Beneath the Shine

by Lisa Sorbe

  “Sure,” I say brightly, biting my lip and ignoring the inappropriate thoughts that refused to be quieted.

  He leads me back behind the bar and through a door to the left, which opens into his office. The space is small but neat—an oak desk, a few book shelves filled with everything from Stephen King novels to books on brewing and business, a white board scribbled with formulas and names for potential new brews, an open laptop on top of a black leather blotter. And on the wall behind his desk, enlarged to an 11x12, is a picture from two years ago, the day he opened the tap room. There’s a line of us standing in front of the bar—me and Adair and Miles along with some friends who are milling about at the party right this very minute—and we’re all holding up glasses of beer, cheering Adair on with his new venture. He’d already been making and selling his own beer for a while before this photo was taken, which alone was something to be proud of. But taking the leap and opening the tap room was the next step in his business plan, and we documented the milestone by setting an old point and shoot camera on top of a few wobbly crates. I remember fidgeting with the timer, having no idea how it worked, and then rushing back to the group so I could make it before the flash went off. Turns out we had too much time, and the photo ended up being a mix—some people smiling at the camera, some laughing into their drinks, others talking. I look like I’m at a rock concert, my mouth open in a whoop and holding my beer up like an obnoxious woo girl. Adair is staring down at me, the smile on his face soft, his arm around my waist.

  Of course I’ve noticed this before. I’ve looked at this picture at least a dozen times since that day. But now, after everything that happened between us last night—heck, this last week—I’m seeing it in a new light.

  Adair lets go of my elbow and leans back, perching on the edge of his desk. He studies me; I can feel his eyes roaming all over my body. They slide up my bare legs, over my hips, graze my breasts and neck, search my face. “You look lovely,” he says. “As always.”

  “Thanks. So do you. As always,” I add, trying to be funny. Trying to pry a smile from his tightened jaw.

  He doesn’t laugh, though. Instead, he’s all business. “George and Ian didn’t have an argument, did they?” He raises his brows. “One that you had to stay and, uh, help George through?”

  The flute of champagne is heavy in my hand, and I raise it, pressing the cool glass against my lips before answering. I tip it back and swallow, then close my eyes and shake my head. “No,” I admit. “No, they didn’t.”

  It’s quiet, too quiet, and my heart counts out the silence with each knock against my chest: one beat, two beats, three…

  Adair frowns. “We’re friends, right?”

  At first, I think he’s joking. I mean, he has to be joking. To even question… But then I open my eyes. I open my eyes and look at his face. His face, the one I love more than anything, twisted up in…not anger, not disgust.

  If anything, he looks hurt.

  “Of, course we’re friends,” I answer.

  A corner of his mouth perks up briefly, and he nods. “Then…” He pauses, flicks his eyes up to meet mine. “Why did you run this morning?”

  “I had a hair appointment.” I whisper the lie, like somehow that will make it better. Less of a sin.

  “Doll,” he says, and the pet name he calls me by makes the waves of guilt in my stomach swish and slosh. “I’m quite certain the salon doesn’t take appointments at seven in the morning.”

  I blow out a breath. Hug my arms around my waist and look down at my feet. Study the tips of George’s black suede heels. “You’re right.” I look back up and scrunch my nose. “I’m sorry I lied.”

  “You and those damn freckles. How am I supposed to stay mad?” He chuckles, shaking his head. But at least he’s smiling now. “You’re just sorry you got caught.”

  “Obviously,” I huff, feigning annoyance.

  His smiles wanes, and he reaches up, rubbing the back of his neck. “I would like to talk to you about something, though.”

  My throat constricts. This is it. I just nod and pretend like he’s not holding my bloody, beating heart in his hands. Like he doesn’t have the ability to crush it into a pulpy, bleeding mess and kill me right here, on the spot.

