by Sarah Smith
“I saw you eyeing it when you walked in the kitchen.” He bumps the tip of his nose to mine. “Don’t pretend you don’t know.”
I yank him toward me by his shirt collar. “You cleared out a drawer for me? Already?” Squeals intersperse the kisses I plant on his lips.
He nods. “For those times when a late evening turns into a lazy morning.”
We pick up exactly where we left off the night before. We are our crazed selves once again, aching for each other’s mouths and tongues. My fingers find their rightful spot in his thick curls. When my knuckles curl against the impossibly soft strands, I moan into his mouth. My oh my, his curls say to my hands. Lovely seeing you again. How we’ve missed you.
His hands remain flat on the wall behind me, not touching me at all. They don’t need to. The rest of his body is doing more than enough. His entire lower half is pressed against my lower half. To call it grinding would be dirty and inaccurate. This isn’t a club, and he isn’t shoving his body into mine like a clumsy oaf. He’s pressing ever so slightly with purpose. It’s a strange way to describe it, but it’s true. There’s care in the way his body is making contact with mine. The rhythm is steady and slow, but deliberate. I wonder if this is how his body moves when he has a naked woman underneath him. I’ll find out soon enough.
His hands don’t stay away for long. They spring off the locker wall and spread against my rib cage, then up to my breasts. He gives both a gentle squeeze. His tongue curls away from mine as I feel him smile.
He grabs my hands, which are wrapped around his neck, and presses them against the wall behind me. They’re shoulder level now. Our fingers interlace quickly, like they’ve pulled this move together countless times. I break our kiss for a second.
“Is this what you did in high school?” I manage to say after a few breaths.
He shakes his head no, then kisses me. “I’m not into PDA,” he finally says with labored breath. “But I’d be into doing this in the stairwell at work.”
“Yes,” I gasp. “First thing Monday morning, we’re sneaking away and doing exactly this.”
I lean the front of my pelvis against him. There’s a rock-hard bulge protruding from his pants that I don’t need to see to appreciate. I wonder if we’ll be one of those work couples whose productivity suffers because we’re too busy fooling around in the supply closet. I hope so.
I roll my head, my hair bunching up against the metal. I’m still restrained by his thick arms and his powerful lower half. When I close my eyes, his hands drop to the backs of my thighs. In one swift motion, he lifts me up and my legs instinctively wrap around his waist. I’m still bracing my back against the locker. One of his hands runs roughly through my hair while the other strokes the side of my neck. We’re locked in a stare once again. All I see is gray against a cloud of creamy white.
The way he easily keeps me pinned against this random locker is an unexpected turn-on for me. His muscled body exists as a result of impressive amounts of physical activity, and this is the reward. I squeeze my legs around him tighter. It’s more than just physical attraction though. It’s contentment, the feeling of safety. It’s the knowledge that I’ve never felt more at home with anyone than when I’m in Tate’s arms. It’s enough to make me explode right here in this dimly lit hallway of lockers.
“Let’s get out of here,” I say between long, sloppy kisses. I’m clutching his face between my hands. My tan fingers pop against the whiteness of his complexion. I adore how beautifully our skin contrasts.
He nods before lowering me down slowly, my back sliding along the locker. I kick my feet to the ground and steady myself. There’s an echo of laughter at the far end of the hall, and we turn in unison. A handful of people glance at us but continue walking.
“Good thing we stopped when we did.” He pulls at his belt. “That would have been awkward.”
I nod toward his crotch. “Are you going to be okay walking out of here or do you need a minute?”
He looks down and laughs softly. “Nothing a simple waistband tuck can’t fix.”
I laugh, the sharp sound ricocheting between the metal walls.
“Let’s say bye to Natalie and Brendan. Then we can get the hell out of here and head to my place,” he says.
I follow him back into the gym, smoothing my hair down to make myself presentable. We spot them standing and chatting on the far side.
The cake table comes into my line of view, and I pull on Tate’s sleeve. “One more slice. I’ll catch up with you in a sec.”
“Hurry back, or I’ll have to come looking for you.” He leaves me with a playful wink.
A dozen untouched squares sit on paper plates. I can’t believe more people haven’t eaten this delicious lemon crème concoction. I polish off once piece, then eye another. Tate can wait an extra minute; this cake is just too damn good.
I’m two bites in when a woman just a few feet away catches my attention. I freeze. Long, dark hair. Catlike brown eyes. Small button nose. Full lips. A similar tan shade covers her skin. This complete stranger looks almost exactly like me.
Despite there being a half dozen people between us, I zero in on only her. It’s like a magnet has captured my stare. We’re similar in stature and facial features—we’re even both wearing black dresses—but it’s not a long-lost identical twin situation. This stranger and I could pass for sisters, though. She’s objectively prettier than me. And her makeup is tidier than mine too. The cat-eye she managed to pull off is more polished than my rushed smoky eye. She’s a bit less curvy, and I think she might be an inch or two shorter, but it’s hard to say given she’s wearing wedges.
She turns, and all I can see is her back. Jaclyn races to her side, and the two hug. When a break in the music hits, I can hear Jaclyn speaking.
