“Pres?” I don’t yell it in case she’s sleeping.
A sound catches my attention, and it sounds like a hiccup. Calling her name again, I listen closer, and I hear someone crying.
Following the sobbing sound, I find Presley kneeling on the tile floor of her bathroom, tears leaking down her face.
“Pres! What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” My voice is frantic in my ears as I sink to my knees beside her.
She hiccups on a sob and offers up her hand. There is an object in it, and I tear my eyes from her face to look at it.
“It’s negative,” she cries, handing me the pregnancy test.
I take it, careful not to touch the end she inevitably peed on. Sure enough, there is only one line, not two like the simple test instructs there should be if a woman is carrying a baby.
“Oh, Pres …” I whisper, momentarily stunned.
I wasn’t even aware they were trying, and with the utter devastation marking her features, I can tell this is not the first negative test she’s gotten back.
“I wasn’t even sure I wanted kids, you know? Before I met Keaton, I wasn’t sure that having a family was in the cards for me. But then he kept talking about how beautiful our little girl would be someday, or how much he wanted to play baseball with his son. And I could see that, I could picture it so clearly. And then my arms started feeling … lonely. As if I was just waiting for something to fill them. For a baby to be rocked in them. I’ve never felt such a sharp stab of longing before in my life. So, we started trying. I was so excited at first, so hopeful. It was flirty and fun, and Keaton was so thrilled he could burst at the seams. But … it’s been eight months. And I just keep getting my period or peeing on these fucking sticks and being told by a piece of plastic that my womb is hopelessly empty.”
She breaks down into heart-wrenching sobs, and I herd her into my arms. I hold my friend as the sadness wracks her body, and I grieve for her. I can’t imagine what it’s like to not be able to get pregnant, when all of your hope is riding on this tiny window of a miracle.
It’s at this moment that I realize … the happy ending doesn’t mean a person’s world lives on enchantedly ever after. The wrapped-up-in-a-bow ending isn’t a cure-all for misfortune and struggle.
Here I was, idolizing and envying Presley because she got the man and all she ever wanted. I thought that the Nash brothers and their wives were all just blissfully, annoyingly happy at all times. But, that wasn’t the truth. Everyone had problems, even the ones who found their soul mates and perfect careers.
It makes me both resolved and upset. I’ve been trying so hard to fix everything I thought was wrong with myself, contend with the demons inside me to expel them from my mind and heart. So that I could feel nothing but sheer certainty when it came to being with Fletcher. So that I didn’t regret breaking my promise or leaving the life I’d worked so hard for behind.
Finding Presley like this? It makes me realize that I don’t have to be perfect to be loved. But it also makes me terrified that when I finally do give myself to the person I’m truly meant to be with, it won’t be enough.
How can life throw terrible things your way when you finally find the happy ending?
That niggle of doubt that creeps into my heart is dangerous. It festers, infecting the love that’s sprouted there even before I know it’s wreaking havoc.
33
Fletcher
Scrape.
“Fuck.” A giggle.
Bang.
“Oh, shit …” Another giggle.
I rise from my position on the couch, where I’d been lounging, watching baseball, and walk to the front door of the apartment. When I unlock it and pull it open, a drunk Ryan is standing on the other side.
“Hey, babe.” She hiccups, which makes her giggle again.
Her lipstick is smudged, and she’s removed her heels on the short walk home from the Goat, and she looks so adorably silly right now that I want to carry her to the bedroom.
Problem is, she smells like a bottle of tequila, and immediately my hackles rise.
“Hi, beautiful. Have fun tonight?” I try to keep my voice light with amusement.
She stumbles into the apartment, throwing her bag and shoes on the ground and then unbuttoning her jeans, because why not.
“Oh, gosh, yes. I love girl’s night. Don’t you love girl’s night? Just a bunch of bitches gathering around to gossip. And drink. And talk about men. And drink.”
