Auctioned to Him 7: The Contract

by Charlotte Byrd

  And when he finally does, he simply asks “So what? Isn’t this great news?”

  I don’t even know who this person is standing before me and pretending to be Wyatt.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I don’t get it,” he shrugs. “Your mom’s getting married. She sounds happy. What’s wrong with that?’

  * * *

  The way he phrases it puts me off guard. I take a step back. There really shouldn’t be anything wrong with it. This would be fine for someone else’s mother, but not mine. She’s not the type. She worked in a diner almost her whole life. She lived in a trailer park. She doesn’t have any prospects. She has fought cancer her whole life. First with her daughter and then with herself. My mom simply does not do this!

  “My mom isn’t the type,” I finally say. “My mom isn’t the type of woman who meets a European stranger late in life and has this torrid affair with him. And then marries him.”

  “I can see that you’re very upset about this,” Wyatt says. “But let me put it this way. Aren’t you a lot like her?”

  “How so?”

  “Well, you grew up in the same trailer park. You had basically the same life minus cancer. And yet you found me. I’m also not a very typical option for someone like you.”

  Now, I’m not sure if he’s insulting her or me.

  “I didn’t really mean it like that,” Wyatt quickly corrects himself. “All I’m trying to say is that you never know what kind of things happen in life. And you can’t just go around trying to live in some sort of box that you put yourself in. Your mom has lived her life in a box for a long time. Maybe this is her way to just try to get out of it.”

  I nod. Perhaps.

  “Besides, it’s not like you two have any money.”

  “So? What does that mean?”

  “I mean, it’s one thing if you had money or some sort of trust fund or something. Then you’d worry about this guy’s intentions with her. But you don’t. So that’s one thing you don’t really have to worry about.”

  I thought about that for a moment. Wyatt was right. My mom and I didn’t offer this stranger very much in terms of finances. It was probably his family that was worried about some poor American who he was going to marry. Perhaps, things between them were simpler than I thought.

  “There you go,” Wyatt smiles at me. “I can tell that I’m starting to make sense to you.”

  I smile too. “Maybe, you’re right. Maybe she is in love.”

  He wraps his arm around my shoulder. “But what if she doesn’t know him enough? I mean, this hasn’t been that much time. She’s only met him a few months ago.”

  “Even if it’s not, even if this is a big mistake. So what? Isn’t that what life is about? Giving it all even if it is a mistake?”

  So what, huh? I thought to myself. Maybe I need to adopt that attitude as well. So what?

  My phone beeped again. Another email. But Wyatt took it away from me and pressed his lips onto mine.

  “What are you doing?” I mumble.

  “Nothing,” he mumbles back through the kisses. “I want to kiss you.”

  “Oh you do, do you?” I say. He presses his body to mine and intertwines his fingers with mine. A rush of excitement courses through my body as he pulls me on top of him. We fall onto a soft feather bed. Wyatt starts kissing my shoulder and neck. I close my eyes and enjoy the moment.

  His tongue is soft and kind and strong when it needs to be, and it has sent me to the heights of ecstasy and the depths of despair.

  Beep. Beep.

  The sounds breaks my concentration. I’m not usually the one who’s obsessed with my phone. Even out of the two of us, Wyatt is the one who checks his a lot more. But something is pushing me to look at it. Why? Another email from my mother? Perhaps. It’s not like I have a job that sends me emails. Still, I have to answer it.

  “Oh, where are you going?” Wyatt tries to grab me and pull me back into bed. He’s only successful in pulling off my button down shirt. “Leave it alone. It’s just a phone. Who cares who it is.”

  “Let me just look at it for a second, and I’ll be right back,” I smile. Want to be back in bed with him. I want to kiss him and touch him and take off all his clothes.

  I pick up the phone and look at the screen. The new email takes a moment to load. As soon as it loads, I drop the phone. I pray that Wyatt thinks it’s an accident even though it wasn’t. I dropped it because of his name.

