her business and asks me for my receipt and credit card with a forced smile when I tell her I’m returning the dress.
My cell rings again. It’s him again. I’m tempted to send it to voice mail, but I really need to tell him to back off. I don’t even bother with a hello.
“Leave me alone, Weston. We are done,” I say with as much conviction as I can muster.
“But, Mirella, I just want to tell y—”
I cut him off and smile at the clerk, pretending everything is hunky-dory. She averts her gaze and clicks away at her keyboard.
About twenty seconds later, my phone chirps and I almost want to throw the damn thing across the store. I know it’s probably him. The little envelope beckons. I am so curious wild horses couldn’t drag me away from that text.
I love you.
I’m floored.
What is wrong with this man? This is how he tells me he loves me? In a text? Who does that? Royally-fucked-up emotionally inept assholes that’s who.
The customer service clerk barely looks at me when she asks, “Will that be all?”—it’s officially awkward between the two of us now.
“That’s it,” I tell her, taking the receipt and my credit card from her. “Thank you.”
As soon as I step away from the customer service desk, I grab my phone.
Stay away from me. Do not ever contact me again.
My fingers are shaking so hard, it takes me forever to write out the message as I correct a dozen typos along the way. I might be telling him to fuck off, but I still care about presentation and grammar.
I walk back to my car, longing to hear the chirp sound of a new message. I know I’ve just told him to stay away, to never contact me again, but part of me wants him not to listen. I don’t quite want to say good-bye.
When I finally reach my car, I realize he’s not getting back to me. Maybe he’s decided to listen? Maybe he’s really staying away? Maybe this is the end?
Burying my face in my hands, I cry. I can’t believe I’m crying over him again. And I ask myself the same question over and over again.
How in the heavens did I ever get so messed-up?
I haven’t been able to get that text out of my mind.
I love you.
The exact words I’d wanted to hear from him, ages ago. But now, I’m not sure I want to hear them anymore. It’s the last thing I need right now, him telling me he loves me and melting my resolve.
I can’t fall again. I can’t do this.
Gabe steps out of the shower, a plush white towel wrapped around his hips, his sculpted body slick. I’m almost tempted to rip that towel off and distract myself…bury myself in Gabe and forget all about Weston. But there are more important matters to attend to. I really need to tell him what has happened. I’ve promised myself I would be completely open with Gabe from now on, no more secrets. That’s how we got in so much trouble the last time.
I put on my flannel nightgown with the tiny roses; the one that says “not tonight, babe.” The last thing I need is him all over me when I’m trying to have a serious conversation. “Why don’t you shower at the club?”
He peels off his towel. “The showers at the club are disgusting, and half of them don’t work.”
He slips on his PJ pants and I almost don’t want him too. I like him naked.
Focus. Geez.
“I need to tell you something.”
He stretches himself on the bed, eyeing me from head to toe, a devilish smile on his face. “Yeah,” he says. It seems even the granny nightie is not going to keep him off me.
I wince a little when I say, “Weston called me today.”
He jerks up from the bed, his devil-may-care expression completely gone. “What did the asshole want?”
“I’m not sure. He wants to see me again. He misses me, I think.” I don’t tell him about the I love you text. I can’t quite bring myself to. I’m afraid he’s going to fly off the handle and do something stupid.
“He better stay away from you.” I know from his expression, he means business.
“I think he will. I texted him and told him to leave me the hell alone and I haven’t heard from him since.”
“Good.”
We sit on the bed in silence for the longest time. And finally he smiles at me and reaches out, a strong arm around my waist.
I smile back at him. “You know this is my ‘the store is closed for business tonight’ nightgown.”
He laughs. “You could be wearing a potato sack,” he says, a hand on my hip, as his lips trail kisses down my neck, “you’d still be highly fuckable.”
Gabe has a way of turning me on so fast, it’s like the flip of a switch.
“You like the granny nightie?” I tease, hoping he’ll tear off my cotton panties soon.
“Those little flowers drive me absolutely wild,” he jokes as his hands slide under the cotton fabric.
Heaven.
Chapter Three
Men like him…
“I LOVE THIS COMPOSTER,” I tell Gwen as I throw in the remnants of my hot peppers in the sink. “I would love one of these.”
