by Alexis James
I drag my feet and stall for a good long time before I reluctantly stomp out to my car and head toward Key Biscayne. Funny, she used to be so concerned about me driving my piece of crap car out there, but not so much tonight. Not so much the twenty other times that she’s tried to get me out to the island.
I sing loudly to “Masquerade” while I drive, avoiding the other two songs that cause the weird pain to enter my chest once again. I also avoid thinking about him or thinking about the last time I drove out to the Moran house, which coincidentally was with him. The person I’m not thinking about.
Really, Amita? Is this what you do now?
I hit the button to eject the CD and fiddle with the radio until I get a static version of the latest Top 40 tunes. If I had a real car, a newer car, I might have one of those fancy CD changers that holds six discs. What I have is a crappy Wal-Mart player that Vic installed for me a few years ago. My ancient Dodge Dart didn’t exactly come equipped with a Bose sound system. Not like the stereo in Marco’s car. That thing …
Nope. Not thinking about him.
I do a swell job of it too for the final few minutes of my drive, until I pull the car into the driveway and cut the engine and memories come racing at me one after the other. I take a few breaths and do my best to clear my mind of any thoughts. After an inner talking to, I toss my bag over my shoulder and make my way to the front door.
Mia answers after the first chime, pulling me into her arms and kissing my cheek repeatedly. “I’m so happy you’re here!”
“Argh, stop slobbering all over me.” I swipe at my face just to annoy her, though secretly I adore all the sister-love.
She takes my hand and pulls me into the living room where familiar strains of Spanish guitar set the mood. Too bad the particular mood I’m in is sour because if it wasn’t, I might actually swoon. There’s nothing like a beautiful house, sweet romantic music, and the promise of a steak to get my motor running.
“Hello, Amita,” Cruz drawls, strolling toward me with a tentative smile. Sure, he’s taller than Marco, and there are subtle differences in their features, but they are clearly related—and I’m clearly thrown just being near him.
“Uh, hi.” When he reaches out to hug me, I take a step back and make a big show of putting my purse down in the corner. “How’s married life, you two?”
They exchange a concerned look before Mia responds, “It’s wonderful.”
Yeah, I bet. “That’s cool. So, you mentioned wine and tequila?”
Another odd look is exchanged, but thankfully they both know to keep their traps shut; Mia knows me so well, and Cruz is quickly learning that a good husband takes his cue from his betrothed. Mia motions for me to follow her. While she pours us large glasses of red wine, she gives me an update on her Grandpa Tito. I listen half-assed, as I have been doing with most things lately, while my eyes drift around the room.
I wonder how many times he’s been here since walking out on me.
I wonder if he talks about me at all, or if I’m a closed subject.
I wonder if he’s dating now and if so, does he bring her here too?
My stomach rolls and I gingerly rub at the pain in my chest while I slurp down the wine. Mia putters around the kitchen, putting the finishing touches on a salad and pulling down stoneware to set out on the table. I watch, I listen, and I drink, all while trying to remain upright and not fixate on the man who reminds me so much of the person that split my heart in two.
While she and Cruz discuss the finer points of broccoli, I move toward the wall of windows, my gaze flickering to the dock. I can picture us there, sitting on the edge, me complaining about Vic and Marco listening attentively. I think even then I knew that he’d somehow change my life. I guess I never considered it could be in a bad way.
Pain blooms across my entire torso and for a moment I am unable to breathe. Is this what it’s going to be like every time I come out here? Will the memories fade with time or will they, like the pain in my chest, become a permanent reminder of all that I’ve lost?
I don’t hear him step up beside me, don’t even realize he’s standing there until I feel the warmth of his hand embracing mine. “I’m so sorry, Amita. I wish I could make this better for you.”
Tears fill my eyes. “It’s fine, Cruz. I’m … I’m managing.”
“I know you are. You’re a tough, strong woman.”
I don’t feel so tough. I feel like I want to scream. “Thanks.”
“Please don’t stay away. Mia misses you. I miss you.”
