by Sarah Smith
“Stop it.” I face Tate head-on, my back to Jamie. “He was just taking me to my car. That’s all.”
“Really? Is that why he was holding your hand? Do people hold hands now after they ride with each other in the car?”
His eyes burn with a familiar intense look. I’ve seen it once before when creepy Brett was trying to chat me up in the warehouse while he stood next to me.
Jamie starts to speak, but I interrupt him. “What I do is not your concern. Not anymore.”
As terrible as it felt for Tate to see me holding hands with Jamie, I will not let him make me feel guilty about it. He takes a step back and thrusts a hand into his hair. The agitation in his voice translates into a rough exhale when he breathes.
“It is my concern if the guy you’re with is standing in front of my house.” Tate’s low voice packs a punch in the stagnant summer air. We stand, misted over with sweat. Even though the temperature has dropped about ten degrees, the humidity looms like an invisible cloud.
“Quit talking like that,” I groan. “I’m not with him. How many times do I have to say he just gave me a ride? I needed to get to my car.”
“I would have given you a ride if you had let me.”
“No way in hell I would have gotten in your car after tonight.”
We’re sparring back and forth, using the strain in our voices as weapons. It’s the only way we can keep from yelling at each other. It’s a strange game, keeping your voice at speaking volume when you actually want to scream. Whoever goes hoarse first wins.
By now we’ve backed up into the street, still facing each other. I turn around, remembering that Jamie is here. He’s standing next to his car with his arms crossed, taking in the shitshow.
A light flicks on in the window of a nearby house. A neighbor watching our impromptu party in the street. My dignity makes an overdue appearance, and I flush with embarrassment.
A scrawny middle-aged man in a robe saunters out of the house next to Tate’s duplex.
“Everything okay? Having car trouble?” he calls from his porch about ten feet away.
“Everything’s fine. Thanks, Lyle,” Tate replies.
“Oh. Hi, Tate. I didn’t realize that was you. These peepers of mine. Not what they used to be.” Lyle lets out an amused chuckle.
“We were just having a discussion. The car’s fine. I was about to pull it into my driveway.” Tate dials back his tone to politely sincere in record time.
Lyle waves good night before walking back inside.
I turn to Jamie. “You should go.”
He shakes his head. “No way I’m leaving you alone with this guy. He’s clearly unstable.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Tate stiffen.
I roll my eyes, unable to hide my frustration. “Jamie. Listen. I appreciate your concern, but I can handle myself. Tate isn’t anything to worry about.”
An exasperated sigh leaves his mouth. “If you say so.”
He pats my shoulder, then pauses to look at me for a few seconds. I’m paralyzed, wondering if he’s going to try for a friendly cheek kiss just to spite Tate. If Tate nearly lost it at the sight of us holding hands, he will coldcock Jamie if he kisses me. Instead he climbs into his car and drives away. A loud hiss of breath signals my relief. I clench my jaw as I watch his car round the block.
I start to open the door to my car. “Good night.”
“Wait.” Tate’s tone is gentle now, and so is his touch when he reaches for my arm.
“Tate, I can’t.”
“Will you please come inside and talk to me? I’ll explain everything. I’ll do whatever it takes to make it clear how I feel about you.”
I silently weigh my options. All I want to do right now is speed home and rage-cry into my pillow until I pass out. But I also want closure. If whatever is between us ends tonight, I want to know I did it the right way. I want to know that we ended things calmly and maturely, not with an argument in the street.
“Okay.”
His lips remain a neutral line, but his eyes seem hopeful. We both turn to his still-running car. He pulls into his driveway, and I follow him inside.
twenty-six
Tate turns to me after shutting the front door.
“Before you say anything, let me say this. There is absolutely nothing going on between me and Camille. I haven’t seen or spoken to her in years. When I walked up behind her, I honestly thought it was you. I thought I was kissing you.”
I let out a laugh that sounds more like a scoff. “I saw the way you looked at her, Tate. You touched her arm; you leaned into her.”
His face twists at my words, like he’s swallowing bitter medicine. “I swear to you, from where I was standing, I couldn’t see her face clearly. I thought it was you. As soon as I realized it was her, I backed away and ran after you.”
He takes a breath. Seeing his chest heave up and down reminds me to inhale.
“Look, I’m a piece of shit for kissing Camille. There’s no excuse for what I did, no matter how clueless I was. If the tables were turned, if I had seen you kiss some guy . . .” he trails off. His jaw tightens and his cheeks flush as if they’re on fire. “I would have raged. You can hate me forever for that. I deserve it. But I need you to know that I’m not with anyone else but you. Ever since you and I started up, no other woman has even crossed my mind. I know there’s no way to prove that to you, especially after what you saw tonight, but it’s the truth. I promise you that, Emmie.”
Despite the pain coursing through me, I believe him. Maybe it’s his own pain displayed on his face or the way his gray-blue eyes glisten, as if they’re pleading. He blinks before any tears can fall. And in that moment, I know he’s not lying.
“Okay. If you say it’s the truth, then I believe you.”
