Tiebreaker

by P. Dangelico

  He might as well have slapped me in the face. It would’ve hurt less.

  “What’s goin’ on…Noah?” Crystal came up behind him. She curled a possessive hand over his shoulder and looked me up and down. We both ignored her.

  By then I was on the verge of tears. Tiny beer muscles gone. I backed away, ready to run if necessary because I was not going to let him see me cry. My pride wouldn’t allow it. No matter how much I loved him.

  “Where are you going?” he demanded. Pushing off the wall, he stalked after me.

  “Leave me the fuck alone.” I’d never, not once, cussed around him. Never. It brought him up short. After that I turned and walked quickly toward the front of the house

  Zach caught me on the way out the door. “Hey––you’re going?”

  I moved past him and made excuses, hiding my face behind my hair. “Curfew. Gotta get home.”

  His expression said he wasn’t buying it. He pulled away from the group of guys he was standing with and stepped closer.

  “I’ll see you at school?” The hopeful gleam in his eyes got to me. Maybe this was exactly what I needed, I thought. A fresh start with someone new. A clean slate.

  “Sure,” I told him. Because he had been nice and I’d had a good time with him. Up until Noah went and ruined it.

  I lived four blocks away. I cried the entire way home. Sometime after midnight the click and chime of something hard hitting my bedroom window woke me. I opened it to find Noah down below, both hands running through his hair.

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “No.”

  “Please…just gimme a minute.”

  I loved him and he’d hurt me, but in the words of my father, we most often hurt the ones we love most. So I gave him a chance to apologize. Because he was the one I loved most.

  I pulled on shorts, put a zip-up hoody over the tank top I always slept in, and tiptoed downstairs, careful not to wake my parents. There would’ve been hell to pay if my mother had caught me sneaking out to talk to a boy. Especially if that boy was Noah. She’d always been suspicious of us, assumed there was more to our relationship than we were admitting.

  Slipping quietly out the front door, I found him sitting on the front steps. “I was a jerk,” he said as soon as I sat next to him. “I’m sorry for what I said. I didn’t mean it. It just––” He rubbed his hands on his jeans, then raked his hair back roughly. After a brief sideways glance, he continued in a low voice, “You took me by surprise. That’s all.”

  “Why? Because I showed up where I don’t belong?”

  “No, Mare. That’s––I didn’t mean it.” He turned to face me. “I guess––what I mean to say is...fuck…I didn’t realize––” He paused. His color was high. I could see a streak of pink across his cheekbones that even the dark of night couldn’t deny. His brown eyes openly moved over my face and body. As if he were seeing me for the first time.

  “We’re not kids anymore.”

  “No. I’m not, Noah. And if you plan on treating me like one every time you run into me––like at a party…” My voice petered out. I didn’t have the courage to say that our friendship would end.

  “I won’t.” He smiled. It was small and brief and took my breath away. I wasn’t the only one who’d changed. Noah had grown up too. Well over six feet, he’d filled out, that tall lanky frame packed with lean muscle. He was so handsome it was impossible not to stare.

  “You’re my best friend, Mare. Nothing will ever change that…I promise. Are we cool?”

  Hearing him refer to me as his friend stung. I had big plans for us; apparently he didn’t get that memo. And yet I couldn’t entirely regret it when he called me his best friend.

  I nodded and stood. He held up his hand for me to pull him up. It was a mistake. I knew it as soon as my hand wrapped around his much bigger one. I pulled and he stood inches away, staring down at me, his brow momentarily wrinkling in confusion. And as his gaze wandered over my face and eventually dropped to my mouth, chemistry took over and did its worst. He leaned it and I held my breath.

  Then, all of a sudden, he took a big step back.

  “I gotta go…I…I’ll see you at school.” He looked rattled, shook down to his Nikes. I watched as he jogged back to his truck.

