by Cat Carmine
I walk towards the front doors of the hotel, but at the last minute veer off towards the restaurant. Maybe Celia will still be there.
I burst in and nearly collapse in gratitude when I see her and Jace settling up their bill.
Celia looks up right away, almost as if she can sense my distress through some kind of BFF ESP.
“Rori, what’s wrong?!”
Instead of answering, I burst into tears. Celia wraps her arms around me, while Jace looks on, concerned.
Celia strokes my back.
“Maybe you should go,” she says quietly. I sneak a peek behind me and realize she’s talking to Wes. “I’ll talk to her.”
“Rori, I still want to talk to you.” Wes’s voice, like lava dripping down my spine.
I turn to face him. I take a deep breath, steadying myself.
“What’s the point, Wes? We have nothing to talk about. You should just go back to the city.”
I expect Wes to fight me, but instead he nods solemnly. I watch as he walks out of the restaurant, away from me and from all of us.
Celia reaches for some napkins and passes me a handful. I mop up my face as best as I can.
“I’m so sorry,” I mutter. “I didn’t mean for you to have to deal with any of this today. You’re supposed to be celebrating.”
“How can I celebrate if I know my best friend is crying her eyes out over some guy?” She pauses. “I mean, I’m assuming it’s over some guy. Did something happen with Wes?”
I nod, another round of fresh tears pricking my eyes. I try to stem them with the napkins but they won’t stop coming.
Celia and Jace exchange a glance.
“Come on.” Celia links her arm through mine. “We have an hour before we have to leave for the airport. Let’s go sit in the bar and you can tell me what happened.”
Jace nods. “I’ll go pack up the rest of our stuff. Let me know if you need me to change our flight, babe.”
“Oh, God, no,” I protest. “I’m not going to delay your flight. I just need a minute.”
“Well, we’ll see what happens.” Celia takes my arm and ushers me out of the restaurant and across the hall into the hotel’s bar. For a minute I think we might find Wes there, but when I scan the space I don’t see his familiar frame anywhere. He’s gone.
Thank God. That’s what I wanted.
Right?
Thirty-Three
As soon as I leave the hotel restaurant, I know I’ve made a mistake. I only get as far as the elevators before I decide to turn back. I can’t let Rori walk away like this. I have to stay and fight for her. Even if she doesn’t want to see me. Even if she never wants to see me again.
I have to try.
But when I get to the restaurant, she’s gone. There’s no sign of Celia, either. Jace is still there, punching his info into a credit card machine. He looks up as I come in, and his expression darkens.
“I think the girls want to be alone right now.”
I run my hands through my hair. He isn’t quite posturing, but he’s got that protective-husband thing going on, and I can’t say I blame him. I’d be doing the same thing if I was in his shoes.
“I have to talk to her. I have to make this right.”
Jace’s face softens, just a fraction.
“Look, man, I get it. Believe me. Celia and I had our bumps in the beginning too. I don’t know what you did, but I know sometimes they need their space. Maybe you should do what she said and go back to the city. Talk to her again when you’ve both had some time to calm down a little.”
Surprisingly, what Jace says seems to make sense. Maybe we can’t fix this right now. Maybe I should give Rori a bit of time to process everything. After all, that’s what she said she wanted — I should respect her wishes. Plus, it’ll buy me a little time to come up with the right thing to say, the magic words that’ll win her over and convince her I’m not a lying bastard.
I just hope those words exist. Right now, I’m not so sure they do.
An hour later, I’m packed up and checked out. Because it’s a Sunday morning and everyone and their first cousin is driving back into the city after their weekends away, the traffic is slower than usual. Which unfortunately gives me plenty of time to think.
And what do I think about? Rori, of course.
How the fuck did we go from a perfect night to the complete and utter fuck-up that was this morning?
Every time I blink, I see flashes of last night and our fight this morning.
Blink. Rori slipping off that purple dress.