“Yeah, you mentioned that.” I can’t help but chuckle as she moseys through our home, throwing her clothes haphazardly as she undresses.
“Come, sit down, while I regale you.” Ryan tries to throw a sexy look my way, but almost trips over her own two feet.
I should keep my distance, but she’s allowed to get drunk with her friends. It’s not her problem that I can’t control the urge inside me. So I sit on the bed, watching as she takes out her big hoop earrings.
Before I know what’s happening, though, Ryan is crawling up the bed toward me.
She straddles my lap, and instantly, my cock is straining to be inside her. How the hell does she do this to me? I’ve had plenty of experience, not much that I remember but I do, but no one compares to the speed in which Ryan can get me hot and bothered.
It could also be the fact that I was celibate for five damn years, but we don’t need to mention that now.
I can smell the booze on her breath, and I know that if she kisses me, I’ll be able to taste the bitter fire of a margarita on her lips. Part of me wants to, so desperately wants to get just a lick of my old friend. My mistress, alcohol, the woman who led me to such highs and such lows.
Fumbling in my pocket, I grab at the chip. Five years sober. Not a drop of that poison in one thousand, eight hundred and twenty-five days. Or a little bit more than that. It takes every ounce of strength and willpower in me to push a horny, sexy-as-hell Ryan from my lap.
Her frown is exaggerated in her drunken state. “What’s wrong, baby?”
“Not tonight, babe. Why don’t we just go to sleep?” I smile at her, trying to shrug her off as she begins pulling at my pajama bottoms.
“You don’t want me?” Her smile is naughty, and while she probably thinks she’s being coy, she’s too inebriated to be subtle.
Gently, I push her hands away. “Ry … not tonight. You’re drunk.”
“And? It means you can take advantage of me.” She starts to take her top off, and I groan as her perky little nipples poke out from the see-through lace bra she’s wearing. “I was thinking about you all night. About how I wanted to come home and get on top of you. How I wanted your tongue in my pussy.”
Jesus Christ, this woman is going to kill me. Because if there is anything that has a stronger pull over me than alcohol, it’s Ryan.
But I can smell the scent of her drinks everywhere, and I know that if I don’t get out of this room, something bad will happen.
“I can’t … kiss you right now. You’ve been drinking. I can’t even smell it. It’s hard for me to even stand here with you. I’m sorry, babe … I just can’t.”
Her cheekbones, which were slanted upward in a sly grin, immediately lower. Her eyes lose a little bit of their playful light, and this is exactly what I didn’t want to happen. Because of my shit, my past, I’m ruining her good time.
“I’m so sorry, Fletch, I forgot. I didn’t even think, of course, you don’t want to taste that. Shit, I’ll go brush my teeth …”
She flees into the bathroom, but I move quickly to her, catch her arm. “It’s okay. I’m just going to sleep on the couch. You take the bed.”
“You’re not going to even sleep with me?” Her voice takes on a note of hurt, and it guts me that I put it there.
This was bound to happen, I knew it from the start. My issues would make her feel unwanted or put pain in her eyes. Because I was weak, I would have to shut myself off from her. Because I wasn’t strong enough of a person, of a man, I’d have to put my own needs ahead of hers.<
br />
“I can’t, the smell …” I try to explain with a wave of my arm through the air.
Ryan retreats even further into herself, those amber eyes going midnight black, her arms crossing over her naked torso. “Got it. I can just leave.”
“No, please stay. I want to know that you’re safe. And this is your home too. I want you in our bed.” I still linger by the door instead of hugging her in my arms, because I don’t trust myself.
“Just not enough to want to get in it with me,” she spits, and I know she wouldn’t say it if she wasn’t drunk.
But it’s half-true what they say; alcohol loosens your tongue to say the things you wouldn’t if you were sober. And Ryan’s accusation only proves to me that she doesn’t fully understand how fragile and important my sobriety is.
“I’ll be out there if you need anything.” I hang my head, turning to go.