  He spent the next few months avoiding me.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Maren

  The next week is both a chore and a surprise. Chore because Noah goes into full-blown insufferable mode, walking me through the ins and outs of the club while saying as little as possible and looking at me even less. A surprise because I’m starting to enjoy my time at Rowdy’s. I wake up excited each morning with the promise of what the day holds. It’s been so long since I’ve felt that way that I don’t know what to make of it.

  I now know how many different brands of whiskey we serve (15). How many employees we employ (20 full-time and another 19 part-time). And that’s just the beginning.

  Today I’ve been going over the books in Noah’s office. When I walked in at ten, after my morning workout, he pointed to a computer that his managers use and said, “Use this one.” Then he opened the password-protected files and left me to it. I’ve been here all day, combing through them, and what I found admittedly surprised me.

  Hurrying down the scuffed wood stairs, I run into Knox who is busy restocking bottles behind the bar. I’ve gotten to know him a little bit better since he took the time to really teach me how they manage the liquor and have come to think of him as a gentle giant.

  “Hi, Knox. Have you seen the grim reaper?”

  Knox smirks. He isn’t the only one who’s noticed Noah and I are not on good terms. Noah’s been acting like a beast with everyone and many a strange looks have been exchanged amongst the staff. Jana included.

  “Yeah, he’s in the barn. Working out.”

  “Barn?”

  “Yeah, he didn’t show you?”

  “No.”

  “Go out the back door and you can’t miss it.”

  Following his directions, I find a large, remodeled barn across the parking lot. It’s beautiful, with a slick red paint job and a fancy zinc roof.

  As soon as I enter through the unlocked door, I hear voices. One belongs to Noah. The other belongs to a woman who I assume must be Jana.

  The building is divided into two very large rooms. I peek into the first. It’s a mechanic shop; two motorcycles and a vintage car take up the three bays. The second is filled with state-of-the-art gym equipment. Noah stands with his back to me, facing Jana, his black t-shirt soaked in sweat, his basketball shorts hugging the globes of his ass.

  “I can move out if you want me to.” Her voice is both tentative and seductive at once.

  Watching them stand so close to each other is about as pleasant as having my corneas polished with sandpaper. My gut churns while my mind screams, Step off, sister!

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I want you there. I’d be worried if you were anywhere else,” he says in a low, soothing voice.

  “Okay…I’ll stay then,” she replies, smiling up at him.

  I clear my throat, thwarting a potential kiss, and can now add cock blocker to the short list of my skills.

  She looks beyond his shoulder and spots me in the doorway. Noah follows her line of sight and turns to face me, his countenance going from relaxed to shuttered in less than zero seconds. Any doubts I may have had about being seen as an interloper disappear.

  “See you later,” Jana says to Noah and heads for the door behind me.

  “You don’t have to leave on my account,” I tell her when she reaches me. “I only have a couple of questions for him.”

  “It’s okay. I’ll see him later anyway,” she answers with a soft smile and walks out the door.

  If that wasn’t a well-placed shiv, I don’t know what is.

  “Nice gym. Can I use it sometime?”

  Noah picks up a towel and dries his face as I approach. “What’s mine is yours,” he tells me while his face
says something different.

  The hint of sarcasm in his voice doesn’t sit well either, but I decide not to pursue it for the greater good of our working relationship. “Am I interrupting?”

  “What’s up?” His head tilts back.

  “I was going over the books.”

  As if I haven’t just spoken, he walks over to a large piece of equipment and starts doing chin-ups. Up, down. Up, down.

  Umm…

  I’ve put up with his cold attitude for days and I’ve had just about enough. If anyone has the right to be cold and peeved it’s me, and yet I’ve managed to put aside my feelings to accomplish what my grandfather asked of us. The least he could do is be civil.

  “I went as far back as ten years,” I continue, hoping that if I ignore his antics he’ll give it a rest.

  “Good for you,” he grunts.

  Grrrr.

  “This place was bleeding money.” Up, down. Up, down. “But since you took over it’s been in the black.” Up, down, up, down. “With a profit margin of twenty-five percent.” Up, down. Up, down. “Noah!”

