by Remy Rose
Key point #1: Brianne is not Madeline. Not even close. Comparing my ex-fiancée to Callaway is like comparing nickel-plated to platinum. Cubic zirconia to diamonds. A golf cart to a Cadillac.
You get the idea.
Key point #2: I still need to get over Callaway.
I turn to Black-haired Girl, my eyes doing a quick zigzag from her red lips to her black boots, and offer her up my best panty-dropping grin.
Twenty minutes later, I’m in my truck following her white Nissan Altima to her apartment. Always better to go to the woman’s place; that way, you don’t have that awkward issue with the woman not knowing when I need her to leave...which, being the dick I am, is usually about five minutes after I’m pulling up my pants. I’m in control of how long we hang out post-coitus, so there’s no danger of spending the night.
Didn’t work out so well the last time Callaway and I were together.
Way to go, Big Deck—you just let yourself think about her again.
F...M...L.
Thankfully, I’ve got other stuff to focus on now, because Black-haired Girl just pulled into her apartment complex. I learned that her name is Emily, she’s twenty-four, currently works as a paralegal in Ellsworth but just took a job in South Carolina to escape the Maine winters. So really, it couldn’t be more ideal, since she’s not sticking around or looking for anything other than a good time.
The complex is your typical multi-unit, tri-color, fake brick-and-mortar establishment, with unimaginative shrubs along the foundation. I park in the space beside hers. Climbing out of her Altima, Emily throws me a lipsticked smile over her shoulder as she walks toward apartment 11B and unlocks the door.
I’ve only just unzipped my jacket when I feel her hands slide up my chest, her fingertips making little indents in my pecs. She’s bold. I like it. She lifts her chin and gives a little head toss so that her hair slips off her shoulders and falls down her back like black water. Neither one of us have said a word since we stepped inside, but there’s a silent expectation that’s ramping up between us. I like that, too.
“So...Jack.” Her fingers have moved to my upper arms, squeezing gently.
“So...Emily.”
“Would you like to see the rest of my apartment?” The words are husky, seductive, curling around me like smoke and reeling me in.
The heat-seeking missile in my pants awakens. It’s been a long time. Too long. “I would most definitely like to see the rest of your apartment, Emily.”
She shrugs off her coat and hangs it on a hallway hook. I do the same. Smiling, she slips her hand in mine and leads me through the dim living room, pulling away from me to flick on a table lamp. I watch her ass as she leans over. It’s nice—firm and small, but not even close to Calla—
Fuck you, I tell myself. Focus, for Christ’s sake. Don’t fuck this up.
There are packing boxes stacked up along one wall in the living room. As stupid as it sounds, this is comforting, because it underscores the fact that she’s moving. Outta here, just like I’m going to be in about an hour or so, if all goes as planned.
Down the narrow hallway, walking into her bedroom. Emily’s still holding my hand, which is starting to sweat. Kind of weird, since the bedroom has always been my arena.
She gives my fingers a little squeeze, like she can tell I’m keyed up. Nice of her, but I really don’t want her to think I’m some amateur who needs reassurance.
Now we’re in her room. She takes a lighter out of the nightstand drawer and flicks it over a group of three fat white candles on top of her bureau. It’s almost like she knew I’d be coming. No pun intended.
There’s a mirror on her bureau that’s conveniently located at the end of her bed. I’m already imagining watching our reflection while we fuck. Okay, I’m feeling better about this because I’m getting hornier now.
I scope out her bed. White bedspread with little holes around the fringe, about ten thousand bright-colored pillows piled against the headboard. Man, that’s a lot of pillows. And the bed—looks like a full-size, which is really too small for me. Kind of awkward when my feet hang off the edge...
“You seem like you’re a million miles away.” She’s smiling, but there’s a puzzled look in her eyes.
Jesus. I should be thinking about the sex, like how she’ll feel on top of me when she says my name.
“Sorry.” I flash her a grin and go to stand toe-to-toe with her, resting my hands lightly on her slender hips. “I’m right here.” My tongue feels wooden, like I wish another body part would feel.
