“But it didn't work out,” I say.
“Why not?”
Because no one could ever impress me more than you. I'm not going to tell him that, but it's the truth. “Because I would have been settling for him. We had a lot of fun, and I enjoyed being with him, but at the end of the day, there wasn't any magic. Never was, and he knew that. He had a hard time when we broke up, but I know it was for the best.”
“And the other guys?”
“Just passed the time.”
“When was your last...for lack of a better word...more serious relationship?”
This seems like an awful lot of focus on my boyfriends. I would never ask him this much about his girlfriends. It'd just piss me off. Of course, that's what this seems to be doing to him, though it shouldn't be. “The last guy I dated—like, seriously dated—was last year. I haven't been serious about a guy—”
“But you've been with them?”
“Yes. A few.” Enough.
He tenses his jaw. Does he think I've been a slut? I'm twenty-six, and I feel like my love life has been fairly tame for a girl my age, but his reaction is making me second-guess myself.
He nods repeatedly. “Good, good, good.”
“So you haven't had anyone serious? Really? Come on. I don't believe that.”
“No one,” he says in a tone so severe I don't doubt him. Why does he sound angry? If he thinks he can pry into my love life, I have just as much right to pry into his. Although perhaps his mood comes from never having met anyone special. Definitely not me.
As I reflect on that sad thought, I realize this discourse about our pasts is a terrible idea. Who even started it? I think it was me, but I shouldn't have. I'd rather talk about something else—anything else. However, I'm struggling to think of a new direction for the conversation. The first things that come to mind are, “Why did you leave? Why didn't you call? Why didn't you talk to me?” I settle for, “What does your job entail?”
He appears to relax. “Meetings. Lots and lots of meetings. I've never done less manual labor in my life, and it kills me.”
“I bet,” I say, recalling those afternoons with his truck and some of Daddy's projects around the house. He completely redid our front porch and the patio out back. He loved the work. I think he liked doing it because he saw it as his way of repaying Daddy for giving him such a different life.
“I didn't think being rich was just about having fights all the time,” he continues. “Sometimes I feel like I'm not doing anything. So I'm a workout-aholic. Hit the gym as much as possible just so that I can give my body something to do.”
“It shows.”
“You obviously take care of yourself, too.”
“You mean starve myself?” I ask. He looks at me, his look asking if he should be concerned. “Don't worry. I eat plenty. I just try to keep a lid on it day to day. I'm sure you can remember I wasn’t exactly the most health-conscious girl.”
He chuckles. “No, you weren't. When I think about how much Captain Crunch you ate, I worry about what's streaming through your veins.”
“That's what happens when I don't have a guy here to make me omelets every morning, so...you know...”
“As you probably could tell, I've perfected my omelet-making over the years.”
“Yes, you have.”
“So what about your job?” he asks. “Are you happy?”
I shrug. “As happy as I guess I can be.”
“Which means?”
“I'm a little frustrated. There's a lot of pressure with this job that I'm working on right now. But it's a little disappointing. When I signed up to help people, I didn't think that would mean I just got to sit around a desk all day and stress about deadlines and invoices. I guess it's kind of like what you were saying about being a CEO. When I'm behind the scenes, I don't really get to work on a lot of projects that I'd be really passionate about. I don't feel like I'm really helping anyone.”
“Not exactly Hearts & Hugs,” he says, referring to an organization we used to volunteer for when we were in high school. Hearts & Hugs used to set up a stand downtown to serve impoverished families. I usually handed out food while Jarek manned the barbecue. I don't imagine they even do that anymore.
“Nope,” I say. “Just orchestrating money-making endeavors.”
“That go on to help people.”
“Yes, but it doesn't feel very personal. You don't see any of the people that you're helping, and I think that makes a difference. When we helped at Hearts & Hugs, we got to see the people who benefited from the charity. We knew we were doing something that mattered. I don't know. Sometimes I think making a connection with someone is valuable. Maybe not as valuable as paying for them to have a good education, but I think it matters.” His expression softens. He appears impressed, though I'm not sure why. “What? I'm not like Mother Theresa. I just want to do a little here and there, where I can. And I don't feel like I've had the time ever since I got this job.”
“That's really thoughtful. So how much do I need to make out to this fundraiser?”
“Oh, no. I couldn't—”
“I have all this money. Why shouldn't I give some of it to help these kids?” Why is he being so nice to me? Where was this cordial nature back then? I'm not saying he wasn't generous or kind, but I can't imagine anyone eagerly throwing money at me. Isn't raising money all about guilting people into giving it? That's how Mom always works it.
“I can't really fight you on that.”
“When is it? I'll put it in my calendar.”
“I doubt you'll even be here. It's not until next Saturday.”
“With the way this project is going down, it looks like I could be here longer.”
“Really?” I ask a bit too hopefully. I wish I could go back in time and retract the statement. I shouldn't be excited that he will still be here. I should be furious that he thinks he can waltz in here and hand me some cash for a fundraiser and think I'll be okay. I have no reason to be okay. But I can't help but feel like I want to spend more time with him. Jarek, you've lured me in again.
“Yeah, really,” he says. “But that doesn't have to be such a bad thing, I'm learning.”
