Love Like the Movies

by Victoria Van Tiem

  I meet Gram’s eyes. She’s patiently waiting for me to formulate an answer.

  “He, um. Well, he showed up at my work, as a client, and we’re working together. And there’s this list . . . and he . . .” I half smile, glance at Gram, and look down.

  “I see.” Gram holds her cup with both hands, elbows propped on the table. “I remember when he left for home, without you.” She pulls her brows down as if in thought. “Wasn’t easy on him. The next couple of years weren’t much better.” Gram leans back.

  My ears are pricked, I’m listening intently.

  “When my Charles passed away last year, he left Shane everything, with provisions for me, of course. Shane’s father, my son, felt it all should have been left to him. There was also a girl Shane had been seeing.”

  I’m not sure I want to hear about this. I take a sip. Please don’t say he still loves her.

  “Shane was on track for a very promising career with his father, she was on track to bag a promising husband.” Her eyes narrow. “But when my Charles left Shane the family trust and farm in America . . . well, it promised to throw a wrench into everything if he moved here.” She reaches out and places her hand on mine, her nose wrinkles with a smile. “I’m rather glad it did.”

  He never told me any of this. He doesn’t tell me lots of things.

  “She wanted him to sell it, so they could start a life from the profits. His father agreed with her. Together, they tried to convince him it was the right way to go. Nearly did.”

  She takes a drink. I don’t know what to say. Should I say something?

  “Shane had a choice. He could sell, profit, and leave me to my own. Or he could move back to the States and look after little ol’ me. Maybe start again.” She narrows her eyes. “Choosing is the act of living with purpose. And I think he made the right choice. Maybe you have, too.”

  I lean back and give her a small smile.

  She smiles back, then turns to the doorway. “Shane, you may as well come in, I can hear you sitting out there.” She winks at me. “I hear everything, drives him crazy.”

  Shane heard? I hear movement, but I’m focused on the coffee cup, the death grip I have on the handle.

  “You need some food in here, at least some cream for coffee.” She stands. “Kensington, it was nice to see your pretty face again. I expect to see more of it.”

  I look up and catch her smile as she heads for the door. Then I see Shane. He’s leaning in the doorway, his thumb hanging from his jeans loop, his head tilted back warily. The lips that pressed to my cheek less than three hours ago now have a slight swell and split along the bottom. His eyes are locked on to mine. Right now he looks more like the boy I remember than the man I was hoping to know.

  He takes a breath, as if he’s about to break the silence, but the doorbell does instead. He straightens and considers it. My eyes fall on my bags behind him.

  Packed. Ready. Decided.

  “It’s my ride,” I say in a whisper. In an instant, I’m up. My shoulder brushes against him as I pass to grab my bags.

  “Kensington. Wait.” He turns, placing an arm in the doorframe to block me. His chin’s lowered, his eyes are soft.

  I would like nothing more than to hear him say I misheard him. That he hadn’t known about Bradley and Tonya. That I can trust him. But I did hear him. He knew. Everyone knew.

  I’m shaking my head. “I, um . . . I need to sort everything out.” My hands shake as I snatch up my bags and sprint under his arm back to the door.

  Shane’s right at my heels. “Kensington, please.”

  I don’t stop. In fact, I run.

  But what am I running to?

  I wipe at the flux of fresh tears, avoiding Rand Peterson’s stare as I pass. Ellie’s eyes widen when she sees me. I’m visibly upset and stumbling toward her car.

  “Here. Here, I got it.” She reaches for my bags and quickly throws them in the trunk.

  I jump into the passenger seat with a slam. Locking my door, I sink down, buckle up, and mentally check out. Ellie gets behind the wheel and pauses with her hand on the ignition. I’m aware of Shane standing just outside my door.

  “Please, just take me home, Ellie.” I’m assaulted by the truth, and it hurts. God, does this hurt. But at this moment, the tears have stopped. Maybe I’ve finally reached my limit. With everyone.

  Stupid Bradley’s had his say. And Shane’s said plenty by not saying much. He didn’t think it mattered that he saw Bradley and Tonya together? A simple, hey, you know who I ran into?