“Much better.” She does that hair-toss thing again and moves her hands up to grip my shoulders. “I’m right here, too.”
“So I see.”
Her lips are parting in what can only be described as an open invitation to my tongue.
I accept.
I lean down, lifting one hand off her hip to gently cup her chin as I kiss her.
I taste lipstick...the bittersweet of her Manhattan...a hint of breath mint...and I wait for the sparks to ignite in my mouth and fire up the anaconda.
There are no sparks.
She’s eager, bordering on aggressive. Maybe it’s been a while for her, too. We’re basically tongue-wrestling. Her fingers scoot up into my hair. Calla— other women do that, too.
My hands are now back on her hips, stiff and frozen, like mannequin-hands. I don’t know what to do with them. Fucking hell you don’t know what to do with them, I remind myself savagely. You’ve always known what to do—ever since you were a teenager. You know how to read women—what they like, what they want, how to give it to them.
I refocus—tactfully pull away a little, trying to get Emily to scale back the way she’s thrashing me with her tongue. That’s probably it; the kissing’s a little off, and unlike some guys, I need a good lip lock to get the engine revved up.
She takes my hint, softens her oral assault, and we’re finding a rhythm here. After a few minutes, I decide it’s time to head for second base. I thread one hand up under her hair—it’s thin and slippery—and work my other hand up under her shirt, my fingers probing for her nipple. Little false advertising going on here with all the padding in her bra, but it happens, and I remind myself I’ve always been into a variety of women. They all turn me on.
Only right now, this one doesn’t.
W...T...F.
This should be like falling off a log. Actually, it should be like taking out a log, only he’s not ready. I’m stroking the very erect nipple of a very excited stranger, and there’s nothing going on below the belt.
This has never fucking happened before. Never in the sexual history of Big Deck has there been any situation when my soldier wouldn’t stand at attention.
Okay, bud. Chill. You’re not going to get anywhere if you’re thinking too much with your big head. Uh, hello...now Emily’s hands are grabbing at my ass, squeezing, and she makes this little mmm sound against my mouth. She’s pulling me into her, ready for more, and I cringe a little bit inside, knowing she’s probably expecting to feel my rigid member pressing against her instead of a squishy giant mushroom.
Second base didn’t do anything for me, so I’ll go to third. But lying down this time, which is how I should have started the foreplay. I break the kiss, look into Emily’s eyes which are glazed with desire, drop my voice low and raspy. “Do you want me to fuck you?” There. That sounds like the Big Deck I know. The guy who makes women wet with just his voice. The guy who makes women come with the flick of a finger. The guy who’s able to leap tall buildings in a single bound. Fucking superhero.
“Yes. God, Jack—you’re the hottest guy I’ve ever seen.”
I flinch a little, hearing her say my name, because it’s making this seem more personal. I don’t want personal. I’ve just got to get this done—not for pleasure, but to prove something.
We lock lips again, work our way closer to the bed. My hands wander down to her waistband and I begin unbuttoning, waiting for the python to stir and awaken. There’s a
scrabbling, rustle-y sound on the hardwood floor of the bedroom. Emily pulls back, her Manhattan-minty breath in warm puffs against my mouth, and cranes her neck to look around the side of me. “Oh, shit...I’m sorry. I should have put him in another room.”
Him??
I turn to look at what she’s talking about. It’s a cat. Batting what looks like a balled-up piece of paper across the floor, completely oblivious to the fact that two humans are about to get it on—if one of the humans can get it up.
She has a cat. Which makes me think of someone else who has a cat, and I know now (even though I probably knew the second I walked in here), that there is no fucking way I can do this.
It feels wrong.
It’s not about the cat, or Emily’s over-zealous kissing, or her too-small bed. It’s about me. It’s about me and how I’m not ready, even though I feel like I should be, by now.
Twenty minutes later, I’m sitting on my couch with a Dos Equis, feeling guilty that I just left Emily that way—mumbling something about not feeling well, which wasn’t far from the truth. It was the right choice—if I had stayed, I’d have felt even worse.
I flick on the TV, scroll through the channels and land on the Angels-Orioles game. Baseball usually puts me in a better mood, and if not, there are more Dos Equis in the fridge.