Perhaps I've given it up enough that he's expecting me to hand it right over to him, and maybe that's not such a bad idea. I've enjoyed our experiences. What am I talking about? I haven't just enjoyed them. I've reveled in them. I've delighted in his touch, savored the sensation of his breath crawling across my flesh. I've allowed myself to become intoxicated with him all over again. Isn't that a terrible thing? Shouldn't I be telling him to leave me alone? Shouldn't I deny him entry just for the sake of the girl who never would have been so willing to let him in?
As much as I wish I could put up a cold, guarded front, I'm convinced I have to give this to myself. However, I know how painful it can be—how much it will hurt the day he leaves. That will be hard...so painfully hard.
A series of thoughts rush through my head, making me feel like a crazy person:
Voice 1: No, you don't want to do that. He'll just leave again.
Voice 2: But this time, you know that...and he won't be able to hurt you.
Voice 1: What are you talking about? You're already head over heels. Get out! Get out!
Voice 2: Shut up, bitch.
Considering the details about my past and how quickly I've thrown myself at him since he arrived, he must think I'm a whore, but what do I care what he thinks about me anymore?
“What are you doing tonight?” he asks.
“Really? You think I don't have any plans?”
“I'm sorry. Your dance card is already full?”
“Maybe I just don't want to do anything with you,” I say, teasing him the way I would have when we were younger.
“What if I insisted?”
“Insist all you want. Doesn't mean it will happen.”
“I promise it'll be worth your while.” A powerful sensation radiates from the part of me that's most excited about this er
otic promise. I wish I could leap over the table, rip off his clothes, and make him fuck me right here. This chemistry I feel toward him, especially after years with other boys, amazes me. Before he came back into my life, I could explain away that chemistry as the product of him being my first, but now I can tell that the attraction is deep, profound. It must be whatever pheromones he exudes. Whatever it is, it's overwhelming, and I'm appreciative that I have the appropriate restraint to keep me from making a spectacle out of myself.
He finishes chewing his slice of pizza and wipes his napkin across his face. “Maybe we should have a sleepover,” he says. “Put on an old movie...see what happens.” He knows me too well for someone who hasn't seen me in forever. The only guy who'd ever watch those old classic movies with me was Todd, and only because he knew I would watch them with or without him.
“That's fine,” I say, “But I think we should set some ground rules.” He eyes me curiously. “We're both adults. We know what we're doing, and we know that once you go back to California, that's the end of it. Let's not pretend this is something it's not. Fair enough?”
He smiles. It seems that's what he wanted to hear, and I'm disappointed. The only reason I said it like that was to prove I'm not the eager girl I was at seventeen. I won't beg him to be my boyfriend. I'll enjoy the parts of him that are worth enjoying—the ones I can’t enjoy after his departure. But I still wish my statement had evoked disappointment—that he would have said something that suggested he thought there would be more. Again, I'm reminded I'm the only one who ever wanted something more.
Fuck me.
And I guess that's exactly what he's going to do.
Chapter Seven
I've tried on nearly half the blouses in my closet, and because he's only seen my archaic underwear—underwear I've owned since I was dating Todd—I ran by Victoria's Secret and grabbed matching ones for a change. I don't plan on being the lay he remembers because she always looks like a homeless person in her undergarments.
I try on another blouse, buttoning it over the blue bra that I'm so proud of myself for picking out. When the doorbell rings, I hurry out of my room, working to calm myself.
He doesn't know what you felt back then. He doesn't know what you're feeling now. Just play like he matters to you as much as you mattered to him back then. Be strong. You can do it.
From these last experiences, I know regardless of my feelings for him, as soon as we hit the sheets, I can forget what transpired between us...or at least enjoy it regardless of the inner turmoil that rages while I'm working to enjoy myself.
I open the door. He's wearing a navy blue button-up with the top two buttons undone and a pair of gray slacks. It's an attractive combination that I imagine his designer arranged for him, because the old Jarek never would have thrown together such a sexy look. I can't help but wonder if this designer of his is attractive. They've probably done it a few times. Jealousy intensifies within me, which I know is ridiculous because I have no reason to hate what, for all intents and purposes, is a figment of my imagination, not even a real person.
“Hey,” I say, my tone making me sound as if I'm surprised he's here, which is odd, considering I was going for super-cool and slick. Epic fail.
He smiles broadly, probably because he knows he's getting some tonight. But so am I, mister.
“Hey,” he says.
I eye a strap that stretches across his button-up, leading to a leather bag that hangs at his side. “Did you bring homework?” I ask.
“Just things for tomorrow morning.”
“Of course. Come on in.” He follows me inside and closes the door.
“Any pressing news on the business front?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Not particularly.”
I'm waiting for him to assault me, because that's what he really wants, isn't it? The pretense of the movie was just a way to get back inside my place...and, well, inside me.
He sets his bag behind the couch and steps around, into the living area. He kneels before a shelf beside the TV, where I keep my VHSs. I step around the couch and join him. Is this pretense, or does he really want to watch a movie with me?
He cringes, like he's not finding what he's searching for. “Where's Bringing Up Baby?” he asks.