  Ryan.

  Ryan?

  Ryan!

  How the hell did he find me? No, no, no.

  “Oh shit,” I get down on my knees. I reach for the phone, but Wyatt is quicker than I am in my fragile state. My mind is racing, but my body is standing still. I can’t make one decision or perform one action. I’m lost and afraid. My frozen hands shake uncontrollably.

  “Let me see this,” Wyatt jokes. “What is so important for you to get out of bed and look at. It better be from your mom.”

  His smiling and joking, but I can barely crack a smile. My mouth runs completely dry and my lips are chapped.

  “Okay, so Danielle says…” his voice trails off. I can’t see what he’s looking at, but I know it’s bad.

  “Brielle, who is Ryan?” he turns to me. His voice isn’t accusatory or distant. More like curious.

  “Um, Ryan…” I say. I don’t know where to begin or how to explain. This is my secret. My shame. One that I never planned on sharing with Wyatt. “No one. Not really,” I say.

  He stares at me. Then hands me the phone. Reluctantly, I take it.

  “Hi, sweetie. I’m coming back to town. Would love to catch up. Love always, Ryan.”

  I read the email silently. I don’t know what to do with myself. His words aren’t frightening or scary on the outside, but they cut me to my very core.

  “It’s no one,” I toss the phone aside. “No one important.”

  “Well, I didn’t think so,” Wyatt says. “But then I was just witness to the expression on your face. What’s wrong? Who is this guy?”

  I shrug. I don’t know how to begin to explain.

  “And why is he writing ‘love always’? Is he your old boyfriend?”

  I nod. “Yes, he’s just not quite over it.”

  This part is true. Ryan McPhee is an old boyfriend. He’s someone I cared a lot about at one time. But that was such a long time ago, I can’t even remember who I was then.

  “So, are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” Wyatt asks. He’s not letting it go. And the more I resist, the worse it’s going to get. And yet, I still can’t find the words to explain.

  “Seriously, he’s nobody. Just some old jerk I have no intention of ever contacting again,” I put on a brave face, but it’s no longer just brave. I’m acting a role of someone who’s not really scared. Someone who is powerful and strong and untouchable. I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him. We fall into bed together again, and I just hope that the passion in our kisses is enough to erase any memory of Ryan and his email.

  * * *

  Over the next couple of days, I got two additional emails from Ryan. They said basically the same thing, but they scared me just as much. Each email made me more and more nervous. Each email made my blood run cold, if not colder than the one before. The second email also came with an apology.

  “Listen, I’m sorry for everything that happened. Let’s make up. Love always.”

  The casualness in his tone made me want to rip his eyes out. Who the hell does he think he is? But instead of letting him get a rise out of me, I simply reply.

  “Please, don’t contact me again.”

  I’d debated whether I should’ve written that to Ryan for some time. Each time going back and forth. Changing my mind over and over again. On one hand, it would be good to just ignore him. Completely. Not give him any reply at all. Just pretend that I didn’t get the messages. On the other hand, I thought that telling him to stop would let him, asking him, to stop might evoke some remaining f
eelings of humanity left within him. Perhaps, if I’d asked to stop then he might actually comply with my wishes. Eventually, I did write back and spent the next day agonizing over if this was the right decision. And then another day later, I finally decided to send it.

  My thumb hovers over the word ‘Send.’ To send or not to send. That is the question. I press send. And regret the decision almost immediately. My throat closes up. My chest begins to ache. I can’t take a full breath of air.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  My mind goes blank. This can’t be happening.

  “Hey, Brielle,” Wyatt barges into my room. I whip around in the chair and drop the phone. He walks in cautiously and picks up the phone.

  “Are you okay? You’ve been kinda off ever since that email.”

  I nod. I still don’t know how to tell him the truth. I should, but I can’t.

  “I’m fine,” I give him a little peck on the cheek. He deserves a lot more than that, but I just can’t bring myself to show him any attention. Not ever since I got the emails.