Blink. Rori’s face as she put two and two together and realized what I was doing with the Elmwood Gables community land.
Blink. My lips against her throat, making her moan.
Blink. Her shaking shoulders as she threw herself, sobbing, into Celia’s arms.
Blink. Sliding inside of her, coming together with her in a moment of perfect harmony.
Blink. The blank expression on her face when I told her I was in love with her.
How the fuck did we fall so far?
Then again, I could just as easily ask how the fuck this happened to begin with.
Nothing was ever supposed to happen with Rori. It was supposed to be strictly business. And she seemed fine with that. She even made me sign that stupid fucking agreement on the back of that stupid fucking napkin. Yet one by one, we’d been breaking the rules our own deal.
And here we are now. Back in the same place things had ended the first time. With Rori feeling broken-hearted and me being the one to have broken it. I hurt her back then, and now I’ve gone and done it again. My ribs feel like they’re too tight for my chest and my hands grip the steering wheel and for a second I think about driving on straight past New York, maybe all the way up into Canada where I can buy a little cabin in the woods and live the life of solitude I’m obviously meant for. I’m sure I’d look good in plaid.
But I don’t know how to stay away from Rori. I thought the contract would be enough to keep us in check, but apparently I’d underestimated the magnetic force that exists between us. Even now, knowing she probably hates my guts — and deservedly so — I can’t let her go.
I try to focus on keeping the car on the road. My foot falls heavier and heavier on the gas pedal though, and soon I’m flooring it. I swerve between lanes, avoiding the traffic but barely. It’s not until I have to slam on the brakes to avoid rear-ending an SUV with a boatload of kids in it that I realize I’m being an irresponsible asshole. I creep back over into the far right lane, and wait for the next exit.
It comes up a minute or two later, and I pull off the highway. I need to find a gas station, somewhere I can splash some cold water on my face. I find a spot right away, a diner not far off the exit ramp, with a long row of gas pumps out front and a parking lot big enough for a dozen eighteen-wheelers. I pull up and hop out of the car.
The bathroom is inside the diner area so I head straight for it. I avoid looking in the mirror once I’m in there, but I run the water as cold as I can and scrub some of the anxiety out of my face. The water helps but what I really need is coffee. I’m still feeling the effects of last night’s champagne on top of everything else.
I head back out into the diner and grab a seat at the counter. I try to push away the memories of the last time I’d been in a diner — the time with Rori, when we’d written up our contract, and when I’d come later, on my own, lost in those memories of my mother.
It’s a man working behind the counter here. He’s grey-haired and a little stooped, with lines in his face as deep as the cracks in the vinyl floor. He looks like maybe he’s worked here since before I was even born.
“Just a coffee,” I say, when he waves a menu in my direction. He returns moments later with an empty mug and a fresh-brewed pot.
“Can I interest you in a slice of pie?” As he pours my coffee, he gestures at the glass case behind him, the one that seems to be a staple of diners everywhere. I scan the selection, and immediately spot the bright
yellow of the lemon meringue pie. I swallow. I can already taste the crisp tart sweetness of it, can feel the floaty texture of the meringue on my tongue. Taking it feels wrong though. Or not wrong exactly — I struggle to put my finger on just why I don’t want to have any.
“Best coconut cream pie in the state,” he says. “Or so I tell my wife, who makes it.” He winks at me and I force myself to smile.
“Just the coffee is fine,” I say. I chug back another bitter mouthful, and realize what it is I’m feeling.
It’s that I don’t deserve that pie. Whatever I felt the other day, when I had sat at the diner eating pie and wondering if my mother would have been proud of me — I didn’t deserve that again. She wouldn’t be proud of me, not if she knew what kind of person I’d become. We didn’t have a lot of money when I was growing up, but she was the kind of person who’d give you the shirt off her back if you needed it. She was a giver. It’s the same quality I’d always loved in Rori too.
