Ditched_A Left at the Altar Romance

by Holly Hart

  “Another.” I tap my glass. The bartender looks at me dubiously and pours a half-measure. Condescending. Like I don’t know my limits.

  “Look, I don’t know if it’s any consolation, but she wasn’t in good shape when I found her. When I first moved to London.”

  I look up, bleary and hollow. This was a bad idea. Why did I think I wanted answers?

  “She reminded me a lot of you, actually. Same empty stare. Same short temper.” He chuckles a bit. “And she was all about work. Work and drinking. She’d get up at five—”

  I reach for his face, silencing him with a finger. “Ssh.”

  He leans away. “But—”

  “Sssssssh.” I mash my finger on his lips. “Stop saying words.”

  Wes shoves my hand away, but he quits talking. Polishes off his drink. Pats at his pockets. “Fuck. Looks like you’re paying for this.”

  Seriously? The old forgotten wallet thing? He really hasn’t changed. “What’d you do, max out your Centurion card on that island?”

  “It’s in my overcoat.” His frown deepens. “Really. In case you hadn’t noticed, New York’s quite a bit warmer than London. I didn’t plan this.”

  Shiiiiiit. I’ve pissed him off. That strikes me funny, and I point at him. “You’re talking like them. You’re all...dipped in British. Like a chocolate-covered banana.”

  “That doesn’t even make sense.”

  It doesn’t, does it? I fish out my own wallet. I need to get out of here before I drown in nostalgia. Falling into our old roles—it’s way too easy, even a decade later. I need a cold shower, a pot of coffee, and a week’s worth of sleep.

  And I need to wrap this up. The faster the better. No more backsliding.

  Chapter 10

  Kate

  * * *

  I wake up sticky and blue-lipped, suds clinging to my arms and chest. How the hell’d I fall asleep in the bath?—and stay asleep through the night? I wasn’t even drunk. Half a glass of Chardonnay, and I was out like a light. Don’t think I even dreamed. Talk about sleeping like the dead.

  I pull the plug and turn on the shower, letting the hot water warm me up and sluice off the soap scum. At least my hands were resting on the edges of the bath, not underwater, turning into prunes. I wash my hair, quick and businesslike, and flinch as I step out onto a heated bathroom floor. I hate shit like that: shit that catches you by surprise: heated floors when you’re expecting the shock of cold tile. Hot chai instead of coffee. Blackmail notes with breakfast.

  My phone’s buzzing on the nightstand. I amble over, expecting Wes, but it’s Max. More shit I wasn’t expecting. And he’s calling. It’s 2018. Who uses their phone as a phone? And who gave him my number?

  I pick up anyway. I’m not spineless. I was jetlagged last night. Distracted. If he thinks that’ll happen again, he’s in for a disappointment.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi.” He sounds weird. Groggy. I glance at the clock: barely seven. He must’ve just got up. “So I thought we should talk. Not about last night—don’t worry. But there’s some things I need to say. Over breakfast, maybe. You still like those thin pancakes?”

  Crepes.... Wait, what!? I see what he’s doing. Grabbing the upper hand. Being the bigger man—the mature one. After what he did....

  Hell, we were both in the wrong. He can have this one.

  “Yeah. I still like crepes. Know a good place?”

  “Mine.” He’s shuffling around. Getting dressed, by the sounds of it. “I’ll make them, I mean. Get the recipe off Google. Can you do half an hour?”

  “Sure.”

  “Actually, make it forty minutes. I’ve got to make a call.”

  O-kay.... I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt. There’s a chance he’s not playing games. Not jerking me around, trying to show me who’s in charge. Besides, I could use the extra ten minutes. My hair looks like there’s birds nesting in it. “Yeah. Fine. See you in forty.” I hang up before he can try anything else.

  His place is as jarring as his office was. We fantasized about one of those unassuming brownstones with the crazy interiors—floor after floor of Old World luxury—but he’s gone the glittering penthouse route. My cab drops me off at a swanky Park Avenue address, and a private elevator whisks me to the sky.

