Love Happens

by Claudia Burgoa

  I’m finishing up drying a few of the glasses, putting them in place for the weekend crowd that’ll show up tomorrow night when Mason’s band plays. It’s an annual tradition, marking the first show he ever did with Ray when he was a teen, and he doesn’t charge a cover for it. We break fire marshal rules for capacity and usually have to pump the music out to the parking lot, and the folks sitting at the grills and tables out back.

  “You hear the news?”

  Funny how fast that fear crawls right back up my neck when I hear her voice. Claire’s standing behind me, my guess is she’s leaning on the opposite side of the bar, rubber floor between us. I can even see the face she’s making in my head—I see her without even looking.

  “Yeah,” I say, breathing out a short laugh as if her news is happy. I shut the water off for the sink and dry my hands on the towel before turning around to face her. The vision matches—elbows on the counter, feet crossed, head to the side, hair tucked behind one ear. Her right eyebrow is a little higher than the other, waiting for my reaction.

  “Congrats,” I say, my mouth tight as I force a smile and step into her. “Happy for you,” I lie, kissing her on the cheek before dropping the towel down on the bar next to her and stepping away.

  “I know it’s fast,” she says, her voice trailing behind me, following me.

  “What’s fast anyway,” I shrug, looking straight ahead—trying not to be a dick. “If it’s right, it’s right, huh?”

  That sounded dickish. I sigh to myself, but forge forward, digging in my pocket for my keys. I run my palm over my face at the back door, stopping just before I push it open, not wanting to have to look Mason and Avery in the eyes when I leave.

  “I’d stay, but you know … I’ve got a horse to break,” I nod over my shoulder.

  Maybe I’m just tired of faking it with this girl, or maybe it’s the fact that she’s moving on with someone else. I’ve gotten so comfortable with hiding my feelings because she’s always been so hell bent on her life as it was, and since she was single and on her own, it meant the possibility of an us was always open. One giggle in some jackass’s lap and a goddamned apartment key closed that door, though. Closed it real fast. And I just can’t fake it anymore.

  I stare at her, the inside of my cheek tucked between my teeth, my eyes unable to let go so I can just turn and move on. My mouth won’t work even though there are so many words I want to say just sitting there right at the tip of my tongue.

  Her brow dips, dimpling her forehead, and I feel bad.

  “Just tired,” I lie, breathing deep and forcing a shitty smile on my lips. “I’m sorry. You know what? I should just … I’m gonna go …”

  My eyes don’t look away though. Hers grow sadder.

  “I’m glad you came,” she says, and my focus tightens on her lips—the pale pink, the gloss left behind when her tongue takes a taste, the slight part between them as she breathes. One more place I know we would fit so perfectly—that mouth was meant for mine.

  “Me, too,” I say, blinking as I look down, down to my dirty shoes and stained jeans. I roll my eyes and laugh at myself, finally turning away and pushing through the door. “Good luck with the move.”

  I don’t have a horse to go back to. I’m done with the horse for the day. I made more progress with that horse in four hours than I have over four years with this girl. I’m just the kinda guy meant to talk to horses, I guess.

  I climb into my car quickly, turn the engine and pull out without checking my mirrors to see if Claire’s come out to watch me leave. I don’t want to know either way—leaves the option open for me to both pretend she did, and assume she didn’t, depending on my mood.

  “You goddamned coward,” I grumble to myself, turning off the road at the fifth mile marker, picking up a fifth of Jack from Lowell’s Liquor, and hitting the road to head home—just steps away from Claire’s house, at least for the next week or so—where I plan on drinking until I pass out.

  Claire

  Garrett dropped me off on his way into the city. He works at a brokerage firm that handles most of the land deals up north and out to the west. He spends most of his time with developers who want to shave the sides of mountains to litter them with golf courses and luxury homes. He’s good at his job, and it’s made him pretty rich.

  I’m not with him because of that, though. I’m with him because he seemed like a nice guy. Our first date was a little rough, he called me by someone else’s name right before I got my orgasm, so I left frustrated and pissed off at men in general. But he groveled well. The next day he showed up at my door with thirty-six roses as he knelt on one knee and begged forgiveness. Apparently, Cynthia was the last girl he dated before me. They’d been together for a few years before breaking up six months ago. I made him show me pictures to make sure I didn’t look like her; I don’t want to be someone’s surrogate.