  He finally stops and drops to his feet, his face dripping with sweat, his chest rising and falling with each deep breath. A glaring game ensues. It lasts all of two minutes. Which is when he decides that a towel is far more interesting than me, staring at it with the intensity a towel does not deserve.

  While he wipes his face and neck, my innocent eyes are lured down to his chest, to the black t-shirt sticking to every glorious curve of his chest. This is what they mean by eye candy.

  Don’tlookdon’tlookdon’tlook.

  Despite that this man should be totally off–limits to my eyes, they’ve been going a little rogue on me lately. What can I say? It’s a sickness I caught the day I rode up on that banana seat bicycle. Chronicfuckwitsyndrome.

  “If you would stop being a jerk for two minutes, I could tell you that what you did with the properties is nothing short of amazing––” I say to his nipple, which, hand on a Bible, is giving me come-hither looks. “Even the new lease you negotiated with the county is twice as profitable as the last one.”

  His pecs flex. His nipple winks at me.

  Ignore the nipple. Don’t look at the nipple.

  “Rowdy trusted me.” That’s all I get in answer. He’s really turning on the charm now. I may not survive it.

  “I can see why. You’re really good at it.” More uncomfortable silence happens. Along with a lot of sweating on his part and inappropriate leering on my part. A cough draws my gaze up. His mouth quirks. Dang, he caught me.

  “Did you always sweat this much?”

  “What?”

  He looks confused. Good. I have been made a fool by this man my entire life. I refuse to let that happen again.

  “Don’t be afraid to take a shower. Water is your friend.” This time I get a narrow-eyed glare. Point, set, and match. In the privacy of my mind, I chest-bump myself. “What I came here to tell you is that Rowdy left me a tidy sum, thanks in part to your amazing work turning the properties around.”

  Interest flickers on his face for the first time since I walked in. This gives me hope that maybe we can move on past the grumps to make this situation a bit more tolerable.

  “What if…”

  “Yeah?”

  “We use it to make any improvements, reinvest it to grow the business?”

  For a moment his eyes dance, on the verge of excitement. And then his face goes abruptly flat. “We? You’re leaving, remember.” He turns his back to me, walks over to a small refrigerator, and retrieves a bottle of water out of it.

  I am incredulous.

  “What is your problem?” I say to the seductive swell of his ass. “Seriously. You’ve been unbearable the entire week. Is it something I said? Because if it is, let’s have it out.”

  He exhales harshly, irritation ringing loud and clear.

  “I’ve run everything on my own for the last five years…Go home, Maren. We’ll manage fine without you.”

  “Come on––” I groan, at a loss at how to speak to him anymore. Speaking to him used to be as easy as taking a breath of fresh air and just as fulfilling. Now all it is is frustrating. “Noah…Noah––”

  “I gotta go. I need a shower––I’ve been told.” After that, he stalks out.

  * * *

  As soon as I walk up the steps of what is now my house, I see my food fairy has delivered dinner. Cracking open the thermo bag, I am greeted by the perfume of filet mignon and greens. My stomach somersaults.

  This right here is the problem. Random acts of kindness are not allowed under the current terms of our relationship or lack thereof. He’s supposed to stay firmly on the total jerk side of the line he drew between us a week ago.

  I have half a mind to march over there and demand to know what he’s up to but in my current mental state I’m liable to chew his face off Hannibal Lecter style instead of thanking him as I should.

  Grabbing the bag, I push through the front door, and without pausing, head straight for the kitchen and unload my dinner on the counter. I am starving.

  Bless that jerk face.

  I grab a dish, utensils, and take a seat.

  Fork poised near my mouth, I’m about to eat when my phone rings. The tone, London Calling by the Clash, tells me it’s Oliver.

  Food or man? The age old question.

  I stare at the screen, trying to decide whether to answer it or eat. It’s usually an easy choice––food. Except we’ve spoken twice since our argument the other night and both exchanges were chilly and brief so I should probably pick up.