Somehow this man has a way of breaking down all my barriers, breaking through the thick walls I’ve been forced to erect to protect my heart. A few words from him and I’m openly crying, squeezing his fingers as if they’re the lifeline I’ve been searching for. “It’s hard to be here. Everything reminds me of him. You remind me of him.”
He sighs, shaking his head. “I know, my friend. And for that I’m terribly sorry.”
Sniffling, I take another slurp of wine and whisper, “How … um … how is he?”
The tense silence speaks volumes, as does the sudden grip he has on my hand. “He’s … managing.”
There are so many questions I want to ask—none, however, that I have a right to. Whatever is going on in Marco’s life is none of my business now. I lost the right to inquire about him the moment he walked out on me.
“Come. Dinner is ready.”
Gently, he leads me to the table, holds out a chair for me like the perfect gentleman that he is, and then gives my hand a final squeeze before releasing it to take his seat. I shoot Mia a grateful, watery smile, which she returns with one of her own, and then turn my attention to the plate in front of me.
I do my best to contribute to the conversation while we eat, sucking down more wine in the process and half considering that I might not be able to drive home. I’d love to snuggle down in a bed with no memories attached to it, but I can’t allow myself to become codependent on my friends. I’m a grown woman and my heart has been broken before. Not this badly, I’ll admit, but I’ve been around this block a time or two. I’ll survive.
But when the doorbell rings just as we’re finishing up and this weird awareness slides up my spine, I truly have to wonder if surviving is possible. I’m most certainly not even truly alive when Cruz pulls the door open and Marco steps into the room, looking at me like he’s seen a ghost.
“What are you doing here?” Mia snaps, very unlike my bestie.
He answers but his eyes are locked on me. “Uh, I needed to drop these off for Cruz.” In his hand is a thick file folder, which he holds out half-assed for Cruz to take from him.
Mia rises from her chair and tosses down her napkin. “It couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”
See, this is why I didn’t want to come out here. I just knew something like this would happen. Now Mia is pissed, Cruz is livid, and Marco is rooted to the spot, most likely regretting coming here at all.
“Its fine,” I reply stoically, dropping back another hefty portion of my wine. “I’ll get started on the dishes.”
Without another word or look toward the other three, I start stacking plates and moving toward the kitchen, purpose-driven and resolute. While I rinse, sort, and stack, I can hear their murmured voices in the room behind me, and I’m quite literally counting the seconds until I can walk out that door and never return.
Damn, how can he still look this good? Shouldn’t he have grown ugly in the past month? You know, life imitating art and all that bull. I can’t believe it’s possible, but I think Marco is better looking now than he was when he was mine. Correction, when I thought he was mine. He wasn’t really ever mine. I was just living in a wonderful, happy place where I believed he was.
I make another quick trip to the table to gather the remaining items, glancing briefly at the other three who are locked in a heated, muted conversation near the front door. I hate that I’ve been the one to cause problems, which is why I’ve tried to keep my distance in the
first place. I knew something like this would happen, and of course Mia being Mia would stick up for me. She and Marco have a very close friendship, but they will never be as close as the two of us. Then you throw in one very protective husband and you’ve got a recipe for certain disaster.
Fate has this weird way of dropping in unannounced and fucking with you completely. For example, a few moments later when I turn to put the leftovers away, who is standing just inside the room? Him. I’m a smart girl, unless I’m handing my heart over to be broken, so I offer up a small smile and ignore him completely. And it should work, right? Because fate wouldn’t be that cruel. Fate wouldn’t put the man who chose to walk away without any explanation in front of you and expect you to play nice with him. Fate could never be that malicious, right?
He still looks pale, but also very, very determined. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
My eyes survey the room, looking for the hidden cameras. This has got to be a joke. He’d never seek me out like this, not unless Mia threatened him somehow. “Uh … no?”
He looks at me with a puzzled expression, almost like he thinks I’m going loony in the head. “Are you okay?”
“What? No. I mean, yes. I mean no.” I search for my wine glass, finding it empty. “I’m fine.” Where the hell is the wine bottle?
Marco takes a tentative step toward me, handing over the bottle of wine to my all too willing hands. “Here you go.”