He clears his throat. “I was wrong for not coming clean about Camille from the get-go. And I was wrong to let an ex—a past relationship—affect how I treated you when we first met.”
Hearing him say the words is a relief, but doubt still nags at me.
“Do you have some sort of fetish for Asian women?”
It sounds ridiculous spoken out loud, but I need to know. I don’t want to be anyone’s weird fixation, not even Tate’s.
His eyebrows knit. “What? Of course not.”
“You can see how it would be hard for me to believe you.”
He shuts his eyes for a long second before focusing on me once again. “I understand. But I swear to you, it’s just a coincidence. I’ve dated women from different backgrounds. I’ll dig up old photos to prove it to you.”
I shake my head, awareness kicking in. I let the insecurities that plagued me as a kid creep back in when I shouldn’t have.
I refocus on the one thing I need to know before we go any further. “How often do you look at me and think of Camille?”
“Never.” He doesn’t flinch or blink when he answers.
My eyes widen.
“It’s the truth, but I’ll clarify. When I first met you, it took a while. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I couldn’t get over the similarities. She was my first long-term relationship, and it ended because she cheated on me. The only way I could think to deal was to shut you out.”
I must visibly flinch, because he holds up his hand.
“That lasted for about a month. Then I got to know you better, and from that point on, I was never, ever reminded of her when I saw you. I swear. Eventually, I just forgot about telling you because I forgot about the similarity.”
“I don’t believe you could forget something like that.”
“I understand why you would think that.” He yanks at the collar of his shirt, the skin of his neck rosy with a sheen of sweat. “When I took you home from the hospital, I thought about telling you about her. About everything.”
His eyes fall to the ground.
A second later they find me again.
“Remember when I sat with you while you took a bath? I almost told you then, but I didn’t want to ruin the moment. I had you next to me. Finally. I didn’t want to screw it all up by mentioning my ex, who I don’t care about.”
I recall how long he sat in silence before telling me about his failed eighth birthday party. He’s right. I would have been angry had he told me in that moment.
“I forgot about her, about everything else. Except you.”
His words are low and loaded with feeling. They make me ache with want.
I yank myself back to the present conversation. “What do you mean that you forgot about telling me once you got to know me better? In those first months, you never said a word to me unless it had to do with work, and even then our interaction was minimal. You spoke to me directly maybe a handful of times when we first started working together.”
His chest heaves with a raspy breath before answering. “I noticed the way you talked to people. The way you interacted with them. You were tough with most. You were sweet and kind with a few. I eavesdropped a lot.”
“How? Your earbuds were glued to your ears for the first six months you were at Nuts & Bolts. Or you would always shut your door.”
“The walls in that place are cracker thin, and our offices are less than three feet from each other. And I never shut my door all the way. I could hear almost everything.” He half smiles, then covers his mouth with his hand, wiping it away. “Whenever you would talk to someone or answer your phone, I turned off my music. I liked listening to you. You were so funny. Very sarcastic. You gave people a hard time whenever they deserved it. I loved what a ballbuster you were.”
He tugs on each rolled-up sleeve of his shirt. My eyes skim over the thick, veiny lines and blond hair dotting his forearm.
“That’s when things started to change. I was dying to get to know you, but I didn’t know how to recover. I figured you wouldn’t give me another chance, even if I explained my reason for blowing you off initially. I was embarrassed, and I didn’t know how to approach you. It seemed like saying ‘I’m sorry’ wouldn’t have been enough.”
As soon as he finishes speaking, his eyes fall to the floor. He’s clearly mortified to admit this to me. His explanation makes sense, and ultimately, I understand his reasons. Hearing his words though would mean everything.
“It would be enough now.”
“I’m so sorry.” He steps toward me. “For what I did tonight, for being a jerk to you when we first met.”
I remain still.
“I’m sorry for being a jealous psycho when I saw you with Jamie.”
He comes another step closer. My lips tremble, and my eyes water.
“I’m sorry for the hurt I caused you.”
He fixes his gaze on me. I swallow, keeping the tears behind my eyes. Another step and we’re inches apart. I can feel it in my bones that he means it. The pained way he speaks, the affection, sorrow, and hope in his eyes. Every blink is a beg for forgiveness.
“Emmie. I am so, so sorry.”
“Okay,” I finally say.
We’re so close his chest almost touches mine. I want nothing more than to give in and rest my head on his shoulder.
The tears finally fall, and his hand finds my cheek. “Let me hold you. Please?”
His words combined with his gentle touch seal the open wound between us. When I nuzzle into his chest, it’s an acceptance of his apology. I need this just as much as he does.
Despite the heaven of this hug, remaining doubts nag at me. I breathe deeply and take a step back from him.
“If we had to go through all this just to get you to be open with me—your girlfriend—this can’t work.” I motion between us with my arm.
He hesitates, his face twisting. I pause to steady myself. The thought of this being the end kills me, but it’s the only option if we can’t communicate honestly. Tears pool at the waterlines of my eyes, and I wonder how long it will be before I start crying again.
“If this can’t work, I can’t go back to normal,” I say. “I can’t see you every day at work if I have to pretend we’re enemies again.”