  I’m deposited in a two-story lobby that looks like it belongs in a mansion, not an apartment building, complete with a stained glass cupola that scatters swathes of green and yellow light across the marble. Twin staircases sweep to the second floor. The furnishings are bright and modern. Fresh flowers decorate every alcove—not a petal out of place. Makes my homey three-bedroom in Knightsbridge look like a hovel. A slovenly hovel. Can’t remember the last time I got flowers in. When’d I last entertain at home?

  I run my fingertips along the surface of a glass-topped sideboard. Not a speck of dust. He must have full time staff. No way does he—

  “In here.”

  I follow Max’s voice through an airy, sunlit dayroom—perfect aged wood table; no coffee rings—and down a miniature flight of stairs. A short hall leads to a soaring glass conservatory, complete with reflecting pool. My breath hitches at the sight of Max sitting in the sun, hair uncombed and hanging in his eyes. He looks...he looks like Max. And he looks amazing. I stop in my tracks, vaguely aware I’m staring.

  He’s taking my measure, as well. Drinking me in like he didn’t just see me last night. I feel my cheeks color under his scrutiny. He leans forward, and I can’t help but notice the way his loose shirt falls open, revealing pecs he definitely didn’t have in high school. He’s filled out all over: his arms, his thighs. Even his face looks harder. More defined.

  None of which is what I’m here for.

  I step out of the doorway, nearly tripping over a shallow step.

  “I always forget that’s there, too.” He even sounds like himself. His voice is a little rougher, a little deeper, but that soothing warmth I so loved...it’s still there.

  It’s all still there. Everything I’ve pined for, close enough to touch.

  And there’s nowhere to sit. Or, there is, but...shit. Shit. I can sit next to Max on the long bench by the pool, or drag up a chair from the breakfast table. Twenty feet away. Awkward.

  Max shifts over, making space. “Have a seat.” There’s something mocking in the lift of his brow, like he’s caught my hesitation, and is amused by it. Well, fine. Challenge accepted. I plop down beside him, tossing my purse to the side. So, we’re pretending last night never happened? I’m on board with that.

  “I like your place. Very Gossip Girl.”

  He winces. “Wasn’t that the show we made fun of all through senior year?”

  “Mm, was it?” It’s my turn to do the eyebrow thing. Score one for me.

  “Well, anyway....” Max leans back into the shadow of a potted lemon tree, massaging his temples. “Don’t suppose you’ve got an aspirin in that suitcase of yours?”

  Suitcase? It’s a perfectly reasonably-sized bag. Slightly on the capacious side. “Don’t knock my bag of tricks.” I reach for it. “I mean, sure, you could go for a ladylike clutch...but then, where would you keep this?” I whip out the aspirin. “Here. Courtesy of Santa’s sack.”

  He presses his lips together, fending off a grin. I know what he’s thinking about: that dumb joke his dad busted out every Christmas—Why’s Santa’s sack so big? ‘Cause he only comes once a year.

  He pours himself some water from a pitcher on the side table, and offers a glass to me. I shake my head. He’s looking a little pale, now the sun’s not bronzing his features. Faint circles shadow his eyes.

  “You feeling okay?”

  This time, he does laugh, a brief snort. “Hung over, if you’d believe it. Fucking Wes....” He shakes his head. “Tell him sorry for me, would you?”

  I cock my head. “What did you do?”

  “Tch—I don’t know. We had a few. Last night, after you—after the meeting. Only, he—”

  “Let me guess: he sipped
a frozen drink through one of those stupid tiny straws, while you drank like a normal person, and then he’s like...he’s stone-cold sober, and you’re sloppy drunk, hanging off him like a sloth?”

  He groans. “Something like that. Yeah.”

  “Uh-huh. Been there.” I lean in, laughing. “Wanna know why he does that?”

  “Why?”

  “He’s got this car—this Bentley. Pillar box red. He’s, like...insanely proud of it.” I’m cracking up now. “I don’t know why. It’s the same one everyone has. The Continental, uh, whatever. But he drives it everywhere. And he loves being the designated driver, so—so everyone’ll....”

  Max is laughing too. “That’s—y’know, I’m not even a tiny bit surprised. Remember when he got that Armani coat, senior year?”

  “Oh, God!” I’m dying. Fucking dying. “And it was way too big—and that pointy collar!—and he looked like a Nazi, uh...Sturmbannführer, and everyone was like....”