“Excellent.” I fill my glass and glance at him over the rim while I guzzle. Yep, he’s better looking than before. Damn him.
He looks rather contrite—and even that he wears well. How the hell is that possible? “I just wanted to apologize for showing up unannounced. Mia and Cruz had no idea I’d be coming by.”
Although I do wonder why he still came to the door after he saw my beat-up car parked in the driveway, I do believe what he’s saying is true. “Sure. Whatever.”
He frowns and gives me another look that’s somewhere between ‘what the fuck is going on with her’ and ‘she’s lost her mind’. “You okay?”
“What? Of course. I’m … superior.” I roll my eyes at myself and my idiocy.
Smirking, he replies, “Well, that’s cool.” Taking a step out of the room, he glances at me over his shoulder, stating, “It was really good to see you.”
“Yep. Take it easy.”
Holy fuck, Amita, really? That’s the best you’ve got?
With a heavy sigh, me and my wine glass slide down to the floor, legs outstretched while I wallow silently. Yeah, yeah, I know. I despise wallowing of any kind, but after what I’ve just endured I’m allowed a little wallowing, a little whining, and a whole lot of drinking.
Mia enters the room, not looking at all surprised to find me sprawled out on her kitchen floor, sucking on my wine. Grabbing the bottle, she joins me, taking the spot next to me and tipping the bottle back to drink directly from it. “Men suck.”
I chuckle. “Well, not all men. Cruz is pretty damn wonderful.”
She sighs happily, a dreamy smile on her face. “Yeah, he is that all right.”
We sit in silence for a few moments, drinking wine and listening to the front door closing, the sound of footsteps getting closer. Cruz peeks in, shakes his head, and promptly opens another bottle for each of us, handing them down with a smile. I do so appreciate a well-trained man. “You ladies need anything else?”
“A world without men?” I offer, because I’m helpful like that.
He laughs. “I’ll take that under advisement.”
Once we’re alone again, Mia takes my hand in hers and whispers, “Are you okay? Really okay, I mean?”
I could lie. I should lie. I should also get my ass in gear and head for home. But really, what else could happen?
Christ, Amita, really? You’re going to poke that snake twice in one night? Fate has already fucked you in twenty different and not so wonderful ways. Don’t push your luck.
“No. I’m not okay.” I sigh heavily. “Is it just me or is he better looking than he was a month ago?”
She grins. “It’s possible he’s better looking. I’m convinced Cruz improves every single day.”
We drink some more wine, breathe some air, and finally a nice, slow buzz starts to seep through my veins. I welcome it with open arms, grasping it for dear life in the hope that it will help to lessen this pain that’s now spread from my chest over my entire body.
“He misses you,” she whispers.
“Don’t say that.”
Big, tear-filled brown eyes meet mine. “He does. He told me so.” She sniffs and drags a finger under one eye. “I hate this so much.”
Grabbing the newly opened bottle, I set aside my glass and take a healthy, long drink. “He’s not allowed to miss me. He gave up that right when he walked out.”
“I know that. He knows that. But he still misses you anyway.”
Here’s the thing no one tells you about mixing a large amount of red wine with heartache: it not only takes away your inhibitions, but your ability to function as well. When the wine is finally gone, I burst into a very, very poor and very, very loud version of a mashup of Phantom songs. Cruz makes a reappearance and urges us to get some sleep, his expression guarded. His wife makes a half-assed attempt to stand, which I award mid-song with a hoot and repeated clapping. He helps her upstairs to bed while I continue to sprawl on the kitchen floor, singing loudly and effectively ruining any chances I have for a real job on Broadway.
“Come on, Whitney Houston, let’s get you to bed.” Cruz is a smart guy and realizes almost instantly that walking is not a possibility for me either. He does make a brief attempt to get me to release my hold on the empty wine bottle I’ve got a death grip on, but finally relents when he’s unable to pry it from my sticky fingers.
He lifts me off my feet, into his well-muscled arms, like I’m this featherweight and starts down the hall. Because I no longer have any inhibitions speak of, I turn to look at his handsome profile, tossing out what I think is a come-hither smile and blurting out, “I bet you’re fantastic in the sack.”