She harrumphs, and I can sense that all too irrational anger that liquor brings out in a person. “And I guess I’ll jump in the shower since you can’t stand me right now.”
The alcohol is blurring her rationale, but it still doesn’t keep the sting of betrayal from entering my veins. I thought that Ryan understood my battle to keep my life clean, but with a few harsh lashes of her tongue, she’s undone some level of trust there had been between us.
I sleep on the couch, the cold leather seeping into my bones, listening to Ryan breath softly in our bed.
Alone.
34
Ryan
I wake up in a dismal fog of tequila scent and nausea.
The two make a disastrous combination, and I’m running for the bathroom the minute my eyes blink open toward the ceiling. Falling to my knees on the cold tile floor, I heave the contents of my stomach into the toilet bowl before wiping my mouth and reaching a hand up to flush.
“You okay?” Fletcher says from the doorway of the bathroom, and I nod weakly.
Fuck, what did I drink last night? “Sorry you had to see that.”
“Don’t apologize for not feeling well.” His tone holds a gentle soothing, but there is an edge to it.
“I can when I did it to myself,” I argue, standing on wobbly legs.
“Come sit, I’ll make you some toast. Best hangover cure I know. That and tomato juice.”
Just the thought of the acidic drink makes my stomach roll. “Please don’t mention V8 again.”
He nods, and I slip into the bedroom to pull one of his oversized T-shirts over my naked body. I feel like someone slammed a two-by-four into the side of my head, and by the way Fletcher is acting, I know I said some stupid shit last night.
Passing the couch, I see the blankets folded on top of a pillow. A memory comes back to me, in hazy hues, but it’s there. Fletcher telling me I was drunk, him pushing me away, and then going to sleep on the couch.
Fuck, I really messed up. I’m pretty sure I yelled at him, when I should have been understanding. Of course, he wouldn’t want to taste alcohol on my tongue. It would be a trigger for him to sleep next to me all night, smelling the tequila wafting off of me.
And here I’d gone, cutting him down because of it.
No, not because of him. Because the minute he told me that I was drunk, that he couldn’t be around me …
He reminded me of a life he’d never been a part of. One where my mother would push me away, because she loved the high more than she loved me. In my warped brain, in my drunken state of mind … that’s what I’d thought Fletcher was doing. His addiction was causing him to push me away, and I snapped at him as if he was my deadbeat biological parent.
I lower myself into a chair, rubbing my arms that are now peppered with goose bumps. He’s in there making me toast right now, and I don’t deserve the kindness.
“The reason I got so angry …” I trail off, not sure I’m ready to have this conversation.
Everything has been going so well. We’ve been shacked up for months, I’m a solid part of his life, and he is in mine. I’ve established myself here, and we’re … happy. Every so often, I have to ignore the whispers from the back of my mind that tell me I’m doing exactly what I did with Yanis. But other than that, life is amazing.
But life can’t be amazing without putting all your cards on the table. And I’ve left my biggest ace off of it. Fletcher still doesn’t know about my past, and it’s about time I told him about it.
Fletcher walks out of the tiny galley kitchen, holding the plate with my toast, his eyes a stormy, clouded blue today.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks gently.
My eyes study his, looking from one blue orb to the next. I’m not sure where to start, so I pick a point and run with it.
“I went to Greece on a project that my boss put me up for. Honestly, I didn’t even want to go. That sounds so selfish now, who doesn’t want to go to Greece? But I’d just gotten back from a long-term project in Norway and was looking forward to the summer in New York. But, I’d flown out reluctantly, and my boss had promised to pay for a fabulous Airbnb to start my trip off right. I met Yanis three days in and fell completely head over heels. He was a local artist whose paintings had begun to gain traction all over Europe. He was charismatic, devilishly sexy, and complimented me so much, that at times I thought he was forcing it a bit. But … he looked like a soldier from the movie 300, and I was alone in a new place. One date blended into three, and by the second month of my project, we were living together. Looking back, I barely knew the guy. It was all so exotic and romantic, which tends to be my downfall. And life was just one big romantic comedy. Come on … living in Greece, on the arm of an artist, it was whimsical. We were together for a year and a half before I found him in our bed, having a threesome with two local models. The truth is … I knew it was happening. Somewhere deep inside your soul, you always do. It’s hard not to know if your partner is distant, or not as touchy-feely. We all ignore it, chalk it up to long-term companionship … but I knew. I just didn’t want to see it.”