“You should see the girl Tate’s with,” she says, her unblinking eyes fixed on my doppelgänger. “She looks just like you, Camille. I mean, you two split up years ago. It’s so creepy.”
The last word is barely out of her mouth before everything clicks. It’s like a puzzle is being solved in my brain at lightning speed.
My look-alike, Camille, is Tate’s ex. Why didn’t he tell me she would be here?
Now I know why he rejected me when we met face-to-face all those months ago, why he spoke those biting words his first week of work, words I was never meant to hear. Because I bear a striking resemblance to the woman who broke his heart.
Jaclyn turns away to speak to someone else, and a familiar figure cuts in. Tate’s broad, pale form saunters up behind her, a smile on his face. And then it happens.
Tate’s hand on her arm, his fingers caressing her skin. He leans closer, pressing his lips to her cheek.
Then his mouth is on her mouth.
An invisible vise clamps around my chest, making it impossible to breathe. My hand rises from my side to the neckline of my dress, the thud of my heartbeat shaking my palm.
I fall back, hitting the cake table with my ass. I catch myself before falling, but the whine of the metal legs dragging against the gym floor causes everyone in the immediate vicinity to spin around and stare. Normally, I’d be mortified at nearly collapsing in front of several dozen people, but right now I don’t care. Nothing matters now that I’ve seen my boyfriend kiss his ex right in front of me.
I heave a breath and choke. If I stay in this gym a second longer, I will either vomit or scream.
The smattering of voices around me turns to muffled ringing. Every particle in my body seizes, and my throat begins to constrict. My sole focus is the bright red exit sign, my only escape.
twenty-five
One dim hall takes me to a short corridor, and when I shove open a set of heavy doors, I’m in what I assume is an auditorium.
I fall into one of the cushy velvet seats and stare at the floor beneath my heels. I’d crawl out of my skin if it were physically possible. T
ate kissed his ex-girlfriend. In front of me. How the hell . . . why the hell . . .
A loud squeak causes me to twist around. Tate starts to head for me, but I hold up a hand to halt him.
“I can explain.” His tone is placating. I hate it.
I stand. “Don’t.” The whisper I manage is like a cannon of anger and hurt from my mouth.
I back away, hoping with each step that the ground will open up and swallow me. It would hurt less than to watch the man I care for betray me right in front of my eyes.
I call on every boss-bitch tip I’ve ever read, every technique I’ve ever employed to try and keep it together. I stop moving and stand tall, my arms crossed, my eye contact unwavering.
“How could you do that, Tate?”
His chest heaves with a breath, like he’s about to launch into a long-winded explanation. “Look, that’s not . . . it’s not what you think.”
“Really? You’re going to lie to my face on top of cheating on me?”
I employ the steady, hard rhythm I’ve used countless times before, yet now it feels like a needle through my throat. This man standing before me is not who I thought he was. He’s a faker, too, but in the worst possible way.
Wetness hits my collarbone. When I touch my face, I realize I’m crying. Only a few tears though. I wipe them away, biting the inside of my cheek to keep the rest behind my eyelids where they belong.
“Just stay the hell away from me.”
I dart out of the auditorium and into the hallway. Tate’s heavy footsteps echo behind me. When he touches my shoulder, my entire body cringes.
“Emmie, wait.”
I spin around. “You kiss your ex in front of me and expect me to just shrug it off?”
He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He stands, lips bitten into a thin line.
Another tear falls, and I scrub it away. His words, his feelings for me, it’s all been a lie. If he’s someone else’s—his ex’s—then everything between us is tainted. He clearly doesn’t care about me the same way I care about him. If he ever cared about me at all.
“I guess you have a type for sure.”
When I realize I’ve said the words out loud, I feel a stabbing pain in my chest. I can barely stomach how insecure I sound. Tate definitely has a type. He likes tall, tan Asian girls. I’m just a fetish, a kink for him to satisfy. Nothing more.
Through the shock, I somehow find my voice. “That’s why you were a jerk to me when we first met. Because I look like her. I reminded you of her, didn’t I?”
He stands, his face a sheet of solemn white. “That’s not—”
“Just answer the question.”
I think back to all those months ago when I fantasized about giving him a verbal dressing-down in high heels, staring at him face-to-face. My dream is coming true tonight, but it’s mutated into a nightmare. This moment is nowhere near as satisfying as I’d thought it would be. I don’t feel vindicated or triumphant. Instead, I’m a heartbroken mess wishing I could be anywhere else, wishing I could feel anything else other than this jumble of pain and anger.
This man, this man who I thought was so special, so different from every other guy I’ve ever been with, has hurt me in the most unimaginable way.
His chest heaves with a sigh. “Yes.”
I swallow back the boulder in my throat. “So not only was I paraded around like some consolation prize in front of your classmates this evening, but I also had a front-row seat to you starting things back up with your ex.”
Red seeps up his face. A huff of air follows, his shoulders rising with it. “That’s not even close to the truth. If you would just stop for a second and let me explain—”
“No, Tate. No more explaining, no more excuses. You’ve hurt me since the day you met me. You could have just explained yourself then.”