  But why would he? He never told me what my mom or Tonya said. Then, he was a kid, I get it, he apologized, I accepted. But now? He’s supposed to be a grown-up, but he did it again.

  Maybe it’s time I had my say.

  Starting with . . . Tonya.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  This Means What

  ELLIE DROPPED ME AT home and left when I promised to get some sleep. But the minute her car pulled out, I jumped in mine and rushed straight to Tonya’s. I’ve been sitting outside her apartment for over an hour.

  Watching.

  Waiting.

  Eating.

  Tonya’s apartment is dark. She’s not home, but that’s okay, because I can be patient. My car has heated seats. I also have hot coffee and a baker’s dozen of Krispy Kremes. I’ve seen This Means War. I know how stakeouts work. And I’m officially on one.

  I’m Lauren, Reese Witherspoon’s character, but with the covert skills of Chris Pine and Tom Hardy. Aside from my phone, however, I lack their cool spy gadgetry.

  On Facebook I notice she’s unfriended me. What a bitch. She could have at least let me have the satisfaction of unfriending her. She’s the lying cheater.

  I check Ellie’s friend list to see if Tonya’s still listed on hers. Yup. I should post on Ellie’s wall, that way she’ll still see it.

  Something like, I’ve got a sandwich. You like leftovers, right?

  It’s too nice. Maybe I’m channeling Lauren’s character too much. I don’t want to be nice. I don’t know what I want. Maybe a sandwich. The doughnuts are making me nauseated.

  Lauren’s friend in the movie says, Don’t choose the better man, choose the man who makes you a better woman. Well, neither do. With Bradley I was settling. And Shane is still unsettled. So I choose FDR, Chris Pine’s character in This Means War. He likes movies and tries to know art, so yeah, works for me. I should watch that tonight.

  Lights flash through my car’s interior as an SUV turns into the parking lot. I duck, then slide up so my eyes are right above the window opening. My heart races from the hybrid surge of sugar and adrenaline.

  It’s her. And she’s not alone. I can’t see who she’s with, though. I press my forehead to the glass and squint. Who the hell is that? Bradley? Is it? I gasp and fog the window. It can’t be. Using my sleeve, I wipe the glass and refocus. No, not Bradley, it’s . . . I don’t know. They’re going into her apartment. Now what?

  I sit up and grab a doughnut. It’s carb fuel for my think tank. I planned for an interrogation, not an interruption. There’s no way I can go in now. I can’t put everything on the line if someone’s in there with her. Her apartment light flips on.

  I need to know who’s with her.

  I’m not thinking. I’m doing. I toss the doughnut in the box, but then reconsider. The doughnut. Not the doing. I may as well finish the last few bites.

  Okay . . . now I’m off. Now I’m doing.

  I skulk along the walkway’s edge, my collar up, my chin down. A wide step here. A low dip there. Stealthily, I creep toward Tonya’s building and look around.

  Thank God she’s on the ground floor. I slink along the wall outside her window, inch by inch. Shit, the shrubbery’s dense. Ow. The spindly branches scratch at my skin. My hair catches in its pickers and tugs as I turn my head. What the hell kind of bush is this? This isn’t working. I try to turn . . . voices. I hear voices! Someone’s walking up the path.

  I duck as low as I can, but
I’m not wearing camo, I won’t blend, and they might see me.

  Closing my eyes, I hold as still as possible in the shrubbery, trying to stay quiet until her neighbors pass by. Is this what a CIA spy-guy feels like? I don’t know how they do it. I have an itch on my ankle.

  I’m holding a weird squat position. My ankle is on fire, and after all the coffee, I need to pee.

  Are they gone? I think they’re gone. Okay, I scratch my leg and straighten. I can do this.

  I turn and wedge myself flat along the wall. I sidestep between the bush and brick, backside out, hands hugging the mortar. My fingertips reach for her window, almost, I can almost . . . there. Yes. I’m right under it.

  Slowly . . . I bring my head up. Little by little I rise, careful not to draw attention from inside. I freeze. Only the crown of my head is over. There’s no weird scream, no exclamation of Oh my God, whose hair is that?

  I stifle a giggle. That would be weird. Looking out your window and seeing only a forehead. What would they say to the police? You couldn’t be arrested as a Peeping Tom. A forehead has no peepers.