  We look nothing alike—she’s blonde, tall and dresses like a model. I’m short, buff and brunette, and dress like I work at a daycare by day and country bar by night. Probably because I do. Whatever it is about me, though, Garrett likes it. He’s attentive, and I’m always his priority. If I can’t join him at a party, he doesn’t go, and if I’m working late with a client, he stops by and waits outside to make sure I have dinner. He’s sweet. He’s more than sweet, and he’s about a foot taller than me, and he drives a car I could never afford.

  He’s the guy my mom was always hoping I’d bring home.

  Yet … I haven’t. I’m about to move in with him, and my mom doesn’t even know he exists.

  Hands gripping the front of my sink, I stare out the kitchen window at the empty street where a gust of wind has just blown through from a pending Monsoon. The dust in the air turns the world outside a dirty orange and knocks my trash bin on its side while I watch.

  “Shit,” I mumble, pushing off from the sink and rushing through my back door and garage, running down the street to catch the mess I’m responsible for. Paper towels and paper plates roll away, proof that I don’t own nice dishes, and I reheat most of my meals. I chase a pile all the way down the street, to Cole’s front yard, relieved when most of the things get caught in his row of bushes.

  I spend a few minutes picking things out, but give up when napkins burrow so deep into his thorny bush that I scrape up my hand. I clutch what I could collect to my chest and begin to walk back to my house when I hear Cole’s front door slam shut from the wind behind me.

  “You’re just going to leave half of your shit in my yard?”

  I stop dead in my tracks, spin and look at him with my eyes squinted. There’s no way he’s for real with this.

  “Ummm, I’ve left half of my shit in everyone’s yard.” I chuckle, looking from side to side. “I’m an equal opportunity litterer it seems.”

  I shrug, but Cole sneers, moving closer to his line of shrubs and reaching his hand in, not caring about the bloody consequences that he’ll no doubt get with each thorn.

  “My trash tipped over in the wind,” I continue, taking a step or two closer. His muscles are tense and his movements are jerky. “I can come back and get the rest … really …”

  “Whatever, at least when you move in with Garrett I won’t have to deal with things like this anymore,” he grumbles, wadding towels in his hand as he kneels to pick up a few granola wrappers.

  “Whoa!” I shout, my eyes widening and my chin tucking in to my chest. “What the hell does that mean? Deal with what kinds of things?”

  “Nothing, never mind. Just go home; I got this,” he says, his voice less harsh, but his words still clipped.

  “No, what do you mean deal with things? Am I some inconvenience that I never realized I was to you?” I step closer as I shout, the wind outside picking up as a cloud of dirt looms in the distance.

  “It’s nothing. I’m just in a bad mood. Just … go home, and I’ll see you tomorrow, or I won’t, or whatever.”

  He waves his hand toward my house as he speaks, walking with long strides
back to his front door and into his house. I catch his door before it closes, following him inside and into his kitchen where he throws the trash that he had in his hands away in a silver bin.

  “Don’t do that to me, Cole. That’s not who we are. Unless … is that what you mean?” I drop my things on his counter, and he breathes a heavy sigh, collecting the garbage and shoving it into the trash on top of what he just threw away. “Is that what you’re saying, Cole?”

  “Is what what I’m saying?” he asks, pulling a bottle from the far side of the counter, twisting the cap and taking a big gulp before running his arm across his lips.

  “Are you drunk?” I ask, taking the bottle in my hand and twisting to see how much is gone.

  Cole shrugs and takes the bottle back, setting it down behind him, then folding his arms over his chest.

  “I told you; I had a bad day,” he says.

  My lips purse as I lean into the counter with my hip, folding my arms now and matching his stance. I stare at him, zeroing in on his glassy, drunk eyes that haze as he stares at me, lashes lowering and mouth drawing a flat line. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear he was a bull preparing himself for a fight.

  “What did you mean when you said you didn’t have to deal with my things, Cole?” I work hard to keep my voice calm, and his head sways a little as his lip sneers a hint. “Is being my friend that fucking hard?”