I was the opposite. A taker. And now I’d hurt the most important person in my life for the second time. So no, I don’t deserve to bask in the memory of my mother for another precious minute. Not until I can fix this with Rori. And if I can’t, well …
I finish my coffee, drop a couple of dollars on the counter and head back out into the parking lot. I sit in the SUV for a minute, wondering what the fuck I’m doing. Then I flip my sunglasses on and pull out of the lot and back onto the highway.
I’m not going to even consider what happens if I can’t fix this with Rori. Because that thought, right now, is the most unbearable one of all.
Thirty-Four
As soon as Celia and I are seated in the bar, she flags down the bartender and has him bring us a couple of vodkas. He asks if we want tomato juice with that and Celia glares at him.
“Do we look like two women who want tomato juice with that?”
“No ma’am,” he says stiffly, then shuffles off to get our drinks.
Celia turns to me, holding my hand across the table.
“Tell me everything,” she says.
And I do. As soon as the bartender drops off our drinks, I tell her every detail, from the moment Wes and I made our agreement, to the way it felt to be with him again after all these years. Every gory, mushy, humiliating detail. And then I tell her about how he was using me all along, that I was nothing more than a means to an end.
The whole time I’m talking, Celia’s frown deepens. When I’m done, she downs the last of her drink.
“You think I’m an idiot, don’t you?” I ask, burying my head in my hands.
“Oh my God, Rori, no!” She seems horrified by the thought. I smile weakly, but I can see her gnawing at her lip.
“What? You’re just humoring me, aren’t you? I really am an idiot.”
“No! Stop it. That’s not it at all. It’s just …”
“What?”
“It’s just … that doesn’t sound like Wes.”
I roll my eyes. “You’ve known him less than twenty-four hours. I’ve known him over fifteen years. I think I’m a better judge of his character.” I bat my glass lightly back and forth between my palms, then snort. “And even I fell for his bullshit.”
“Maybe,” Celia says reluctantly. “It’s just … God, the way he looked at you, Rori. I honestly don’t think he could fake that.”
“Oh, he could. Trust me. Wes is a master of manipulation. That much is obvious now.”
Celia doesn’t say anything for a minute. She flicks at her glass distractedly.
“Are you sure, though? I mean, I know you know him better than I do, but maybe that makes me a more objective observer. And to this outsider, he looked head over heels for you.”
“He told me he was in love with me,” I admit.
“That’s great!”
“No, it isn’t.” I glare at her.
“Sorry, that came out wrong. I just mean, why wouldn’t you believe him?”
“Because. I have no reason to believe anything he says at this point.”
“Okay. Let’s look at this objectively. What does he have to gain by telling you he loves you?”
“To hurt me even more,” I mutter.
“Come on. Even if we accept that he uses people to get what he wants, straight-up sadism doesn’t seem to be his game. What if it’s possible that … he actually meant it?”
I hate to hand it to Celia, but she has a point. And he had seemed genuinely upset in the hotel room. But thinking about the hotel room only makes me think about our kiss, and that makes me feel weak, so I force myself to put the whole thing out of my mind.
“Well,” I allow. “Even if he meant that part, how am I supposed to forgive him for this? I just can’t believe I’m in this position again. Fool me once, shame on you — fool me twice, shame on me and all that.”
Celia shakes her head. Her dark hair is down but it still has some of yesterday’s curl in it. When I look closely, I can even see a faint dusting of glitter across her collarbone. I groan.
“I’m really sorry, Celia. I can’t believe I’m keeping you here when you should be with Jace.”
Celia waves away my comment. “Don’t be crazy. Remember when you flew out to Chicago for me, when Jace and I got together? That fell right smack dab in the middle of best friend territory, and so does this. Now, are you feeling at least a little bit better? Or do we need to get more vodka?”
I laugh and shake my head. “No more vodka. After all, it’s not even noon.”
“Fair point. But are you feeling better?”