It’s our worst-case scenario. The high stakes Tate was so confident about.
“Emmie, you were never my enemy,” he says softly.
“I know that now, but we’ve treated each other like it for so long. We have to figure out a way to move forward or move on.”
I’m not sure how I’d cope, but I’d have to throw on some military-grade bulletproof invisible armor at work if that became our new normal. I’d need to fake a whole new persona around Tate just to survive. Too much has happened between us, and everything has changed. Moving on most likely means one of us would quit Nuts & Bolts when we couldn’t take being around the other any longer, and I have a feeling I’d throw in the towel before he did. I can already feel the crack in my heart forming, preparing for that inevitable day.
He pulls his phone out of his pocket. “Here. I want you to read all the texts I’ve exchanged with Natalie this past year.”
“What?”
“Read them. All the way back to when I started at Nuts & Bolts.”
“Why?”
“Because I want you to know everything.”
“You’re serious?”
He shakes his head. “I could stand here and tell you that I’ve never taken care of someone the way I took care of you, that you’re the first woman I’ve had over to this apartment. I could tell you that I’ve never told anyone about my eighth birthday because I’m private to a fault. I could tell you that I’ve never let anyone in, except you.”
He types the passcode on his phone and hands it to me. “But that’s not good enough. I want to be open with you. I want to show you what you mean to me, Emmie.”
He’s weirdly calm now. I can’t figure out what’s going on.
I shake my head. “That’s got to be hundreds of texts. No way I’m doing that.”
“There’s fifty texts, max. I hate texting. I hardly ever do it. If it takes you longer than fifteen minutes to read all my messages with Natalie over the past year, I’ll be shocked.”
“But we spent the week after my surgery texting every day.”
He shrugs. “I hate texting. Except with you.”
My heartbeat takes on a fluttery rhythm. “You’re serious?” I repeat.
“Dead serious. Have a look. Sit on the couch if you want. I’ll be in the kitchen.”
He slides past me, our arms touching briefly. I move to the couch and scroll to his text messages screen. I can’t find Camille’s name there or in his contacts list. He was telling the truth. She hasn’t been on his mind or his phone in a long while.
I scroll through his texts with Natalie. The first exchange that catches my eye is from two months after Tate and I started working together.
Natalie: Just tell her the truth. She’ll understand.
Tate: Doubtful. I’ve been a jerk to her for too long. Nothing I say will fix that.
Natalie: Negatory. If she’s a sweetie like you say she is, she’ll understand.
Tate called me a sweetie to his sister all those months ago? Something next to my heart thumps. I skim the rest of her reply and scan the messages from a couple months after that exchange.
Tate: Fuck. She’s pretty. Goddamn it, she’s pretty. I can’t focus.
Natalie: Good god. Go on about it why don’t you.
The next few texts are comments about how difficult it is not to stare when he sees me. I blush. I had no clue he felt that way about me. He was always brooding and eerily quiet. I honestly thought he was funneling all his energy into keeping himself from snapping at me every day. My heartbeat quickens. I’m flattered, but I feel silly. How did I not pick up on any of this?
My finger slides down the screen to reveal a
nother chunk of texts.
Natalie: So?? Did you get that creeper fired or not?
Tate: I did.
Natalie: Well??? Details! Come on!
Natalie: You’re the worst. You arranged the firing of the sexist creeper who’s been pestering the woman you’re crazy about, and you go radio silent on me the whole day?
Natalie: Have you told her you like her yet?
Natalie: Quit ignoring me.
Natalie: Okay, I can handle your annoying professionalism and refusal to give me details on this prick getting fired, but I’m not going to just sit here while you blow this opportunity. Come on! Tell her you like her!
Tate: Please leave me alone. I’m trying to work.
Natalie: You’ve never spoken about anyone the way you talk about her. Your face lights up like a Christmas tree whenever I bring her up. I know when my twin brother is head over heels for someone.
Natalie: Your deafening silence proves I’m right. You won’t say otherwise because you know it would be a lie. Just talk to her. Get to know her. Make small talk. Ease your way into it.
I inhale sharply. The relentless teasing from his sister must have gotten on his nerves. I wonder how worked up he must have felt most of this past year.
Tate: I blew it.
Natalie: Blew what exactly?
Tate: She came to the rock climbing gym. I talked her down the wall when she panicked because I guess she’s afraid of heights so I calmed her down. She thanked me for helping her . . . she finally looked at me like she didn’t despise me . . . and I blew it. It completely threw me off seeing her like that. She looked so scared. It wrecked me. I should have said more, but I froze.
Natalie: Crap . . . it’s okay. You did a nice thing by helping her. I’m sure she appreciated that. Say something tomorrow at work to her.
Natalie: So?! Did you say anything to her today?!
Natalie: Do not ignore your sister.
Natalie: Taaaaaaate
Tate: Jesus. I don’t check my phone for one afternoon and this is what I come back to?
Tate: To answer your question, no. I didn’t have the nerve. She seems pretty into that contractor who asked her to the rock climbing gym. I should just leave it alone.