  I move up . . . up . . . and there. My eyes are now just above the frame. I see her, Tonya, and the back of the mystery man. It’s not Bradley. His build is different, he has no ass. But . . . it’s strangely familiar. They’re arguing. Tonya’s saying something but all I hear is muffled snark.

  Oh! Oh, oh! He’s kissing her. She’s pushing him away but . . . now she’s kissing him back! They’ve stopped and . . . why is his hand palming her belly like . . . wait, I thought she wasn’t pregnant? Now he’s talking to her belly.

  She is pregnant!

  Tonya breaks away and walks into the family room, ranting on about something. She’s a pissed-off Charlie Brown adult. All I hear is wuh, wuh, wuh wuh, wuh. These windows really have great insulation.

  Come on, turn.

  Do it.

  He’s turning . . . it’s . . . it’s . . .

  “HOLY SHIT!”

  Oh! I said that out loud. The insulation isn’t as good as I thought. Eyes dart my way.

  I drop.

  Shit. Shit. Shit. Go! I need to go! I force my way through the shrubs in record time, snapping twigs and ripping fabric as I do. I’m out. Shit, which way? I’m positioned like a quarterback waiting for the snap, looking to my right, then my left, then right. It’s ready, set, run!

  Trampling through a flower bed, I scramble around the corner and flatten against the wall. Oh! One hand’s on my heart, the other covers my mouth, forcing jagged breaths through my nose.

  When my heart settles, I peek around the wall. No one’s come out. No one’s there. One more cautionary look-see, and I make a mad dash to my car.

  IT WAS RANT-AND-DRIVE THE ENTIRE way. I pull into my parking lot without remembering the ride home. I don’t understand what’s happening. I’m completely confused by yet another turn of fate’s wheel. I’m not just upside down, I’m spinning in a complete willy-nilly cluster fuck.

  I separate my keys and . . .

  “Kenzi? Shit, are you okay?”

  He’s moving toward me, I’m frozen on the walkway, still trying to wrap my head around what I saw. What I’m seeing. Why is he here?

  “Bradley? What do you want?” I can’t take any more.

  His hand is under my chin, turning my head, eyeing my face.

  I push him away. “What are you doing?” His left eye is swollen to a mere slit, with the purple promise of yellow bruising to come.

  “There’s . . . um. Here.” He reaches up and pulls sprigs of shrubbery from my hair. “And . . . may I?” He wets his thumb, wipes near my mouth, then examines it. “Glaze?” He looks me over, concern in his one eye.

  I don’t think the other one is seeing much.

  Instead of a blond Gaston, he now resembles a Cyclops Quasimodo. Wiping at my face, I sigh. Yup, glaze from the doughnuts. When I look down I see the scratches across my legs, the rip in my skirt, and my arm is bleeding.

  “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”

  I don’t argue. I follow him to my door and wait for him to unlock it. I need to ask for my key back.

  “Jesus. What happened here, Kenz?” Bradley’s standing in the entryway scanning my apartment.

  Oh, yeah. I never cleaned up from my Bridget Jones drinkfest resulting from Saturday’s symphony kiss or Monday’s wedding debacle. Wow, busy week.

  “I’m gonna grab a shower,” I say, walking past him. I have no expression or explanation. I’m wiped. I don’t even care that he’s here. I don’t. I’m way past the point of anger, because truthfully, why does it even matter?

  Starting the water, I catch sight of myself in the mirror. Oh, good God. Bradley was actually being polite. I’m a Chia Pet that’s been mauled by a cracked-out kitty. I sigh from somewhere deep, and rake the foliage from my hair, bit by bit.

  A glass of wine is waiting for me by the couch when I emerge. Bradley’s beside it with a box of bandages.

  “Come here. I want to take a better look at that arm.”

  I hold it out for his inspection. It’s a decent slice, although all surface. I don’t remember feeling it happen. When he’s finished, I curl up on the couch, one leg under the other, and pound back the wine in two determined swallows. Bradley takes a seat across from me, leans forearms to knees, and waits.

  I make him wait a while longer.

  “Okay,” I say at last. “No more lies. Just truth. One chance to tell the truth. So spill.”

