I meet their gazes. “I don’t know. But do you believe me now?”
They both just press their lips into firm lines like Poor Rae and offer sad headshakes.
“And to top it off…” I continue, still stewing over learning the truth about Nick’s little girlfriend.
I brandish my phone, but for a fraction of a second I hesitate.
Do I show them my conversation with Nick, how much we’ve been talking, and make him look bad just because I’m hurt and harboring some stupid feelings for him? Would an adult do that?
I think of our conversation on the way home from South Beach. The connection we seem to have.
But then I replay how he told me he wasn’t attached. And now the discovery that he was, in fact, with someone just the other day.
So is he with her or not?
Really.
And it’s decided.
I shove my phone toward them and scroll through two days of jokes, sexual tension, and innuendo.
Jokes, sexual tension, and innuendo I’ve thoroughly enjoyed, but still.
“What are you saying?” Quinn grasps the device and her copper eyes mist as if she’s Nick’s fricking girlfriend being shown the messages.
“I’m just saying, he told me he didn’t have a girlfriend—that things had ended—and here I come to find out he was with her just the other day. I tried. I played by your rules. I went out with some guys. I gave James a chance—even felt something for him. But at the end of the day? I was right. Nothing is sacred. You can’t really trust anyone with your heart. You think Nick’s poor girlfriend would be okay with this?”
Quinn stands, her hands out in front of her, and she closes her eyes like she Can’t Even with anything I’m saying. Like this evidence right in front of her is scorching her corneas.
I can’t take her reaction. It’s kindling to the fury that’s been swirling inside me the last twenty minutes.
“What?” I bark.
She twists her face, arms crossed, in what registers as judgment to me. Like it’s my fault. Like I knew.
“You think I messed with an attached guy on purpose?”
“I have no idea,” she says. “But I wish you’d stop acting like this is everyone. This is not everyone.”
I realize this is coming from a place of sheer terror on her part—terror from being hurt before. Terror that I might be right. But I can’t help but snort. And before I can stop them, the words erupt from my throat.
“Why are you acting like you know so much better about how guys are because you’ve hooked one? Why do attached women do this? Being in a relationship doesn’t mean you know more than a single person does. It might just mean you got tired and gave up—and when you rolled over one morning, that was who was next to you. That doesn’t make Phil man of the fucking year. Just like getting married doesn’t necessarily mean you’re happy or successful. Or that it’s a happy or successful marriage. You of all people should know that. I could have stayed married too. So why are you acting like this, Quinn? This is me.”
She steadies herself on the edge of the table like my words have knocked the wind out of her. It was too far, I know, but I couldn’t help it. Had to be said.
She clears her throat, gaze misting even more—the calm before the storm anyone who’s ever argued with Quinn before would recognize. But instead of launching into a tirade, her voice is low. Her tone is even.
And that’s even scarier.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think Phil is right.”
“Right about what? Look, I wasn’t saying Phil’s a bad guy or that your marriage isn’t going to be good. I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sorry. I just don’t understand why—”
“That you’re toxic.” Moisture drips down her face, but her voice remains steady.
Her words are like a club to the chest, and each new one all but topples me, but somehow I remain standing, albeit bent. Letting the words I’ve feared run me through, if that’s how she wants it.
“I’ll never be able to be happy with him as long as I’m friends with you. Because you’re miserable. And you want everyone else to be miserable too. We wanted to help you.” She looks to Val. “To get you out of this man-hating funk. And it seems as though all that did was make it worse. Look, I’m sorry things didn’t work out with the first guy you’ve actually tried to give a chance to since—”
“Don’t you say it—don’t you dare say his name—”
“Since Jesse,” she shouts. “But that doesn’t mean I’m stupid for wanting to marry Phil or for wanting to try again. For trusting someone else. I’ve been hurt too, but I’ve moved on. And I’m not going to allow myself to be dragged down by you anymore. Not this week. Not this marriage. Not anymore.”
“What are you saying?” is all I can eke out of my throat.
“I’m saying—” Her hands are shaking. She wipes at her face, her jaw tight, but she doesn’t break eye contact with me. “I don’t think you should come to the wedding. You happy? You were right. But I don’t want to be reminded of how right you are about guys anymore. I want to believe Phil is an exception to that. I want to be happy. You’re not in it anymore. It’s done. You got your way.”
“You think this is my way? You think any of it—” My knees feel like they’ve each taken two shots of tequila. I steady myself and look over at Valerie. “Anything you’d like to say?”
She averts her stare to her ballerina flats.
“What have I—” My tone is injected with so much venom, it poisons the very air between us. And then I’m shaking my head. Looking at the wall, the floor, the coffeemaker. Anywhere but at these two human beings who don’t know or understand me at all.
Or maybe they do.
It’s a whisper of a thought that hits me right in the gut, and I can’t stay in this room another minute.
“You should know better,” I direct toward Valerie. Quiet. “You both should. But fine. Have a beautiful wedding. Have a beautiful life.”
I finally look Quinn in the face again, and all the color has drained from it. She looks like a shadow of the Quinn I know her to be. Or maybe that’s just who she is now. Maybe it’s who she always was and I was too self-absorbed to notice.