  “Shit....” Max wipes at his eyes. “Quit making me laugh. My head’s splitting.”

  “Aw—poor you.”

  He inhales sharply. I freeze, hand poised inches from his face. Was I about to...stroke his cheek? Tuck his hair behind his ear? Fuck. For a moment, there....

  I can’t relax. Not for a second. I drop my hand in my lap. Max’s eyes narrow, and his expression goes flat. Unreadable.

  “Anyway....”

  He doesn’t say anything. The uncomfortable moment stretches on. My dress feels too tight, too scratchy. My zip’s digging into my back. I resist the urge to squirm. At last, he turns away, pours some more water.

  “So, the reason I called....” He takes a sip. The ice rattles against the glass, setting my teeth on edge. “Last night was a clusterfuck. And you were...reasonable. You stayed out of the....”

  “Fuckery?”

  “Yeah. The fuckery. So I thought we could talk, just the two of us, before tonight. I want to walk in with a plan, or at least a theory. Something to reassure them. That should keep the drama to a minimum.”

  He has a point. Last night was the worst. But I’ve got to be honest. “I don’t exactly have one. A plan, I mean. I was going to think it over last night, but I fell asleep. In the bath.” Crap. Maybe not that honest.

  “In the bath, hm?” He’s eyeing me up again, gray eyes almost black. He clears his throat. “I didn’t get far, either, what with stumbling home half in the bag, waking up to, well....” He flaps his hand at himself.

  This should be my moment. If I could pull the thread that unravels the whole plot, if I could fix this for us...we’d be safe. Free. I could tell him why I ran. We could start over. Make up for the last ten years.

  He frowns deeply. My reverie shatters. He’s not who he was. Even if I could pull a miracle out of my ass, he might not want me any more. Might have someone else. I never asked. Didn’t even let myself Facebook stalk him before I came. It never stopped hurting, watching him live his life. Been a while since I’ve put myself through that.

  Still.... “One thing did occur to me: unless one of us spilled the beans—and I can’t picture that—they’ve known all along. About Matt, I mean. So why now? Eleven years after the fact?” I sit up straighter, on a roll. “One of us must’ve done something. Set him off. Or her. You mortally offended anyone lately? Anyone from home?”

  He offers a wry grimace. “Only you.”

  ““Yeah. Me neither.” My heart breaks a little. Only You... They played that at prom. For our first dance as King and Queen. I swallow hard, blinking away the memory. This isn’t a high school reunion. Concentrate. “Wes kind of pissed in Kyle’s Wheaties last year, but Kyle was never the sneaky type.”

  “Oh? What happened?”

  “Not sure, but they quit following each other on Twitter.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Drama!”

  We share another laugh, more subdued this time.

  “You’re right, though. The timing has to mean something. And Dev—why’d he get his before the rest of us?”

  That’s been bugging me. “Are we sure he got one?”

  “Yeah. I mean, I assume he did. He left a message, the night he—that night. But it was pretty vague.” Max jolts upright. “That could be the trigger.”

  “What could?”

  “His death—if he didn’t get a flash drive. If he jumped out of guilt; if the blackmailer’s someone who loved him. This could be revenge. On us, for going through what we did with him, and letting him down so bad.”

  “Revenge....” The word tastes wrong in my mouth. “So we’d be looking for a friend. Maybe a lover. Or one of us.”

  Max huffs. “Right.”

  “What?”

  “One of us avenging Dev. Think we can rule that out.” He drains his water and sets his glass down with a clunk. “Out of all of us, I made the funeral. Just me.”

  Shit. I catch myself reaching for him again, and this time, I don’t stop myself. He doesn’t stiffen or jerk away, so I leave my hand on his.

  “It was awful.” His shoulders slump; his hair hangs down to hide his face. “Nothing at all like he’d have wanted. All black crêpe and Latin singing. And the eulogy... If it hadn’t been an open casket, I’d have thought I wandered into the wrong church. It was boring, pompous, grim...everything Dev wasn’t.” A heavy tear falls on my hand. Max brushes it away with his thumb.