  “I’m just a little freaked out about my mom’s wedding,” I lie. I’ve almost entirely forgotten how freaked out I was about her wedding. It scares me too, but not like this. Nothing scares me as much as this.

  “It’s going to be fine,” Wyatt tries to comfort me. He puts his arms around me. Kisses me. But I can’t reciprocate. I feel like I can’t breath. Like the world is closing in around me.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks looking me straight in the eye. He doesn’t believe what I’m saying. And I don’t think that my body language is any more convincing.

  “Please tell me if something’s wrong, Brielle. Things have been off ever since that day. But I get the feeling that it’s not just your mom’s impending nuptials.”

  “What do you mean? What are you talking about?” I try to act innocent. My acting is abysmal. My hands get impossibly cold. I can’t even open up my fists to warm them up.

  “I just don’t really understand what’s wrong with you. I feel like there’s a lot you’re not telling me.”

  “About what? About Ryan?”

  Shit. Why did I have to say his name? He probably wasn’t even thinking about him!

  “Yes, about Ryan,” Wyatt crosses his arms across his chest. “I know you better than you think, Brielle. I know when something’s off. You’ve been walking around in a daze around here for days. It’s like..you’re afraid of him, or something.”

  I’m terrified, I think. But I don’t say a word.

  “So, are you?”

  No, I shake my head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say with a shrug. “Everything’s fine. I’m just feeling a little under the weather, that’s all.”

  “But if something is wrong, you’ll tell me, right?” Wyatt asks.

  I nod.

  “No, you have to promise me. Out loud,” he says and waits.

  I’m not confident that my voice can manage it without giving me away. I take a deep breath.

  “I promise,” I say.

  Chapter 23 - Wyatt

  Brielle doesn’t know this, but I checked her phone. She had been acting so scared and awkward that I had to find out what else was wrong. I was expecting to see more emails from her mom. But what I found instead made my heart sink.

  Two more emails from that guy Ryan McPhee. Two more emails!

  Each email had an apology for what had happened. What?

  Each email asked Brielle for a chance to see her again. To apologize in person, presumingly, but this wasn’t stated explicitly.

  And the worst thing: each email ended with the same “Love Always, Ryan.”

  What does this mean? Who is this Ryan McPhee? And why does the mere mention of him make Brielle so uncomfortable? I try to put myself in her shoes. I have ex-girlfriends, too. Some I like more than others. There might be one or two of them who would freak me out if they ever contacted me and wanted to make amends, but I doubt that I would ever react like she has. Like she is reacting. What is her reaction exactly? A shutdown. But not a quick, shutdown with a one swoop motion. Instead, it’s a slow shutting down like the way people die after a long illness. One organ shuts down at a time.

  The only thing I could think to do is to look him up on the internet. I googled him last night and came up with a list of 18 pages long of Ryan McPhees, who all live in California. Of course, I don’t even know if he does live in California. That’s just an assumption and one that can easily be wrong. What it seems like from the emails is that he doesn’t live anywhere near her mom’s place, but that’s about as narrow as I can get it. And, that too, is also an assumption.

  * * *

  O is now as big as a house. I can’t tell her this without fearing for my life. She walks briskly, but all of her movements are so exaggerated I sometimes think that she resembles a clown in a fat suit. I’m not really this immature, of course, I know enough not to mention any of this. It’s just that I’ve never seen a pregnant woman before. Not so up close and personal.

  Today, she enters the kitchen with both arms full of groceries and fresh flowers.

  “Please take these now, NOW!” She yells. I run over and grab everything from her just in time. The groceries are from the farmer’s market. So they are all packaged in bulky, eco-friendly, recyclable paper bags, which are bulky and awkward to carry.

  “You think you got enough groceries?” I ask. O has become obsessed with eating cleanly. No frozen dinners. Nothing with MSG, whatever that is. Nothing processed. She even started to make her own hummus!