“And tell you what? Sorry I was such an immature prick to you because I was freaked out that you look exactly like my high school ex-girlfriend?”
“Yes. It’s what a fucking decent person would have done.” I dig my nails into the palms of my hands. “But you’re not a decent person. You’re with me one minute, and the next I find out you’re still screwing your ex.”
Every nerve in my body is firing on all cylinders. Whatever happiness I felt minutes, hours, days ago, whatever excitement I had for the future between us has vaporized like a puff of smoke in a windstorm. The only thing left is the pain pulsing from the base of my throat to my chest.
What little composure I have left I channel into my words. “You’re not the person I thought you were. We’re done. I never want to speak to you again.”
I dig through my purse and hand Tate the Nuts & Bolts relationship disclosure form, scrawled with my handwriting. My weekend surprise is now moot.
When Tate’s eyes fall to the form, I make a beeline for the women’s bathroom nearby, ignoring his pleas to wait. I lean over the nearest sink and splash water on my face. When I look up at the mirror, I nearly jump. Red blotches dot my cheeks, and the skin around my clavicle is flushed. Managing not to sob has helped me avoid swollen eyes and tear streaks. Even so, I still look like the stock photo for “train wreck.”
I need to figure out a way to get out of here, but I refuse to leave with Tate. Natalie or Brendan seem nice enough to give me a ride back to my car if I asked, but the awkwardness would be excruciating. It’s too late in the evening to call Kaitlin. I reach for my phone and call the only other person I can think of.
* * *
• • •
TATE IS CROUCHED on the floor just outside the door when I walk out of the restroom, head in his hands, pants and shirt rumpled. He looks almost as wrecked as I do.
I don’t acknowledge him as I jog through the door and to Jamie’s car parked in the front. I race to the passenger side, hoping he doesn’t follow.
“Hey, you.” Jamie’s cheery face greets me, but it switches to concern when he gets a closer look at me. “Are you okay?”
“Peachy,” I mutter. He idles for a second. “Can we go now, please? I need to get out of here.”
He pulls ahead just as I catch Tate’s reflection in my side view mirror. He looks around frantically, then zeros in on the car.
I give Jamie directions to Tate’s house. “Thank you again for picking me up. I’m sorry it’s so late.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says, dialing back the initial pep of his greeting. “That was Tate, wasn’t it? Who ran after you just before we pulled away?”
I let out a frustrated sigh. I really don’t want to get into it with Jamie, but I suppose I owe him an abbreviated explanation since he was nice enough to give me a ride on a moment’s notice. I left Tate out of our conversation when I called him, but the cat’s out of the bag now.
“It was. Things are complicated between us at the moment.”
“I can tell.”
“We’ve been trying to be friendlier to each other recently, I guess you’d say. It didn’t work out.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Me too.” I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from crying.
“His loss. You look really pretty tonight.”
“You’re such a liar.”
“Am not. You look amazing.”
“I look like hell.” I yank down the overhead mirror and see that my blotchy skin isn’t obvious in the darkness.
“If that’s what hell looks like, I’ll take seconds.” He taps his thumb against the top of the steering wheel while we’re stopped at a red light, then smirks at me. I can’t help but laugh at his ridiculous line.
Jamie parks on the street in front of Tate’s duplex, behind my car. I thank him again before stepping out. He climbs out of the driver’s seat and walks around to my side.
“It was nice seeing you, even if it wasn’t under the greatest circumstances. Sorry you
had a bad night.” He shoves his hands in his pockets.
“I’m the one who should be sorry. I interrupted your Saturday night.” I dig in my purse for my keys. “Here, let me give you gas money.”
“Not a chance.” He takes a step toward me. When he places his hand over mine, I immediately stop rummaging through my purse. “But maybe you can interrupt my night tomorrow and let me take you out for dinner? As friends, of course.”
The tilt of his head and the lift of his eyebrow imply he doesn’t mean it at all when he says friends.
I freeze, then manage to roll my eyes in a playful way. Even though I made it clear before that I wasn’t interested in pursuing anything other than friendship with Jamie, I don’t want to hurt his feelings after he went out of his way for me.
Before I can think of anything to say, a sharp tire squeal pulls our focus to the end of the block. Tate’s gray sedan speeds up to us, then screeches to a halt.
He darts from the car and marches up to Jamie without even bothering to turn the car off. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Excuse me?” Jamie’s initial confusion switches to hostility.
Tate’s eyes dart to the space between Jamie and me, and I realize Jamie is still gripping my hand. I glance up in horror. Even though I’m pissed at Tate, I don’t want him thinking I’m rebounding with Jamie minutes after walking out on him.
“Get your hands off of her,” Tate says.
Jamie lets go, then turns to face him. The two of them are inches apart, exchanging intimidating scowls.
“What the hell is your problem?” Jamie says. “I was just giving her a ride to her car.”
“You gave her a ride. Well done. Now leave.”
“Jesus, man. You need to get a hold of yourself.”
“I’m just fine. Leave. Now.”
Tate’s stern yet calm demeanor seems to aggravate Jamie. He clenches his fists; Tate stares him down. Their stances mimic gorillas egging each other on. I step between them before their standoff turns into a shouting match or worse.