  The truth is the same as before. They had a thing before I worked there and it happened again. Yeah, the truth sucks. He sucks. My jaw’s clenched. There’s nothing he can really say to change anything.

  Bradley moves to the floor in front of me and kneels. His hands reach for mine.

  “She told me a couple weeks ago that she was pregnant, and . . . I panicked, okay? Then she followed me out to my car before I left for Lansing, demanding I do the right thing and marry her. Marry her. It was my worst nightmare, hon, you have to believe me . . .”

  One blue eye earnestly looks into mine. I should probably get some ice for the bloodshot and swollen one, but I don’t.

  “What about what Shane said? Seeing you together at the hotel? Not business?” My eyes narrow.

  “Hon,” Bradley says carefully and slides closer. His arms are now both leaning on my lap, his hands engulfing mine. “I can be an ass—”

  Thank you, Captain Obvious. I puff a breath.

  He ignores it. “But if she was pregnant with my child, I’d do right by her, you know that.”

  I yank my hands back and straighten. He’d do right by her? What about me?

  Bradley’s brows furrow. He shakes his head. “No, what I mean is by supporting her. I’d support the baby. I want to marry you. And I’m pretty sure she lied about being pregnant anyway. So, it’s not a concern now. Okay?”

  Shit. He doesn’t know about what I just saw. And it’s not okay. Either way, it’s not okay.

  “I’ve been talking with Grayson about all of this—”

  “Wait, what? My brother knows about Tonya and . . . ?” My head’s not keeping up with anything. The sugar rush has crashed into a sludgy molasses drip.

  “I needed a sounding board, needed to know how to handle everything. I’m sorry. I’m sorry about her. For pushing for a quicker wedding. Guess I thought if we moved things up, then somehow . . . I don’t know. It’d be harder for you to walk away when I told you everything. And we could handle the situation together. Shit, this is a mess and I’m sorry.”

  I’m dazed, listening to him talk, hearing the words fade in and out. Picking apart what it all means. What it doesn’t. Why my heart aches.

  “We can still plan the biggest wedding that anyone has ever seen, anything you want. Just give us another chance . . .”

  “. . . You want babies? You know I do, too. We can start right away . . .”

  “. . . I’ll even look the other way about Bennett, okay?”

  Bennett. His name brin
gs me back. I blink and stare wide-eyed into nothing.

  Bradley still wants me. He’s delusional. After all of this, he thinks I’d reconsider? Has he forgotten I broke it off before I knew? It wasn’t right then and it still isn’t now.

  Getting up, I search for my purse and unzip the inside pocket.

  His ring.

  My voice sounds tiny, a mere wisp of words strung together in truth as I place it in his hand. “Bradley . . . I can’t.” This time the words don’t carry a shred of indecision. “I won’t.”

  I don’t know what anything means or what I want.

  I just know it’s not him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  You’ve Got Nerve

  BRADLEY WAS GONE WHEN I woke on the couch. He left a note saying he loved me, that he was sorry, and please reconsider. That was yesterday. And that’s where I stayed. On the couch. Today, I’ve ordered pizza, went through two boxes of tissues, watched various rom-coms, and channel surfed.

  I’m thinking I may end up alone. An image of my future little girl waving a you’re fired sign plagues me. She doesn’t have to fire me . . . I never even got the job.

  Ellie made me promise I’d do a girls’ night when she dropped me off the other night and she won’t let me out of it. In fact, she’s here getting ready even though we don’t have to leave till seven, and it’s only three. All I really want to do is go back to the couch.

  I’ve managed to get half dressed. My hair’s set in hot rollers and my makeup’s done, but I’m still in sweats and slippers. I don’t know where we’re going or what to wear. At least I know what not to after two hours of back-to-back episodes on TLC.

  “I like it, it’s pretty,” I say to Ellie as she spins, modeling her dress across my living room before disappearing back into the bathroom.

  Slumping at my desk, I scroll Facebook to wait. I was half hoping Ellie would’ve called with a location, saying she’d meet me there. Only instead of her, it would be . . . but, whatever. Not going to happen. He isn’t here, he hasn’t called, he hasn’t done anything except disappear again.