by Jean Haus
To avoid temptation, I’m careful not to touch her when I lean down. “But I want to see you again,” I whisper into her ear. “Soon.” I give in to the urge and let my lips slide over the skin of her cheek. She leans into me. My tongue traces her lip ring. “Let me take you to dinner.”
Her head wobbles slightly. “Huh? Dinner? No. Um…maybe coffee,” she murmurs.
This girl is trying to drive me nuts. She’ll drag me into her apartment for sex, but getting a date out of her is like pulling teeth. “Okay then, coffee.”
I give her another quick kiss and then take off, rushing down the stairs we just stumbled up before I change my mind and push her inside to take her against the back of the door to her apartment. Getting into the truck, I glance up and see a shadow in her apartment window. By the time I raise my hand to wave, the silhouette is gone.
Chapter 11
Allie
My day has been sullied by a constant headache and a lingering mortification at how I behaved last night. Then there’s the burning sting of rejection. I’ve never considered myself as an amazing babe or anything, but I believed myself to be somewhat attractive. Getting turned down by a known womanizer who has probably slept with more than half of his fans isn’t doing much for my self-esteem.
Why, oh why, did I even attempt a one-night stand?
In between intervals of cleaning, going to my parents’ for Sunday-afternoon dinner, attempting homework, and lying on the couch, I’ve found a number of things to blame my stupidity on. Maybe it was because I had the ridiculous notion I’d been serenaded. Maybe it was because everyone at work keeps telling me to get laid. I’ve also blamed it on the alcohol. But I can’t fool myself. Deep down inside I’m aware that my behavior came from the fact I’m head over heels in lust with Justin. Seeing him onstage didn’t help. His singing “Iris” to me really didn’t help. Still, the simple truth is that I attacked him not only once but twice.
I grab a pillow from the couch and place it over my burning face.
Ugh. Superslut Allie turned down by Superslut Singer.
Not my finest moment.
“Mom?”
“What?” I ask from under the pillow.
“Someone’s at the door.”
I yank the pillow from my face and listen over the TV as Ben frowns at me from the other side of the coffee table. He’s right. Someone is pounding on the door.
Standing, I step on a Lego. “Fu—” I stop myself from sounding out the ck and peel the plastic from the bottom of my foot. After one call from his kindergarten teacher about a few choice words that came out of his mouth on the playground, I’m trying very hard not to swear around him, or anywhere. Thus the swear jar at work that’s depleting my extra cash.
“Ben, if you’re done playing, please pick these up.”
The knocking grows louder.
Ben lets out a big, dramatic sigh that lifts the dark curls off his forehead. “I’m still playing. You said you would play too,” he whines as I walk around the coffee table.
“You’re right. I did. I’m sorry. I will.” Feeling like the worst mom in the world, I ruffle his curls. An adorable smile brightens the blue eyes behind the thick glasses that are held to his little head with a soft elastic strap. “Let’s see who’s out there first.” I open the door to see Trevor standing there. Dressed in a beanie, T-shirt, and jeans, he looks exactly the same as when we were young and in love. Well. We’re still young. And at least I was in love. Past tense. That part is very, very important.
Ben flies from behind me into Trevor’s arms, yelling, “Daddy!”
“Whoa, trouper, slow down,” Trevor says, lifting him and coming into the apartment.
The sight of them together twists my heart. Since Trevor moved to California, I haven’t had to deal with this. Now in the past week, this is the second time I’ve had to watch father and son together. I glare at Trevor. “Why didn’t you call first?”
He shrugs but we both know why. Because I would have taken Ben to him since I don’t like Trevor in my home any longer than necessary. I’m not against them being together. In fact, time with his father makes Ben happy, and therefore it makes me happy. Real time with his father beats Skyping, which usually happens two times—if Trevor doesn’t forget—a week. I just don’t want to be included in their father-son bonding time. And ever since he showed up suddenly from California, Trevor has been especially interested in including me, which bothers me. I’m not some booty call because he’s in town. I’m not Jazz.
I’ve refused to contemplate what his return home means because I cannot get sucked down the black hole that took me over a year to crawl out of. Ben helped me get over my depression, and I have no plans to let Trevor back into my life so he can toy with my emotions.
Walking past me, Trevor sets Ben on a dining room chair. “I thought we could go to a movie.” He studies my tank and flannels. “Maybe your mom could get dressed and come too?” he adds with a rakish grin.
His smile brings back memories I wish I could forget. Picking me as a partner in art for the first time during high school. Standing by my locker and talking me into our first date while I blushed and stuttered. Teaching me how to ink with incredible patience. Kissing me right before we ran up the steps to the courthouse to get married. I shake my head in reply to his question about the movies, also hoping to shake out the memories. “No can do. I have a painting to finish and a hundred pages of reading to do.”
“Aw, come on, Mom,” Ben says, tugging at the bottom of my shirt.
“Yeah, Mom,” Trevor repeats.
After giving Trevor a cold glance, I brush one of Ben’s curls. “I really can’t, but you and Dad will have fun together.” He gives me a pout, but I say, “Go get your coat and shoes so you can get going.”