  “You guys still—”

  He nods. “Yeah. Every weekend he was in town, racquetball at the club. And we still did those backwoods adventures, every spring and fall. I saw him—fuck—two weeks ago. Dinner at Le Bernardin. He was fine. Sucking down oysters like they were going out of style. Going on about some action movie—he’d just been cast. If he was planning on killing himself....” Max shakes his head slowly. “He wasn’t. Couldn’t have been.”

  Then he did get a flash drive. Probably. Which means he was...what? A test case? We need to get our hands on that drive.

  Max sniffs. He’s crumpled against me, shoulder to shoulder, head resting on mine. My heart’s pounding. This is far too familiar. Switch the fragrance of citrus trees with cookies baking in the oven, and I’d only have to close my eyes to be back in Mom’s kitchen. A profound sense of unreality settles over me.

  “Gotta lie down for a second.” He stretches out on the bench, hesitating only a moment before laying his head in my lap. If not for his red eyes and bitten lip, I’d write this off as a move calculated to throw me off guard. But he just looks tired. Tired and defeated. Against my better judgment, I massage his temples.

  “That feels good.” He sighs, eyes drifting shut. “Think the aspirin’s finally kicking in.”

  “Don’t fall asleep.”

  “I won’t.” He licks his lips. “But keep talking. Just in case.”

  “If there is a flash drive....”

  “I know.” His head shifts against my thigh. “We need to get it. Before the cops do. If they haven’t already.”

  Fuck. I hadn’t thought of that. If there is one, and they have it, we’re finished. “Wouldn’t they have come for us already? If they found anything?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Apart from us all being friends...no one saw us together that night. Except the blackmailer. They might not connect the dots.”

  “Still....” We can’t chance it.

  “I know.” He hunts around till he finds my hand, and clutches it to his chest. “Give me a few minutes. I need to call his gran anyway. Offer my condolences. Might be able to find something out. Or....” The ghost of a smile tugs at his lips, and he cracks one eye open. “You up for an adventure? Kind of a depressing one?”

  I nod, my own eyes stinging at the thought of rooting through the debris of Dev’s life. But if it has to be done, hell if I’m letting Max do it alone. I’m better than that. He deserves better. If this morning’s shown me anything, it’s that there’s something of the Max I loved left in him. It’s time I protected that.

  Chapter 11

  Max

  * * *

>   One step inside Dev’s place, and my calm evaporates. Kate’s muffled gasp doesn’t help. It seems impossible that he wreaked this kind of mayhem on his own. That no one called for help. His downstairs neighbors must’ve heard something. It looks like he shot down the chandelier. The plaster’s full of holes where the fixture tore loose. And the impact—fuck. The floorboards are standing up like broken teeth, solid oak warped and splintered.

  Kate bends and picks up a crystal teardrop, holding it to the light. My fury comes roaring back: where does she get off, touching that? Admiring it like a seashell at the beach? She left, too—hell, she was first to go. And now she’s walking through the wreckage of his life like she has every right to be here. Like everything about this isn’t wrong, wrong, wrong.

  “Don’t—”

  She starts and drops the bauble. “Hm?”

  “Just, this place is bigger than you think. We need a plan of attack. So we don’t end up retracing each other’s steps all afternoon.” I force a smile. Bad enough I’ve brought her here. Bad enough we’re about to dig through his life to save our own asses. I’m not starting another fight.

  “We should probably clean up what we can.” Kate peers into the dining room. His last supper’s rotting on the table: Thai, from the looks of it. Seafood, from the smell. “I mean, no way his grandma can handle this on her own. And it’ll help us keep track of where we’ve been.”

  “There’s boxes in the laundry room.”

  “And that would be...?”

  “I’ll get them.” Damn it. I need to get away from her. I’m a heartbeat from ripping her a new one, and a heartbeat from sweeping her into my arms. Neither would be a good idea. But cleaning up is. It’s sweet. Considerate. Why couldn’t she have hardened into a despicable person, someone I could hate with all my heart?

  The laundry room is bright and clean, after the chaos of the foyer. Whatever bomb went off out front didn’t make it this far. I close the door and lean on it, inhaling detergent fumes, and the chemical scent of fabric softener. Reminds me of Mom. Can’t count the times I showed up at school with a Bounce sheet hanging out of my cuff or my pant leg. Does anyone still use that stuff? Dev didn’t. He used a fluff-and-fold service. Which is why this place is a box repository.