“I don’t know. No. But I guess I will be, eventually. I just need some time to process.”
“Of course you do. And that’s totally normal. Call me any time this week, okay? I don’t care if I’m on my honeymoon, I can still make time for you.”
Her words bring another wave of tears to my eyes.
“How did I get so lucky to find you?”
“Easy. You ended up with a shitty roommate in freshman year, just like I did. Oh, and also you were awesome.”
I laugh, wiping at my eyes with a cocktail napkin.
“I love you, you know that?”
“I love you too, you train wreck.”
Instead of stinging, her comment makes me dissolve into a fit of tearful giggles.
“Oh my God, I am a train wreck, aren’t I? When did that happen?”
“Just a little bit. It’s why I love you. Now let’s get out of here, shall we?”
We make our way into the hotel lobby, arm in arm. We’re nearly at the elevators when I hear a voice calling out my name.
I spin around, heart in my throat, but it’s only my sister Blake.
She runs across the glossy marble floor, pink flip-flops slapping. Her blonde hair is disheveled, and she has dark mascara streaks under her eyes. I wonder for a second if she even made it back to her room last night. She was dancing pretty hard. But that’s Blake — always up for a good time, and never a thought to what the next morning will hold. I kind of admire that about her.
“We were looking for you everywhere. Mom and Dad and I are heading home now and we wanted to say goodbye before we left.”
I glance behind her and see my parents straggling along, Dad lugging their suitcase behind him. They look a little worse for wear this morning too. I guess everyone had a good time last night.
I give Celia a long hug and whisper a heartfelt thank you into her ear, and then she escapes into the elevator with a quick wave to my parents before they reach us.
“Rori, what’s wrong?” Mom says, as soon as she’s within a few feet of me.
“Nothing, why?”
“You look …” she trails off, biting her lip. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine.”
She reaches into her purse — a giant straw thing with a woven sunflower on the front of it — and pulls out a tissue. She hands it to me.
“I’m fine,” I say again, but when I dab the tissue to my eyes, it comes away wet. I wipe fr
antically at my face. “I just hate saying goodbye to Celia again, that’s all.”
“Aw.” Mom’s face softens. “You girls have such a special friendship. It’s too bad you live so far away from each other.” She pauses. “But we will kill you if you move to Chicago. You know that, right?”
I laugh. “Yes, Mom.”
“Now give us a hug before we go.”
I give both my parents a hug, and then Blake too. They make me promise to come visit soon, which I do, and then they slowly start to shuffle back through the lobby. They’re almost at the front door when the thought overtakes me.
“Wait!” I yell. “Wait!”
Dad stops, one hand already on the door. He turns, his face a mask of concern as I run towards them. “What’s wrong, Rori?”
“Got room in the car for one more?”
Mom claps her hands and lets out a girlish squeal. “Of course we do. What a question.”
She turns to face my dad. “Oh, maybe Emma would want to come too. We could have the whole family together. Wouldn’t that be fun?”
Dad nods. “It would be. Maybe one of the girls can text her.”
Blake and I exchange a snicker. My dad might be a wonderful, brilliant man, but the guy is absolutely terrified of texting. The few times he’s actually managed to send me something, he’s always written it formally, like a letter — starting with Dear Rori, and ending with Love, Dad. It’s kind of adorable, actually.
“Where is Emma, anyway?” I ask, looking around and realizing I haven’t seen her all morning.
“Oh, she went to the gym,” Blake says, rolling her eyes. “She said Sundays are cardio day and why would she miss cardio day just because she went to a wedding last night?” I can tell by the sour expression on her face exactly what she thinks of this logic. I can’t say I disagree. Then again, maybe I should think of being less of a train wreck and more like Emma The Perfect. Then I wouldn’t be crying my eyes out in a hotel lobby like a total freak.
“I’ll text her,” I tell Dad. “It would be nice to have everyone together.”