His little hands reluctantly let go of my shirt, and he takes off down the hall toward his bedroom at the end. Since the apartment is just one big room with a galley kitchen, Holly and I gave him the biggest of the three bedrooms, so he’d have space to play.
As soon as Ben goes through the doorway, I say in a low voice, “Call first next time.”
Trevor steps closer to me. “Quit being uptight and come with us.”
He’s close enough that I can feel the warmth coming off his body and smell his scent. A mixture of ink and spice. I try not to breathe in the familiar scent that brings sadness. Not like Justin’s, which makes me a horny slut. “Don’t. And I really can’t.”
He stares at me, then leans even closer. “You know why I didn’t tell you I was coming home? Because I knew you’d be like this. I thought if I caught you by surprise maybe you wouldn’t overthink it.”
Trying to get away from the sudden lurch of my heart, I step back and lean on the dining room table, my hands clenching the edge. “Are you telling me you came back for me?” He nods gently and my stupid heart lurches again. No. No. No. “What about Ben?”
“Come on, Al, you know I care about him. Don’t paint me to be the dick.”
“If it’s about me, why were you out with Jazz? Are you staying with her?”
He lets out a deep sigh. “You know Jazz is a good friend. We grew up together. How many times do I have to tell you if I wanted to be with her, I would’ve taken her to California?” He gives me an imploring, soft look I remember. In response, I harden my heart.
I cross my arms as my mouth twists into a scowl. “Maybe if you hadn’t been sleeping with her through half of our marriage, I would believe you.” My hands ball into fists at my sides. “Maybe if I hadn’t walked in on you two in our bed, the memory wouldn’t be tattooed on my retinas.”
“Al—”
“Got my shoes on!” Ben says, rushing into the living room. “Tied them all by myself.”
“Awesome,” I say, letting go of my Trevor anger for the moment and holding up my hand for a high five, then reaching for the zipper of
Ben’s jacket. We’ve been working on the tying thing forever.
“We could bring back dinner,” Trevor says casually.
I almost roll my eyes at his attempt to weasel his way into time with me. “That’s okay. I have leftovers.”
He rubs the dark scruff on his chin. “Your mom’s Sunday dinner after church?”
“Yup,” I say, moving toward the door, jerking it open, and ignoring his hint at an invitation. “He needs to be home by seven. Bed time is nine on school nights.”
Walking by me, Trevor says, “It’s just kindergarten.”
“No later than seven,” I repeat, and lean down for a kiss from my son. “Be good,” I say after our quick peck.
“Then we’ll see you at seven,” Trevor says as I stand upright.
My reply is to close the door in his sly face.
Once they’re gone, I lean against the back of the door. My semi-mended heart suddenly feels vulnerable. I draw in deep breaths, but my eyes still water. One tear escapes while I hold in a sob.
Sliding down the door, I sink, falling back into the emotional black hole Trevor left me in.
Though a constant lingering ache, the pain of the divorce lessened over time. I thought I was living with a tiny ache in my heart, but right now sorrow is tearing through me.
My hands in fists again, I pound on the floor underneath me. Damn Trevor and his bull crap about coming back for me. Though the sight of him brings back a fierce longing for us to be a family, I will never go down that road again. I might always have feelings for Trevor, but because he broke my heart twice, I will never trust him again.
With steely resolve, I unclench my hands, wipe the wetness from my cheek, and push myself up from the floor. I’m so pissed that after two years he can get a rise out of me. I march to the freezer and search for ice cream. Nothing but orange cream swirl, which is Ben’s favorite. I’d prefer something with chocolate, caramel, and nuts, but the orange will have to do.
Standing at the kitchen island, I eat a third of the ice cream straight from the carton until my stomach starts to hurt. But it’s a better hurt than the emotions my ex-hole induced. After putting the ice cream away, the blare of Nick Jr., Ben’s favorite channel, has me searching for the remote. With the apartment now silent, I retreat to the corner by the living room window where my easel sits and begin mixing paints.
Though my Advanced Watercolors class has a grueling pace, with a painting due every other week, I don’t mind all the deadlines. I’ve always found painting therapeutic. I like to make my watercolors unpredictable. Instead of flowers, lakes, and skies, I paint urban scenes of wet cement at night or derelict storefronts or an unfortunate bum sleeping in an alleyway.
My head clears as I focus on capturing the way neon light reflects onto cement and add the shadow of a streetlamp. After deepening other shadows, I clean my paint tray and brushes before picking up the toys strewn all over the living room. Then I sit at the dining room table and read about business fundamentals.
It’s both boring and mind numbing, which is exactly what I need after Trevor’s appearance.
Yet now that I’m not concentrating on painting, the apartment is quiet and lonely without Ben. The hum of the refrigerator and the sounds from the apartment next door echo in the empty space around me. I turn the page and the sound intensifies my sense of desolation.
When an incoming text beeps on my phone, the ding is a welcome distraction.
I go to the counter, between the main room and galley kitchen, where my phone is charging to read the text.
So when we having coffee?
Huh? I study the number. I’ve never seen it. I text back, Sorry but I think you have the wrong number.
Before I make it to the table, my phone is dinging again.