Fletcher doesn’t reach for my hand, but instead, keeps his steady gaze pinned on me. He doesn’t interrupt either … and maybe he knows I need to spit this out more than I realize.
“That’s what I do. I fall into relationships so quickly because I want … hell, I’m not sure sometimes. Love? Someone to be singularly focused on me. A person to call my own? Remember I told you I grew up in foster care?”
The brief register of sympathy on his face tells me that he feels sad for me, but he schools his features and nods his head, urging me to go on.
“My mother abandoned me at a supermarket when I was five. Just walked me in, took me to the cereal aisle, and went to go score. She was, and still is, a junkie. I stared at the Lucky Charms box so long, I thought my eyes were becoming kaleidoscopes. It wasn’t until the store was closing for the night that one of the employees found me, called the cops to come and get me. I floated in and out of the system from then on. Going into foster homes, some okay and some worse. Nothing absolutely horrible ever happened to me. No, the scars that remain are from something much worse … complete isolation. Most times, I was just ignored. No one spoke to me or listened. I made no friends because I moved around from home to home so much, and there was not one person in my life who was a constant fixture.”
His fingers thread through mine. “I … didn’t know it was that bad.”
Shaking my head, I look away, another wave of nausea hitting me. “No one really does. Presley knows, but she’s probably one of the only ones. I … don’t like to talk about it. Don’t like to dwell on it because I should be so grateful for the life I’ve created for myself. How can this woman, who doesn’t give a shit about me, still take up such a big portion of my headspace? It’s crazy.”
Unshed tears form a lump in my throat. “I’m so ashamed of how I acted last night. I lashed out at you because you pushed me away, just like she did, while dealing with your own demons. Demons that she has. It’s all a twisted mess, and rationally, it shouldn’t matter. But e
motions never listen to silly little things like that, do they? I’m so sorry, Fletcher. I’m fucked up.”
I breakdown into sobs, because I feel like last night veered us so off course. I’m not a crier, I rarely ever do … but this has been coming. Something had to come to a head, and even if the events of last night seem like a molehill, they were part of the larger mountain. Fletcher’s reaction set off a tsunami.
“Shh, it’s okay. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
He holds me until the tears dry up, but after they’re gone, I can feel the tide has shifted.
35
Fletcher
There is a void.
Ever since the morning Ryan told me about her mother, about why she freaked out when I slept on the couch, there has been this distance between us that neither of us can seem to bridge.
We’re not talking about it, either, which only makes it worse. I’m not sure if she’s more upset about her own reaction, or if she’s slowly realizing what a life with me would actually look like.
I don’t have free rein to indulge my every whim, which in turn means neither does my partner. My personality, the addict switch in my brain, can’t handle it. I can’t even smell alcohol in my apartment, and I’m not sure Ryan ever thought about that before the other night.
The only way I can think to explain it to her, and maybe end this awkward tension between us, is to take her to a meeting.
“I don’t need to come, really. If this is your space …”
It’s the second time Ryan has said as much, as we walk the short distance down the sidewalk on Main Street to the church where my AA meetings are held. And because it’s not the first time she’s mentioned it, I feel myself grind down on my back molars.
“Do you not want to go? Because I thought this might be good for us, after the other night.”
Something has stilted between us, as if all the air has gone out of our relationship, leaving it hard to breathe. We’re not functioning normally, and though her confession about her biological mother opened up another side of her to me, it also left a hollowness. Because now I know, I remind her of the parent who abandoned her.
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