Gwen pulls out a jar of shrimp cocktail sauce. “Then get one.”
I flip the switch. “It’s not that easy. It’s a big job apparently to have one installed.” Gwen has no clue about the cost of things; her little castle came with all the bells and whistles. I’m not sure how much it’s worth, but I’d be willing to bet it’s over a million.
She rolls out the freezer drawer and pulls out a box of frozen bacon-wrapped scallops. “Seriously, how hard could it be?”
I laugh as I spoon the beef mixture into the hot peppers. “Life is so unfair,” I gripe, half-smiling. “Here you have this gorgeous gourmet kitchen,” I point out as my gaze travels across the custom cabinetry, “and you don’t even cook.”
She shrugs. “I do. I’m making bacon wrapped scallops right now,” she trills with a big wide smile.
“Heating up is not cooking. They’re really not that complicated to make from scratch. Just wrap bacon around scallops and stick toothpicks in.”
She smiles at me as she plops the bacon-wrapped scallops on a baking sheet. I nudge her in the ribs. Of course, she knows I’m just giving her a hard time.
I leave her to go check on the girls who are sitting quietly at the table, making animals out of pompoms. “It was nice of Gwen to get you those craft kits, wasn’t it?”
Claire nods, her attention fully focused on the little white cat she’s creating.
“And she got us a whole lot of other stuff too,” Chloe points out.
I smile. “I know. Auntie Gwinnie loves to shop,” I say, shooting a glance at my bestie.
She eyes the boys in the living room. “You’d think Greg could slack off the TV for just one night. It’s New Year’s Eve, for the love of all that is holy.”
I smirk as I stick my baking sheet in the top built-in oven. “Boys will be boys.”
She sighs. “Boys…who needs them?”
I smile at her but don’t say a word. I think about Weston. I still can’t stop thinking about him. About the butterfly, about the call, the I love you. And I still wonder why he’s doing this to me.
Gwen studies me and raises a brow.
“Uh…” I stammer, feeling dissected. “Do you want me to get the shrimp out?”
She tilts her head, not taking her eyes off me. I stare back blankly, taking in the details of her Christmas sweater—black fluffy cashmere, with the most delicate minuscule beads.
“Uh…did I tell you,” I blurt out. “I like your sweater. It looks real nice with those skinny black pants. You look really slim,” I go on, running my mouth off, barely breathing. “That sweater would suit a pretty brooch. I’ve got tons if you ever want to borrow one. I even have Christmas ones. I have a pretty silver�
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My heart starts to beat a little faster and I suddenly have to consciously breathe and try to appear normal. I know if Gwen hears I’ve been speaking to Weston again, she’ll tear me a new one. She hates him as much as I do at this moment, if not more.
“Mirella, spill it.”
I grab the dish cloth off the faucet and wipe the granite counter, even though it’s already surgical-room clean.
She cozies up to me with a mischievous smile. “Spill.”
I’ve been keeping secrets. I haven’t told her about Weston yet. I’m not really sure why I haven’t confided in her, but I think it’s because I don’t want to suffer the wrath of Gwen. She’s always so practical about life, so grounded…so sensible. She’s not emotional like me. Although we’re like two peas in a pod in a lot of ways, in this sense, we’re quite different. She just doesn’t get it—this thing with Weston and me. And I know how she feels about him. She confessed she was so relieved to hear we had ended the arrangement. She always thought the whole thing was a terrible idea.
She fixes me with beady eyes. “You’ve been keeping something from me.”
I make a beeline for the refrigerator and swing the door open. “Do you have a platter for the sushi?”
Grabbing me by the wrist, she pulls me away from the kitchen and drags me to the den. I reluctantly go along. I don’t want to cause a scene. The last thing I need is Gabe hearing about Weston again. Out of sight, out of mind is rather a marriage-preserving approach when it comes to Gabe and I, and Weston.
Gwen plops me on the swivel desk chair so hard, I spin a little. “Out with it,” she presses as she glares at me, manicured nails tapping annoyingly on the desk. She’s not letting this go.
I sink into my chair. “Sorry, I didn’t tell you…”