Oh, this is the right number. Holly wasn’t that drunk.
I stare in dread at the text. I’m going to tattoo bitch on Holly’s forehead. Memories from last night, most of which involve my tongue in Justin’s mouth, flash through my brain. At last, I faintly recall suggesting coffee. I’d like to reach into the past and slap my shit-faced ass.
My phone dings.
You there?
Why does he want to have coffee with me but not sex? Maybe he really did need to get the truck back. But I wanted—past tense again important here—mindless sex. I don’t want coffee. Coffee implies…something. Mindless sex implies nothing.
My phone beeps again.
You standing me up?
My fingers drum on the countertop. With a sigh, I type in a response.
11. Tuesday. Coffee shop next to campus bookstore.
After acting like an idiot twice with Justin, I don’t have the heart to stand him up.
Though given the way I attacked him last night, I really, really should. I don’t want to be Trevor’s booty call. Justin shouldn’t be mine. But booty call about sums up our possible future. There’s no way either of us could ever be serious about the other.
Chapter 12
Justin
A few minutes before eleven, I walk into the coffee shop next to the bookstore. It’s packed with students working on laptops. In Michigan, when it hits fifty degrees, the people come out in droves. Though I’m early—Romeo was shocked when I got out of bed before ten—I notice Allie already sitting in a corner. Her head is bent over a computer. Her auburn hair shines under the sunlight streaming through the window. My eyes narrow on the cup on her table. I’m kind of pissed she didn’t let me buy her a coffee. Like she’s stating this isn’t a date. Because it’s morning? Because it’s coffee? As far as I’m concerned, it is a date. I’ve never met a chick for coffee. I don’t even like coffee.
Suddenly, I’m annoyed. Not as bad as at the art show, but I’m definitely not happy. Allie and her mixed messages are fucking with my head. I don’t get fucked with. Ever. I whip off my sunglasses and stalk past the girl waiting behind the counter, heading to where Allie’s sitting. Another girl I don’t recognize tries to get my attention on the way, but I ignore her. I slide onto the stool next to Allie, and her gaze rises from the screen of her laptop.
“Mornin’,” I say, keeping my attitude somewhat in check.
“Hey.” She offers a slight smile. But those gray eyes are guarded. Always so guarded.
“Thought I was buying,” I say, pointing to her cup.
She shifts her legs and crosses a long jeans-clad leg over the other. One of the boots I’ve wanted to tear off her for a week now tucks behind her calf. She casually slides a curl behind an ear. “Thought we were just meeting for conversation.”
Her offhanded attitude doesn’t halt my rising anger. I lean toward her. Close enough to smell her familiar flowery scent. “That was before you shoved me against a rail and stuck your tongue down my throat.”
The guarded expression in her gray eyes gives way to shock. Her lips part in surprise and I can see the sexy hoop curving around the inside of her lip.
I inch closer and say in a low tone, “Unless the kiss was as fake as our date?” I trace her lip ring with my index finger. “But then, I didn’t see Trevor around.”
Her eyes change again. Fury fills them. She jumps off her stool, snaps the laptop closed, and reaches for her bag. While I smirk at her, she jams the laptop in the bag. “Fu—screw you, Justin,” she hisses, yanking the bag onto her shoulder, then rushing out of the coffee shop.
People around me stare. I don’t give a shit.
My anger drops as I notice her lone coffee cup.
Releasing a sigh at my own stupidity, I grab the cup and race out the door too. It only takes me a moment to catch sight of her gracefully hurrying across campus. I’m almost to her as she rounds the corner of the science building.
“You forgot your coffee,” I say, catching up with her.
She stops abruptly and snatches the drink out of my hand.
; “Listen—”
She turns to go and I reach for her arm.
“Wait. I’m sorry. I was an asshole. You just seem to be jerking me around.”
She wiggles my hand loose but turns to me. “Jerking you around?”
“Cold then hot then cold again.”
She bites her lip ring and slowly adjusts the bag on her shoulder. “I…already apologized for the night at the studio twice. And you know I was a bit drunk on Saturday. I know that doesn’t excuse my behavior.…”
“You don’t need to excuse your behavior. I liked your behavior,” I say, then grin lopsidedly, which most girls find irresistible for whatever reason. When the power of the grin brings only a raised barbell in her brow instead of the usual smitten response, I add, “I want to do something with you. No fake dates. No ex-husbands. No fan girls interrupting us. Just us.”
She lets out a sigh. “Why?”
Funny how my grin didn’t work but honesty did.
“Why?” I shove my hands into my jeans pockets. “I think it’s obvious I’m extremely attracted to you.”
“I’ve heard your attraction to the opposite sex is boundless. Besides, since when do you date?”
Fuck. I don’t want to imagine what she’s heard about me or if she’s just making assumptions, but I’m not even going there. I rub my jaw and decide to be straightforward for once. “I usually don’t.” Her expression remains confused. “But maybe you’re the exception,” I say, startled by my own admission.
She blinks, then her head shakes slightly. “Justin…”
I lean down until our eyes are inches apart. “Come on, Allie. Go out with me. Saturday. I’m practically begging here.”