The coffee table’s dusty, and there’s some crumbs on it from my meatball sub last night. I swipe my hand across it, sweeping the remnants onto the floor in a classic display of man-cleaning, and my eyes fall on the drawer in the table. I get a little zig-zag feeling in my chest because of what’s in there.
Sliding the drawer open, I take out the picture. It’s a 5 x 7 copy of the photo I took of this girl in an orange bikini. A girl I used to know.
Got to put that away. The picture, the memories. My feelings.
I tuck it back in the drawer and stand up, all of a sudden restless again. This house needs something. It’s too quiet, too plain with its white walls and black leather furniture—typical bach pad, typical carpenter’s house where he’s renovating everyone else’s house except his own.
I wonder what she’s doing right now. If she’s out with someone...fuck, don’t want to go there or I’ll drive myself bat-shit. Maybe she’s hanging with her girlfriends, or at home listening to some jazz, or shooing Murphy off the counter. Safe bet with that last one.
This house is too fucking quiet.
Maybe I’ll get a cat.
Chapter 28 ~ Madeline
September 10
I’m perusing a market analysis for a client and eating a packed and soggy Subway sandwich during a working lunch at the office, waiting for the inevitable drip to find my blouse. Angie insisted on bringing me back something after I declined to go with her and Jordan. You need to take time to eat and relax, she said, sternly. You bring in all these snacks for us, but you don’t have any for yourself. You’re looking too thin, and people are starting to hate you for losing weight without trying. That last part made me laugh, even though I know it’s probably true, and Angie’s eyes softened and crinkled behind her red glasses in a mixture of kindness and concern.
Laughing still kind of catches me off guard, because it’s been few and far between. It’s been twenty-five days since Jack. Twenty-five days—I glance at my iPhone for the time—two hours and forty-seven minutes. I’ve been keeping a countdown, which is probably the stupidest thing I could do, because countdowns are supposed to be for getting to some sort of end result. But I’m already at the end result. So I’m just counting aimlessly, and for what reason? To keep track of how long I’ve been miserable? And yet still, I count.
I lift the turkey sub to my mouth, my tongue darting out to catch the drip of sweet onion sauce. Too late. Sighing, I set down the sandwich, dip a napkin in my glass of water and dab at the stain. Jack would be laughing at me right now, eyes dancing, perfect lips turned up in a devastating grin.
Oh, God. Shouldn’t have gone there. My eyes begin to sting, and I blink hard. Think of good, life-brightening things, Mads. Good things like the phone call the other night from Corey who is thankfully doing great. Good things like hot apple cider on the stove and great big belly laughs with Laney and sleeping in on Saturday mornings.
A few raps on my office door before it opens. Jordan, breezing in with her long brown curls springing at her shoulders. It’s virtually impossible to be sad around this ray of sunshine in her shirt dress and jangly earrings. Plus, she has cookies.
“Angie and I almost forgot to give you the best part,” she grins. “Not that they’re even close to what you make. What were those ones you brought in on Tuesday?”
“Oatmeal butterscotch chocolate chip.”
“Oh, yeah. They were awesome.” She slides the cookie bag across my desk. “You, um, change your mind about asking someone to the gala?”
I can’t help but smile. “You poor thing. Angie put you up to this, didn’t she?”
Her brown eyes widen in innocence. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. But maybe. Actually, yes.” She smiles sheepishly. “We think you should.”
“Jordan.”
“Maddie. Come on. Just think about it.”
“If you’re suggesting that I ask Jack...”
“I am. We are. What do you have to lose, seriously?”
“My pride?”
“Swallow it. Swallow him, for God’s sake. But just call him. What if he’s thinking the same thing you are?”
“Which would be...”
“That being apart sucks. It can’t hurt to ask him, right? If he says no, maybe that’ll give you more resolve to move on. And if he says yes...geesh, Maddie, at the very least, you get to lay eyes on that gorgeous hunk of male flesh again.”
I reach into the cookie packet, take one out and bite into it. “M & M. Thanks.”
“Maddie.” Jordan grabs the phone off my desk and shakes it at me.