My thoughts return to nights where we lay on the couch, our heads on either side, lounging on pillows as we enjoyed the slapstick comedy. It was one of my personal favorites, and while when he first started staying with us, he didn’t understand my affection for classic movies, he eventually came around. Some nights, he would sneak into my bedroom and watch them with me. Looking back, it probably wasn't the smartest idea for a young girl to let an older guy into her bedroom to watch movies, considering all the things that could have transpired, but at the time, I felt so safe with him, and he never did anything that would have made me think he would have been inappropriate. A perfect gentlemen. Although, after a while, I wished he wouldn't have been a gentleman.
“I had to throw it out,” I explain. “I played it one too many times and the tape tore.”
“And you didn't buy a new one?”
“I never really had time.”
“To go online and order a VHS? Or a fucking DVD?” he says, looking at me as if I'm the laziest girl on the planet.
“Are you seriously judging me for not having that movie?”
“We used to watch it together.” I want to fuss at him, remind him that I've had nine years without him where I didn't imagine he'd just pop back into my life and want me to have the movies he'd prefer. However, I know better than to go there.
“What is this?” I ask. “A trip down memory lane?” On top of my frustration about his pestering about a movie he thinks I should have, I wonder why he would want to watch a movie that reminds him of our past. “The Philadelphia Story is down there if you want to watch that instead. For a while, you couldn't tell the two apart anyway.”
“Oh, no, no, no,” he says, retrieving a VHS from the shelf. He flashes the cover. It Happened One Night.
“Works for me.” Does he not remember how much he despised that movie? He thought it was so stupid, so much so that I eventually gave up watching it around him—unless I wanted to in spite of him.
I go along with this ruse because I know movie-viewing will probably last for a few minutes before we get to the fun stuff, the reason he's here. Then it's bye-bye movie.
“Mind if I put some popcorn on?”
“I'm not sure I have any.”
“Sure you do. I saw it when I was making that omelet.”
It's official. He knows my kitchen better than I do. “Go for it.”
He dashes past me and heads into the kitchen. He rummages through the cabinet and retrieves a bag, which he places in the microwave. As the buzz of the microwave sounds, he heads back into the living area and grabs his bag. “Mind if I change real quick?”
Change? “By all means,” I say, curious to see what he's about to put on. He heads into the bathroom. A few moments pass. I turn on the TV and start the movie. As the sound of popping fills the air, I press pause to wait for him.
Jarek fixing popcorn reminds me when we were kids. Daddy was always the one to make dinner, so if he was out for a business function or benefit, Jarek would pick up frozen ravioli and garlic bread, which I'd heat up. Then he, Janet, and I would watch a movie together. It was a silly ritual, and I'm amazed we didn't get sick and tired of the simple meal, but it was something we actually looked forward to.
When he comes out of the bathroom, he's in periwinkle pajama bottoms with green pinstripes and a white tee that shapes his fit form, as if it's just as tailored as the outfits he wears. His shirts always seemed to fit as if they were designed just for his physique. I remember when he would scamper around the house in a white tee and pajama bottoms. He'd steal my homework and I'd chase him around the halls until I managed to catch him. Then he'd raise it over his head to keep it out of my reach, and when I'd ask him what I needed to do to get it back, h
e'd say I could only have it if I called him the most amazing man in the world. I would say it as sarcastically as possible. However, it wasn't that easy to satisfy the homework tormentor, because he would make me say it until he believed I was sincere. I can't say I was innocent in that game, because I could have easily attempted to keep snatching it, and I only dragged it out because I enjoyed the sport.
Some nights were less dramatic. I remember studying for the SAT one evening after I finished my homework. I sat at the kitchen table, weary and wanting to go to bed, but knowing I needed to get my practice in or I wouldn't do it. Jarek peered over my shoulder, curious about the problems I worked on. As I showed him how to work them, I discovered I actually improved my own performance. I wonder if those moments helped him with his college career. Surely my brief tutelage was of some benefit, but I can't take much credit considering how quickly he picked up on things. And I benefited just as much from the experience. Still, it bothers me that my assistance might have in some way been responsible for his success. I wish I could go back in time and refuse to show him anything. Although that isn't true, because as much as I hate him for what he did, I can't help but be proud of all that he's accomplished. It doesn't make me mad that he's so successful. It makes me sad, because I couldn't share in those victories with him.
My attention returns to the present, with this gorgeous man, who retrieves popcorn from the microwave and fixes himself a glass of water. I join him and pour myself a glass of ice tea.
Maybe I should enjoy tonight the way I do our sex. Just let go...if only for a few moments, so that I can appreciate this time with him.
Once we're finished gathering our concessions, we head into the living room. I pick up the remote from the coffee table and press play while he lounges across the couch.
“Am I just going to stand?” I ask, looking at how he monopolized the couch. He looks at the space between him and the edge of the cushion.
“There's room right here,” he says. I finally understand. He's playing like he wants to watch this movie so he can get all touchy-feely. This makes much more sense than us watching a movie I know for a fact he doesn't like. I'm game for whatever puts him in the mood.
Every Time He Leaves (The Raeven Sisters Book 1) Page 10