Either way, I say, “Count me out,” toss my tray, and slam the door behind me.
* * *
Chapter 19
I get home, and I try being productive. I take to my laptop to hammer out more of the query letter I pored over a few nights ago only to find that the file was corrupted and I lost everything. Two hours of work to get the words just right, gone. I try balancing my checkbook. Try cuddling Billie. Try walking her. Try running it all away.
I try all the healthy and responsible ways of dealing with my emotions, but this is too big. Too intense. Too much.
So I stop trying to make everyone happy, being what I’m not, and embrace what everybody apparently thinks I am.
There is not enough alcohol in the world, it seems, but there is a decent amount in my pantry, and so I forgo food for dinner and opt to drink it all away.
Even as I’m rifling through my choices, I know it’s stupid and that it won’t fix anything. I know it. I know. But it’s too much to think through right now. Too much to deal with.
I pour myself a liter or two of wine and sink into my bathtub. Inhale the steam and feel it seep into my lungs, warming me from the inside out. Hot water pools around my feet and makes islands of my knees and arms. Lulls me into a delicious haze.
I keep hearing Quinn’s voice. I think Phil is right. That you’re toxic.
Mike’s. She was married, buddy. You kinda had that before and didn’t want it. And now you don’t really seem to go out with the same guy more than a few times.
Valerie’s laughs.
Before I know it, the glass is empty, but never fear! I brought the bottle with me! I bite down on the cork and yank it free with my teeth. Spit it across the room, and it’s bottoms up in record time.
And th
en my phone rings. It jolts me into a more upright position, heart jackhammering, water sloshing onto the bathroom tile.
Nick, it says, flashing across my screen, which is foggy from the thick air. The mirror has fogged over too.
He’s calling.
He’s calling?
I lean halfway out of my tub to get to the phone and answer it.
“Hel—”
“I wanted to talk to you about today. I know what Ida thinks she saw, but it wasn’t—”
“So you weren’t out to coffee with your girlfriend, then?”
“No. Well, yes. Well—”
I let the silence steep.
“I was with her,” he continues. “But we aren’t together. I actually met with her that night to talk things through because we had been in limbo for a while—she had wanted to try again, and I wanted to make sure she knew that, definitively, it was over.”
It takes me a few minutes to catch up to his words. #alcohol
“I don’t know why you’re telling me this,” I say.
He’s quiet a moment. I hear him breathe, and then: “I don’t know—I just wanted you to know.”
“Okay. Well—”
“Look, do you think maybe we could get a drink? Something happened and I need to talk to a friend about it. I need to figure out what to do, and—”
He keeps talking, but I’ve stopped listening.
Maybe I’ve misinterpreted him all this time. Maybe he really does see me as a friend and I’m just a pathetic loser who thought there was a connection between us when there wasn’t one. Not in the way I thought.
Or maybe I’m just drunk.
For whatever reason, he’s turning to me during whatever this upsetting time is—and, according to my dearest friends in the world, I push things too far anyway, so why not give in to my impulse to be near him and just go for it? What’s the harm now? I don’t want to be alone right now either, and that’s exactly what I am. Alone.
“Okay,” I say, “but do you mind coming here? I’ve had the worst of all days and I’ve already gotten into some wine.”
His laugh electrifies me through the receiver. It’s a light, happy sound that I didn’t even know I’d been craving all day.
“Sounds like it! Where are you, the tub? It’s all echoey.”
“Right. I’m going to tell you to come over and then tell you I’m naked. If you want to get together you’re going to have to be on your best behavior.” My words are scolding, but there’s a hair flip at the end of them that I just can’t fight.
“Scout’s honor.” He chuckles. “Now, what’s your address?”
* * *
I manage to make myself presentable again before Nick arrives. I pull on some yoga pants, a tee shirt; tie my hair back in a ponytail; apply minimal makeup. Nothing about my appearance says I’ve tried too hard or that this is a date. Something I’d wear to Valerie’s on a Tuesday night to watch E! and bitch about work in.
Well, maybe with a trace more eyeliner than that. #trufax
The good news is, when he gets here, I’m still tipsy enough not to be nervous, and so I greet him with a hug, which I think surprises both of us.
His body is solid. Unwavering. It ignites me from my toes and slithers like it’s following a line of gunpowder up my legs as I throw my arms around him, his free hand gripping my waist almost as though he’s holding me at a distance. Careful. But I think maybe it’s just that my sudden burst of affection caught him off guard.
“Well, helloooo,” I say.
I had forgotten about the whole me-always-touching-him thing, but I can see it’s in full effect already. I break away once the flush in my cheeks registers, because this might be a problem.
“I’m sorry!” I clap a palm over my mouth and quake with laughter.
“It’s okay.” He flashes those teeth at me. “I guess I just underestimated the shittiness of your day and how much wine you’d gotten into. Do tell. Got a corkscrew?” He indicates the bottle of white in his hand and then slaps a palm to his forehead. “What am I thinking? You probably have one in every room.”