  “I’m going to make a quiche for dinner tonight,” she announces with a wide smile. I stare at her. I’m still not used to this new and vastly improved version of O. She cooks and cleans and nests as if there’s no tomorrow.

  We have yet to talk about her ex. The father of her unborn child. But she has been so friendly, upbeat and happy ever since Brielle came home from the hospital that I didn’t want to break the spell by bringing him up. Clearly, she wasn’t in the mood to discuss him or she would’ve brought him up herself, I reason. O was never one to shy away from an uncomfortable topic of conversation.

  “A quiche, really?” I ask furrowing my brows. That sounds complicated.

  “Yes, really,” she rolls her eyes. I’m sure she knows why I’m surprised. How can I not be? I’ve never seen my sister bake a thing in her life. Up until a few months ago, I doubted that she even knew what an oven was or how to turn it on.

  “You’ve really come a long way, O,” I say. I hope that I sound encouraging rather than sarcastic.

  “How so?”

  “Well, remember how I got you that ‘Microwaving for One’ cookbook for your birthday a few years back? And you told me that you tried making something from it and it was too complicated.”

  O bursts into a laugh. Strong and powerful and unashamed. I’m suddenly reminded of my old sister, the one who was never afraid to laugh too loud or dance as if no one was watching.

  “I have come a long way since then, didn’t I?”

  I nod. “I like this version, though. It’s a good version.”

  She smiles and winks. “Me too.”

  “Can I ask you something?” I ask when she starts to lay out all the ingredients for the quiche. I figure it’s as good of a time as any.

  “Sure, shoot.”

  “Brielle got these emails from some guy named Ryan.”

  “What kind of emails?”

  I tell her everything. She listens carefully as she chops the spinach. She thinks about it for a moment while whipping the eggs.

  “No, I don’t believe it’s anything, Wyatt. That girl loves you. I see it in the way she acts around you.”

  I think about that for a second. She’s right. Of course, she’s right. And yet, something in the back of my mind gives me pause.

  “I know,” I finally say. “I know. But I’m just not so sure. What if I’m wrong?”

  “You’re not wrong.”

  “Okay,
” I take a deep breath. I didn’t want it to come to this, but I need a second opinion. “Well, that’s why I sent them to myself.”

  “You did what?” O’s eyes grow wide.

  “She just acted so weirdly. I didn’t think anything at first. But then, I wasn’t so sure. So I sent them to myself when she was in the shower.”

  O shakes her head.

  “I know, I know. It was a really shitty thing to do, wasn’t it?”

  “Kind of. You know, if this turns out to be nothing, then she’ll really feel like you violated her trust.”

  “I know,” I hang my head. I feel my shoulders sloping down and taking the whole world with them.

  I get my phone out and show her the emails. O reads them carefully. I wait, trying to guess her reaction.

  “I don’t know,” she finally says. “This guy, Ryan, sounds desperate, in love maybe. But I still don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

  I try to figure out what’s worrying me. I just don’t know.

  “The thing is that it’s not even really him or what he says. It’s her reaction. She looked…I don’t know, uncertain? Scared? In some instances, petrified even. She was trembling when she got the first one.”

  “Trembling?”

  I try to convey exactly what I saw, experienced, but whatever words I find are not enough. There was a lostness to her. A kind of sorrow.

  “Maybe she’s just afraid of your reaction to them. Seeing you two together these past few weeks,” O smiles. “You two are getting along so well. You’re so happy. I just don’t think this is anything for you to get jealous over.”

  O is trying to be reassuring, but I’m not convinced. On one hand, I know she’s right, of course. But on the other, I’m not so sure. There are other factors in play. Facts that I’m not aware of. And that makes me worried. We are happy. It’s not an act. But the emails, they have to mean something, right? Why else would she react that way?

  “How about this?” O puts her hand around my neck. “Why don’t you just ask her?’