I take it from her, huffing in mock exasperation. But I’m not exasperated with her; I’m grateful, because she makes sense. I can tell myself I’m doing this so I can hear him say no, which will give me strength to put him in the past and move forward.
I will ignore the fourth of July sparkler-feeling in my chest at the chance that he might actually say yes.
Jordan’s smiling at me. She’s seen the change in my face, gives me a double-thumbs up and blows me a kiss on her way out.
Deep breaths. Scroll through my contacts. Find him. Tap the number.
It’s ringing. Of course it’s ringing, because I called him, but God, it’s ringing, and in just seconds, I might even be talking to—
“Hey, Callaway. What’s up?”
Even though I’m sitting down, the sound of Jack’s voice again after twenty-five days turns my knees to jelly. More deep breaths so I don’t slide out of my office chair and have Angie find me in a puddle under my desk, although he sounds so casual—like it’s no big deal that I’m calling.
“Madeline? You there?”
I clear my throat. “Yes! Sorry—was just...eating a cookie.” Moron! Could I sound any more idiotic? “How are you?”
“I’m good. And you?”
Desperately, hopelessly missing you, Jack. “I’m fine, thanks. Is this a good time? Are you working?”
“I’m driving. On my way to see my father.”
“Oh...is he all right?
“He’s fine.” A chuckle. “Back to his old bastard self.”
“I guess that’s good, then.” I switch the phone to my other ear, pick up a pen, tap it on my desktop. My hands feel damp and cold. Deep breath. “Well...I was calling to ask you something. For a favor.”
“All right. Ask away.”
Just do it, Madeline. Like ripping off a bandaid. “My company goes to this charity gala every year. It’s a fundraiser for pediatric cancer—a big one. Most of the area businesses go. There’s dinner, and dancing. Anyway, I was wondering...if you’d go with me.”
“When is it?”
“Next weekend. Fri
day night. I know it’s short notice, so if you have other plans, I totally understand. Or even if you don’t have plans...I mean, that’s absolutely fine if you can’t.” I’m babbling now, filling up the air space between us with stupid words because I’m so afraid he’ll say no.
There’s a layer of quiet amusement in his voice that makes me curl my toes. “I don’t have other plans, Callaway.”
I realize I was holding my breath, waiting for his answer, because I make this little sound that’s like a balloon when you let out just a tiny bit of air. “Really?”
“Yes, really. That sounds like fun.”
“Okay. That’s great, thank you. It’s formal—black tie. I hope that’s all right?”
“I’ll have to dust off my tux, but that’ll be fine.”
“I’ll get in touch with you mid-week about it, if that’s okay.”
“Sure.”
“And Jack...um, just so you’ll know...” I don’t know how to say this except for to just come right out and say it. “I’m not expecting anything other than your company. This is just...platonic.” The word tastes metallic on my tongue.
Another soft chuckle. “I’m not worried, Callaway. Talk soon.”
I end the call and sit there, trying to process what just happened as a thrill skates up my spine. Platonic, I remind myself firmly. Two acquaintances going to a charity event. One person doing another person a favor. That’s all.
Platonic.
Okay. With that settled, I turn my attention back to the market analysis. Two and a half baths...check. Two-car garage...check. Full basement...check. Pressure-treated deck...check.
Deck.
Big Deck...charity gala...next Friday. Check.
Eight days. Eight days until I see Jack again.
This is a countdown I’m going to like.
Chapter 29 ~ Jack
September 10
So today brings another unexpected phone call. My father called early yesterday morning while I was at the gym to ask me (uh, correction: order me) to meet with him today. His voicemail was to the point: Jack. I need to see you tomorrow. 1:00 at the office. He’s famous for that—expecting people to just rearrange their schedules on virtually no notice to accommodate his needs. Never mind that I’m one hundred and forty-five miles away and have my own job, my own life. Mere trivial details—none of this matters to him, so here I am on 295 south, on my way to see him, pissed off at myself for following his orders. I was able to clear my afternoon since all I had was a couple of rooms to paint in Dedham. I did refuse to meet at the office, though—I’m still not ready to go back there yet.