  “There’s something I’ve been thinking about lately. I am, or was… Hell, I don’t know. Maybe I still am… But then I got a phone call…” He groans, frustrated. “Shit, I’m rambling like an eejit.” He rolls his shoulders. Takes a deep breath. “Okay. On second thought, let me go back a wee bit. You see, right before I moved here…”

  If I were sitting down, I’d be on the edge of my seat. Because whenever I’ve asked questions about Adair’s past, he brushes them off. And now, it seems he’s finally ready to unlock the vault he’s kept sealed all these years.

  But he doesn’t get a chance to finish because a knock on the door cuts him off. Before he can even answer, the handle turns, the hinges creak, and Landon pokes his head in. “Do you have the key to the cooler? I need some more champagne and wine up front. Like, stat. Could use an extra set of hands to help carry it, too. Who knew you old people could drink so much?” Landon looks my way and winks.

  I roll my eyes and shake my head. “Dude,” I say. “You’re asking for it.”

  Adair laughs as he pushes himself from the desk. “Aye, I’ll help your sorry ass. But you do realize that part of knocking is waiting for an answer before just, you know, barging in?” He slaps a hand on Landon’s shoulder to show he’s kidding, and then turns back to me. “As for you, doll. Don’t go far… I’m not through with you yet.” There’s a teasing lilt to his voice along with a gruffness that makes my insides turn to jelly.

  The obvious innuendo hovers between us like a promise, sucking up all the air in the room and stealing my speech to the point that all I can do is nod.

  Landon’s head swings my way, comprehension dawning on his narrow face, and smirks. “You two,” he says, wiggling a finger back and forth. Adair lightly smacks him upside the head, and Landon holds up his hands in surrender. “All right, all right,” he says, turning toward the door.

  Adair shoots me one last pointed look before following.

  I drain the rest of my drink before leaving the office. As I do, Adair’s voice floats in from down the hall, “And how many times to I have to tell you? Thirty-three is not old.”

  I throw on a smile as I make my way back into the crowd.

  Photographing a couple, following them around with your camera and watching them through your lens while sharing intimate moment after intimate moment, really breaks the ice…fast. I get to know them on such a personal level that, by the time I pack my camera away at the end of a session, it feels like we’ve known each other for years rather than hours.

  So when the Humphrey and Elise Malone wave me over from the other side of the room, the smile on my face becomes full-fledged. I shot the couple’s engagement pictures last year, right before they ran off to elope in Iceland, and they immediately became two of my favorite people. I haven’t seen them since last summer though, when they threw an end of the summer BBQ party on Labor Day. And seeing them now…it finally dawns on me how much of myself I gave away to Clint these last few months.

  His time, his friends, his needs.

  “Hey, you two!” I practically squeal, reaching to pull Elise into a tight hug. I squeeze her extra hard because—bless the woman’s heart—she always looks like she needs it. I remember how shy and reserved she was during our session, and how Humphrey had to draw her out, little by little, coaxing her to open up with a touch, a word, a gesture. I don’t know her past, but something about her eyes tells me she carries an ache I can relate to.

  So when I pull back, I hold onto her hand, give it a squeeze, reaffirming how excited I am to see her. Humphrey gives me a warm smile and a nod, his blue eyes bright in the tap room’s soft lighting. Like a magnet, his arm returns to his wife’s waist, and the two merge back together like they’re one. I’ve never, in all my
life, seen two people more in love.

  And that thought, right there, makes me think of Adair.

  Because love isn’t just love. It’s not simple like that. There are levels, phases of affection and adoration that one person can have for another. Just because someone loves you now doesn’t mean they always will. Someone can love you a lot, or someone can love you a little. And the next day, someone might not love you at all.

  It’s only after I release Elise’s hand that I realize the Malones are standing with another couple. And when I turn their way, my eyes widen in shock.

  Because I’m looking at Adair…with his arm around another woman.

  I feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach. Because suddenly I can’t breathe.

  “Betsy.” It’s Humphrey, and his deep, calm voice pulls me out of my stupor. “This is William.” He gestures to the man who could be Adair’s twin, and I’m still reeling from the uncanny resemblance when he swings his hand toward the woman. “And his wife, Shona.” She’s a petite beauty, with shortly cropped raven hair and ice-blue eyes. But her smile is warm, and she nods in greeting.