I give him a playful shove into the kitchen and it barely fazes him. Something about the way my non-muscles have no effect makes me want to try again. Harder. Pick a fight just to ruffle his feathers. Make him set that perfect jaw at me. Punish me for it.
I’m leaning against the doorjamb, steady, watching him rifle through my drawers—the shift of powerful shoulders visible through a delectably snug tee shirt. All at once, a mere flick of the wrist, his big back still to me, he produces the gadget—Ta-da! The sleek metal glints off the light above the sink.
“Well, don’t you just know your way around…” I say, playing footsie with my tone.
“So I’m told,” he throws over his shoulder, playing right back, and his voice fills the room. Fills the void. Fills me.
We’re silent at the joke. The insinuation. But it stirs a kind of ache beneath my skin.
Once we’ve made it to the couch, he stretches out. Long. Like he’s sat there a thousand times, like he belongs nestled among the soft pillows. Like he owns them. He takes one in his hand. Palms it. And my heart pounds as he launches into his story.
“So Deborah called me into her office after school today. I thought she was offering me the long-term sub position in fifth grade, since I heard the science teacher is going on maternity leave, but instead, she fired me.”
I struggle to a seated position. “What in holy hell—”
I’m not sure if the throb in my chest is from him or the words I can’t believe he’s saying, but I can barely hear him over my own pulse.
“What did she say?”
“Not much. She just said that she doesn’t think Wesson will be needing me anymore—that they’re oversaturated with subs as it is, which I know is garbage. And that after today I should look for sub jobs elsewhere but she’s happy to act as a reference for me. What the hell is that about?”
“Can she just do that? With no real reason?”
“It’s an independent school; they can pretty much do whatever they want. And technically she did provide me a reason—I just know it’s a bullshit one. You didn’t say anything about the stripping thing to anybody, did you?”
My mouth goes dry. “Of course not.”
“I didn’t actually think so. I’m just so…” His gaze drifts, tigerlike in intensity. “Can we talk about something else now?” Forces a smile. “Why was your day so bad?”
I relay my story to him in between sips of wine, careful to leave out the Nick-specific parts that had me cranky. Just the lost friends and the lost query letter and the lost dreams. Yanno, run-of-the-mill Tuesday night stuff.
I watch his lips, the way they curve gently upward when I tell my tale. Slide slightly downward during the particularly rough parts, just when they should.
“I’m sorry you lost all that work. What’s your manuscript about?” he asks. “I’d love to read it.”
A guffaw booms from me, and I have to clap a palm over my mouth to silence it. “I’ve never let anyone read my stuff,” I say.
“Well, maybe that’s your problem. You’ve got to let people in a little bit to get the most out of something. To get it to its best. No?”
I grin through a narrowed gaze. “All right over there, Dr. Phil. It’s erotica, not Shakespeare.”
“So what? You want this to be the Shakespeare of erotica, don’t you? The Chaucer of chiseled abs!”
“The Beethoven of bondage!” I raise my glass.
“That’s music…”
“Yeah, that’s what I said!”
We’re both cracking up.
He continues. “But you want it to be the best it can be, which I’m sure is already pretty great because you’re pretty great. That play you wrote for the kids was fantastic.” His mouth quirks downward a bit at the realization. “I guess I won’t get to see the finished product.”
I shake my head. “Such bullshit. I’m sorry. Well, Indigenous Peo
ple of Florida is a tad different from Playing Doctor, but I like to think I’m a versatile writer.”
He laughs. “Tell me what it’s about.”
After I’ve sufficiently discussed my manuscript and we’re a bottle of wine down, I go back into the kitchen to get another. I try to hurry—fumble with the cork this time—because I don’t want the bubble of intimacy to burst. And the longer I’m in here…
At once, I feel the warmth of his body radiate mere centimeters from mine. Close enough that the space between us buzzes, the energy desperate to reach out.
He slides his hands over mine, and I gasp. My head rolls to the side in response, the curve of my neck cold without his lips on it. Tingling. Imagining just what it would feel like if he clamped that mouth upon it and claimed it as his.
But he doesn’t.
Bastard.
I chuckle. He’s toying with me now. I can toy with him too.
And as his hands swallow mine, together gliding the corkscrew up and down slowly, I graze my ass against his front and he’s rigid against me. He sucks away the air from right behind my ear with a sharp intake of breath at my lightest of touches.
I wasn’t expecting it, but: #Winning!
Then pop goes the cork and we both jump at the noise, and immediately start laughing.
“I’m really sorry about Wesson,” I say, flipping around to face him. Letting him suffer the absence of my body, no longer touching his but still experiencing the knot through his jeans like muscle memory. Like he branded me with the feeling.
“Does this mean you’re going to be…”
“Stripping more? Ha-ha. No.” He takes a step back, one side of his mouth bowed in a grin. He runs his tongue over those perfect teeth and scratches at the back of his head like he’s trying to regain his composure. Starts pouring the wine like none of it ever even happened.
His faux nonchalance makes me want to torture him even more.
I have no doubt he knows exactly what he’s doing. I’m not misreading this.
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