  I wait for a response, but he remains silent.

  “I didn’t realize how annoying I was. I’m sorry if my problems were a burden to you, or if I assumed we were better friends than we actually were,” I say, his lip only rising more until eventually he starts to laugh.

  “What?” I shout, slapping my palm flat on the counter as I stand straight and look him in the eyes.

  Cole does the same, his head remaining still now, his eyes burning through me as the hint of a smile, however ominous it was, fades away again.

  “Yes, Claire,” he says in a hushed tone. I wait for more, but all he does is stare.

  I clear my throat and swallow.

  “Yes what?” I ask.

  “Yes, being your friend … is that … fucking … hard,” he says, the words trailing out slowly under heavy lids that sweep closed and open only narrower, his eyes glowing under them as he looks at me.

  My heartbeat begins to race, the rhythm so fast that I feel it in my stomach, my arms growing numb and my legs feeling weak. I’m angry and hurt all at once, and I want to hit him so hard it makes him bleed.

  “Why?” I ask with a shake of my head.

  Cole’s eyes fall closed briefly and he chuckles, which only makes my anger burn stronger.

  “Why!” I shout, my hand slapping the counter again.

  His head snaps up at the sound, his eyes on my palm first then shifting to me. His breaths come in slowly, his nostrils flaring with each intake of air, his lips slowly parting as his arms loosen their grip on his chest and his hands fall to his sides.

  “Why is it so hard?” I ask one last time, my voice hoarse.

  His mouth opens more this time, a softness casting over his expression, his eyes slanting, his face looking apologetic. His chest rises quickly, each breath coming at a faster pace, his fingers flexing at his sides. I’m about to ask my question one last time before giving up when Cole closes the distance between us, sweeping his fingers along my jaw and cheeks and into my hair as he backs me up until my shoulders are flush against the steel of the fridge behind me and his mouth is hard on mine. He kisses me like a man home from war, like a criminal out from a lifetime sentence—his lips catch my bottom lip and suck as his tongue tastes my skin, his hands holding me in place and his thumbs caressing my face.

  He kisses me like this for several seconds, coming up for air as his forehead rests on mine. His eyes are closed, and his breathing has grown somehow more ragged. My hands timidly reach for his wrists, and I blink slowly, taking mental snapshots of how my hands look on his, how my skin compares to his—memorizing my touch, like this, on him. My fingers trail up his arms, and I bite my lip until I reach his shoulders and glide my palms flat on his chest, gripping the clean shirt he must have put on after a shower as I lift my chin and dust my lips over his again.

  “Do not move in with that guy,” he whispers, his head rolling against mine.

  I don’t answer, suddenly the weight of what this is hitting my chest hard. What is this? And what am I giving up for this?

  “Cole …” I begin, but he stops me, kissing me hard and lifting me in his arms, wrapping my legs around his waist as he walks from his kitchen down the short hallway that leads to his bedroom. His house is just like mine—a small palace for one. Only where my home curves, his is rough and rugged.

  “This … it isn’t right,” I say, and he lays me on his bed, climbing over me, his nose grazing along my jaw as his lips leave cool kisses on my skin.

  “I know it isn’t. I just want to kiss you a little more. Just a little more, Claire. I’ve wanted to do this …” he stops, eyes closed as he rests his head on the center of my chest.

  I move my hands to his face and lift gently, forcing his eyes to mine.

  “You’ve wanted me?” I ask, my pulse a rapid fire that begs my brain to listen, to feel how right this feels, to know what’s been missing everywhere else.

  “I saw you talking to some old guy at the bar the day I came in to fill out my application,” he says, whiskey on his breath and shyness painting red on his cheeks.

  “You wanted me then? Because of the way I talked to Gordon?” I chuckle, letting my hands roam along the contours of his shoulders, his chest and his abs.

  His body shakes with his laugh, and he hides his face against me, my body responding to the way his mouth feels so close to my breasts, his hands tucked underneath me as he holds his weight up.