He chuckles. “Mia’s not complaining.”
I sigh. “Yeah, I know.” Leaning my head on his shoulder, I wave the bottle around, nearly hitting a picture on the wall, and state, “I used to be fantastic in the sack too. I used to have some great sex. You know the kind I’m talking about, where you scream and get all sweaty and can’t wait to do it again?”
He smirks as we step into the guest room at the end of the hall, the same one I stayed in when I briefly lived with them. “Yes, I’m familiar with it.”
“I bet you are. I bet Mia screams and has multiple orgasms every single night.” My eyes meet his. “Maybe I could get in on that action with you guys. I could use a few good orgasms right about now. And we’re friends and friends sometimes do shit like that … threesomes and stuff … right?”
Cruz grins and shakes his head, setting me on my feet with assistance. “We are friends. But as much as I’m flattered by the offer, I’ll have to decline.” His blue-green eyes grow dark and predatory. “I don’t like to share.”
Falling back onto the mattress, I gaze up at him through bleary eyes, a sob catching in my throat as I hug the empty wine bottle to my chest. “You look so much like him.” Tears pool in my eyes and spill over the edge. “I miss him so much.” My mind floats back to those awkward moments in the kitchen and the strangers we now are. “I miss the way he used to hold me. I miss our talks and the way we used to laugh together.” A sob bubbles up. “I miss just being in the same room with him.”
Cruz shoots me a contrite look and hoists my legs up onto the bed. “I know you do, sweetheart.” Somehow he manages to pry the bottle from my fingers, setting it down on the nightstand before running his hand through his dark, tousled hair.
I start to cry with gusto now. “Why couldn’t he love me? I’d have given him anything. I’d have done anything for him.”
“Ah, babe, he knows that.”
My eyes meet his, the all too familiar blue-green gaze like a knife to my heart. “I love him.”
Cruz nods. “I know you do.”
More sobbing, more tears, and now my nose starts to drip. “I’m sorry.”
He slips off my shoes and pulls the comforter over the top of me, stroking one large hand over my hair. “Don’t apologize. Just get some rest, okay?”
Nodding, I roll to my side and close my eyes, sobbing silently as he turns off the light and pulls the door closed. Once more I’m left all alone with the pain, the memories, and so many regrets.
I’ve made some seriously boneheaded decisions in my life, but nothing can top the decision I made last weekend to walk into Mia and Cruz’s house knowing Amita was there. The least I could have done for her was maintain my distance, but no … cocky dickhead that I am, I somehow convinced myself that I needed to see her, that I somehow deserve to make sure she was doing okay.
In retrospect, I can think of about four hundred other things I should have done other than waltz into that house and act like I was entitled to be there. Getting the death glare from Cruz should have been reason enough to leave. He’s a scary sonofabitch when he’s pushed into a corner, even to those of us he’s known his entire life. Then add Mia to the mix, who in her very unMia-like way threatened to de-ball me if I hurt her friend again. Since I happen to like my balls right where they are, I tried to keep things chill between me and Amita—as chill as things could be when I’m responsible for breaking her heart.
What I didn’t plan on was taking one look at her and feeling like I was being brought to my knees with a pain I’ve never experienced before. I really didn’t plan on her semi-craziness in the kitchen, all that ‘superior’ bullshit. Even a stranger would have seen that something wasn’t right with her, which could have been a result of the wine, but somehow I doubt it. There’s this weird hollowness to her eyes now that wasn’t there before, like she’s been completely gutted.
Gutted by me. Only by me.
For days I’ve thought about nothing but the look on her face when she saw me standing across the room. The sudden loss of color, the outright fear of having to face me again. It’s a hard realization to accept when you see the tangible proof of what an ass you are staring right back at you and seeing in living color how easily one person can break another. I gotta give her credit, though. She’s so damn tough she played it off like it was no big deal. It’s only because I know her so well that I could see past the forced smiles, the quick chatter, and the blasé attitude to the bruised, empty woman lying beneath.