  William grins, and I finally notice the subtle differences. His hair is a bit darker, not to mention the style is slightly longer than Adair’s. William’s nose is straighter and his eyes are a darker shade of blue. If the two were standing side by side, I think it’s safe to say that William is even a bit shorter. But he’s every bit as large as Adair, and both of the men share that same medieval-slash-warrior look, like at the drop of a hat they could shrug out of their suit jackets and storm a castle with swords and arrows strapped to their muscular backs.

  William reaches out his hand, and I take it. It’s warm against mine and rough with callouses. “Glad to meet you.” It sounds like he’s saying Gled tae meet ye and it takes everything in me to hold up my jaw. The dude is Scottish, to boot?

  Shona greets me with an equally Scottish lilt, and I’m just standing here thinking this is too much of coincidence when Humphrey addresses my baffled expression with a laugh. “The resemblance is uncanny, isn’t it? William is Adair’s cousin.”

  I just look at him and nod. Still not understanding. Because if Adair had relatives coming over all the way from Scotland, wouldn’t he have mentioned it? It’s kind of a big deal—huge, really—considering the man never talks about his past, his family. I do remember him mentioning a cousin a few times, I think? But never by name. I always found it odd that he didn’t like to talk about his life back home, but considering my own skeletons, I figured I’d let his be. He’d tell me if and when he decided to.

  Guess he didn’t want to. Because I’m standing in front of his cousin right now, his cousin who traveled all the way to Iowa from Scotland, and there’s no way he didn’t know about this. None.

  But I smile.

  Maybe I really am a fake.

  “Oh, wow! Well, that certainly explains the resemblance, then.” I pause, feeling like such an outsider all of a sudden. Apparently even Humphrey and Elise know Adair’s cousin, and pretty well from the looks of it. “Well…” My voice fails me, so I clear my throat before I continue. “You couldn’t have picked a better time to visit the frozen tundra. When did you guys get in?”

  William laughs, and even that reminds me of Adair—loud, boisterous and so full of merriment that, even if you didn’t know what he was laughing at, you’d want to join in. “This mornin’. Adair told us to be ready for the cold, but we weren’t prepared for this. It’s fair jeelit outside.” His accent is thick, so much thicker than Adair’s, and I have to listen carefully to catch what he says.

  Shona nods, her eyes wide. “Thought it was frigid where we came from.” She shudders. “But Humphrey and Elise say it’s good weather for… What is it you’re taking us to do tomorrow?” She shoots a glace their way, and Humphrey finishes for her.

  “Snowmobiling.” His smile is wide, and Elise nods with excitement. “You and Adair should come,” he adds, turning to me.

  William beams. “Oh, you’re good friends with my cousin, then?” He takes a sip from his glass while he waits for my answer.

  My own smile falters. “I know him,” I say, my voice flat.

  “Ouch. Sounds like he still has a way with the hens,” he jokes.

  I cross my arms. “Yep. Adair’s a real man whore.”

  William snorts into his drink, Elise’s eyes go so wide they look like they just might pop out of her head, and Humphrey’s mouth drops.

  “Aye, that he is. Or was. I could tell you stories about him, I could…” Williams tilts his head back and studies the ceiling before scaling his he gaze down the walls and over the rest of the room. “Looks like he finally got his head out of his arse, though. This is damn impressive, this is.” He returns his attention to the group. “He won’t have any trouble finding a buyer, that’s for sure.”

  Something moves in my chest, lands in my stomach.

  Shona nudges her husband. “Now, you know he hasn’t decided if he’s selling just yet.”

  “Adair’s selling Rusty Bucket?” I blurt. The question leaves my lips before I can swallow it back down. I swing my gaze to Humphrey and Elise, wondering if I’m the last one to know about this, too. But their attention has been diverted by a tall bald man who looks like a rock star. I watch as he slaps Humphrey on the shoulder before bending down and giving Elise a quick kiss on her cheek.