  “No, I thought you were hot then,” he chuckles, biting his lip as he smiles, the curve fading when his teeth let go. His eyes move to my forehead, and he brings his hand up to sweep my hair from my face, his gaze drawing a slow line along the curve of my face, pausing at my lips as he takes a deep breath before looking me in the eyes.

  “But along the way, with every movie we went to, or every flat tire I rescued you from, or late night I drove you home from the bar, or party we put together for Max … you know, the things we did together because there was no one we’d rather be doing them with,” he says, stopping to move his tongue over his lips and take in a slow breath. “I fell in love with you. I love you, Claire Anderson. And I’m going to kiss you now so you believe me, and so you remember what a scared man who can only grow balls when he’s drunk said to you. So you take this feeling … the one you’ve got right here,” he says, placing his palm over the center of my chest. “You take this feeling with you, and you tell Garrett you’re sorry, but your heart … it’s somewhere else.”

  Cole holds himself above me and keeps his eyes on mine. He doesn’t look at me with desperation. He isn’t begging. For Cole, it’s about the truth. It’s about the thing I didn’t think existed for me. It’s about saying something just in time to save it from extinction.

  My phone rings in my back pocket, and I ignore it, instead staring at the only man who has ever made my heart race. I let the call go to voicemail, but the call comes again. Cole rolls to his side and I sit up, pulling my phone out and answering before realizing who it is.

  “Baby,” Garrett says on the other line.

  My throat becomes dry, and I smile through twitching lips and nerves as I glance to the man lying next to me, drunk and delicious, vulnerable and brave.

  “Garrett,” I say softly, my chest caving as the hopeful look on Cole’s face melts and he stands and straightens the blanket on his bed before leaving the room.

  “Turns out my dinner was cancelled. Someone’s plane was delayed and they won’t be in until midnight, so … I’m all yours. I picked up Chinese, and I’m about two minutes from your house,” Garrett says, unaware of the twisted hole I just slid down t
hat’s going to make one of us unhappy before the night’s over.

  “Dinner sounds great,” I say as I stand, glancing up to see Cole waiting in the doorway, his eyes watching me and his hands suddenly tethered by the rules of being a gentleman. “Yeah, I’ll see you at the house,” I swallow, not responding to the I love you on the other end.

  “He got out of his dinner thing,” I say, holding my phone up. “I … I should go meet him,” I stammer, moving around Cole slowly, aching to throw myself at him, but stopping myself from being rash and doing something that isn’t right, or that I might regret.

  I look down at my feet and make my way to the front door, pausing with my hand on the knob, words on the edge of my lips, but the courage to say them not there anymore. I felt that, Cole. I felt that more than any kiss with Garrett. That was more than any touch with anyone ever. I won’t ignore it, I won’t forget it, and I will honor it. But is that enough?

  “I’m sorry about my trash,” I say instead, glancing enough to catch his form in my periphery. His shoulders are sagged, and the light has gone dark behind his eyes when I turn to look.

  “I’m sorry I kissed you,” he says, stepping closer and pulling the door open for me to leave. He takes my hand in his and brings my knuckles to his lips, kissing them lightly. “It wasn’t right for me to do that when you aren’t mine to kiss. I’m sorry I’ve made you uncomfortable.”

  My eyes flit to his for just a moment, and it stings when our gazes meet.

  “It’s okay,” I mutter, letting my hand slip from his as I rush through the door, down his driveway and back to my home.

  With no time to shower, I change clothes, feeling like you can smell Cole and his whiskey on every inch of my skin. I spend the next few minutes waiting by my kitchen window again, glancing down the street to the man standing at the edge of his driveway, the wind blowing the cotton of his shirt as his hands rest in his pockets. The dust cloud crawls closer by the second, until it swallows him completely and all I can see is Garrett’s car parked out front.

  My pulse slows, and the rush leaves my body the second he knocks on my door. I feel nothing, just like before at the party. Our kiss is pleasant, and our dinner is predictably good, his delivery thoughtful. His suit is nice, and his stories are interesting, but no matter how many times I try to force my heart to leap again throughout the night, it just doesn’t. It doesn’t leap until I walk Garrett out and watch him leave as I catch a glimpse of the man still standing at the edge of his driveway under the stars and moon, waiting for me to return.