  “Hey,” I say answering. Hoping that maybe he’s ready to put the whole thing behind us and try to mend what is looking increasingly like a broken relationship.

  “How’s it going?”

  “Good…I’m learning how my grandfather’s business runs, which is important since he left it to me and––”

  “Any closer to being done?” he cuts in.

  This is not only disheartening, but also irrefutable evidence that he just…doesn’t…get it. “No. And I’m actually enjoying myself. Can you believe it?”

  “No. I actually can’t.”

  And now the sarcasm makes me wish I’d chosen food.

  “Look, Oliver, maybe…maybe––”

  “Come home and we’ll have the solicitor handle the business. I mean it this time, Maren. I’m getting really sick of this shit.”

  “You mean it?” I scoff because I can’t believe my ears. “I’m not a dog. I don’t answer to your commands.”

  “What if I said I missed you.” His words are clipped. There’s not even a trace of genuine feeling in his voice. He doesn’t even make an attempt at it.

  “I’d say you don’t sound like you really mean it.”

  In the heavy pause, my pulse starts to race. We’re at a stalemate and however this shakes out, I can’t ignore the damage already done.

  “Come home, or we’re finished.” His voice is steady and cold and kicks me right in the gut. I suck in a breath, shocked that the words tripped off his tongue so easily.

  So this is what a six-year relationship boils down to…an ultimatum? There’s no coming back from this. Not for me. I have to let him go.

  Hands shaking, it takes me a minute to gather the courage to say what I need to say. I don’t want to leave any room for misunderstandings.

  “Let me get this straight.” Fuming, I force the words out with my heart hammering against my rib cage. “Are you telling me that if I don’t drop everything and come home, you’re breaking up with me?”

  “Yes.” Once again, he doesn’t hesitate.

  Something inside of me breaks. Hope? My heart? I’m not sure yet. All I know is that a sense of loss is already gaining a foothold. “I guess we’re finished, then.” I don’t hesitate to answer either.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Maren

  “Anybody want potato salad?” my mother asks while she sets down the bowl of string beans on
the dining room table already overcrowded with too many side dishes.

  “Bebe, potato salad?” She gives my sister that bright-eyed, rapid nod she does when she’s desperately trying to get us to do something.

  “Hard pass.”

  “Maren?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Jon?” My father continues to blindly stare at the television screen across the open room, into the family room, where a football game is in progress. “Jon?”

  “What?”

  “Potato salad?”

  “No, thanks, honey.” His gaze goes straight back to the game.

  “Jon, can you please grab the potato salad out of the fridge? Thank you, sweetheart.” My mother places the roast chicken on the table and takes her seat.

  I’ve been avoiding these family dinners as best I can, and although avoidance is my superpower, there’s only so many times I can dodge my mother’s invitation without her getting suspicious.

  My dad rips his eyes away from the football game and, with a defeated slouch to his posture, gets up from the table to go fetch the aforementioned potato salad.

  “Bebe, you got the wrong hotdogs for next Sunday. I told you to get the ones without nitrites, sweetheart. Nitrites cause cancer.”

  “That’s inconclusive.”

  “We’re not risking it. Get the ones without the nitrates next time, please.” When Bebe ignores her, my mother pushes. “Be?”

  “Sure thing.”

  Maryanne Murphy knows when she’s being sassed and purses her lips. My father returns and hands my mother the potato salad that nobody wants.

  “Your father stopped smoking. Right, Jon?” My eyes lock with Bebe’s, who’s very subtly shaking her head and mouthing no, he didn’t. My teeth sink into my bottom lip to stop from laughing. “Jon?”

  “Hmm.” My father nods obediently.

  “Maren, did you get that email I sent you? About not using the talcum powder.”

  I push my food around the plate, lost in the conversation I had with Oliver. I’m still in shock and I’m not sure what’s more surprising. That part of me feels relief, like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders, or that he could end a six-year relationship over something as flimsy as my refusal to go back to London on demand. We’ve never broken up before, never even come close. Then again I’ve never gone toe to toe with him.