  William rocks back on his heels. “Aye. His mum and dad gave him ten years, and the arsehole did it in under seven. I’d say that’s a win. It’ll be nice to have the wanker back home again.” There’s affection in his voice when he says this, and it’s obvious the two cousins are—or, at the very least, were—close. “Not that the circumstances are ideal.”

  Home? As in Scotland? As in thousands of miles away from his home here?

  I worry the stem of my flute between my fingers, rolling it back and forth and back and forth and back and forth. And I smile.

  Shona cocks her head and studies me, her expression telling me she sees more than she’s letting on.

  Before I can even respond, William’s face lights up. “And speak of the devil!” he booms. He opens his arms, and I feel a soft touch against my shoulder as Adair brushes past me. The two come together in a quick hug, slapping each other hard on the back. William grabs Adair’s head and plants a sloppy kiss on his cheek and calls him something that sounds like bawbag.

  Shona giggles, and Adair swoops down and pulls her tiny frame into his arms.

  There’s hooting and hollering along with a fair amount of affectionate insults being thrown around, and I stand by, bruised and uncomfortable, not wanting to interrupt the happy reunion.

  Because the news of Adair selling the brewery and moving back to Scotland and this mysterious time table with his parents hit me like a ton of bricks.

  Because I thought we were friends and we told each other everything.

  Because he didn’t care enough to tell me that he’s planning to leave.

  Because he slept with me knowing he wasn’t going to be around long enough for it to lead to anything.

  I am no different than all of those other…other…floozies he so flippantly dates and discards.

  And that’s not even what has me so upset.

  Nope. Nope, nope nope.

  It’s that I fell for the jerk. I fell for him. I crushed so hard I felt things I’ve never felt before. And the last few hours I allowed myself to believe that maybe—just maybe— he felt the same way about me, too.

  I was starting to push aside everything I’ve known for the unknown. I was ready take a goddamned leap. I was ready to…

  Adair turns, and when his eyes lock onto mine, the smile dies on his lips. He quickly looks away, his lips kicking back up as he greets Humphrey and Elise. When he doesn’t turn back to me, doesn’t look at me in what feels like forever and my eyes are watering so much it won’t be long before all that wetness overflows and ruins my mascara, I tap Elise’s arm and excuse myself, backing away f
rom the group. As I leave, I see Humphrey lean down and brush a quick kiss on her head when he thinks no one is looking.

  The gesture is so sweet and so protective it makes my chest ache.

  I head for the bar, unshed tears blinding my path, and snag a coupe bottles of champagne. Landon gives me a strange look, but I’m to pissed-sad-depressed to care. The front door is a watery blur, but I manage to hold everything in until I get outside.

  Miles is wrong. George is wrong.

  I was wrong.

  Adair doesn’t love me.

  FUCK LIFE.

  I wake up the next morning in sheets that still smell like Adair, my eyes sticky and my body curled around an empty champagne bottle. My head feels heavy, too heavy to lift from the pillow, so I don’t even try. For a moment I can’t remember anything, the how and what and why of last night too much for my dehydrated brain to process. Something tugs at my memory though, pulling loose bits and pieces of images that my groggy mind is still too wasted to comprehend. But something important happened. Something I should remember. I feel it everywhere, the tightness. It’s like, even though I just woke up, my body is tense, preparing itself for when I…

  …remember.

  Oh, god. I remember.

  And when I do, I experience it all over again. Only this time it’s worse, so much worse. Because now that time and distance have removed me from the scene, I can slow the memory down and study it piece by piece. Dissect it until there’s nothing left but the truth.

  Adair is leaving. He’s been planning to leave. And he didn’t care to tell me.

  I’m not mad about the sex. Not anymore. Because I was the one who initiated it, not him. But last night I couldn’t see past the hurt, the shock enough to remember that. I listened to Miles, and I listened to George, and I was naïve enough to let their words make me dare to long for a future that was never going to happen.