by A. L. Woods
I got nothing but radio fucking silence for a damn week.
I was done being patient. I had just had my ego torn to shreds by a guy who had something to prove and a dick that could have turned a lesbian straight.
Maybe.
I didn’t actually know about the latter, but I was too fucking horny to think straight, so I was pulling out all the stops here.
A drive that normally took me almost an hour on a good day, took me forty-five minutes and four cigarettes before I arrived in Beacon Hill and was parallel parking in front of Penelope’s Federal style row house that had been converted into a series of apartments. I ripped the seatbelt out of its holster, climbed out of the car and slammed the door behind me. Moonlight lit up the cobblestone I walked across, my body vibrating when I pounded up the stone steps. I caught the door of the row house just as one of her neighbors stepped out, my thunderous expression apparently making the woman too nervous to challenge whether I had any business in the building.
The rush of warm air from the HVAC system made me break out into a sweat that had the fibers of my shirt sticking to my back when I took the stairwell two steps at a time, my anger absorbing the brunt of my weight when I cleared the final step on the third floor landing.
I let myself into her darkened apartment with the key she had given me years ago, the distinct smell of the black cherry merlot candles she liked so much hitting me as I shrugged out of my jacket and hung it on the coat rack opposite the door. I bent over to undo the laces of my boots just as the light turned on. I caught sight of a pair of men’s sock-laden feet. I didn’t bother turning on the polite formalities when I saw Dougie standing at the other end of the hall, arms akimbo as he looked at me with murder in his eyes.
“You’ve got some fucking nerve just letting yourself in, Raquel,” he growled, teeth bared like the rabid dog we both knew he was. I didn’t have the patience to cull his ass today; he needed to stay clear of me.
“I’m not in the fucking mood.” I tossed him an apathetic look while I straightened my spine, kicking my chin at him. His mouth opened as if he wanted to say something, but I cut him off. “Get out of my way.”
I shoved past the breadth of his stocky frame. Penelope’s lofty thousand-square-foot condo with its ten-foot ceilings, delicate crown moulding, and antique wood-burning fireplace belonged in a lifestyle magazine.
“She doesn’t want to see you,” he called out, stalking after me as I cut through the pristine galley kitchen equipped with stainless steel Wolf appliances and white cabinetry against gray marble floors, the stark cream-colored quartz countertops spotless. I ignored the sting of his remark, playing it off as his attempt at foiling my mission. That bitch was going to hear me loud and clear and then I was going home to masturbate until I passed the fuck out.
“She doesn’t need you doing her thinking for her, trust me,” I snarled.
“That’s what you think this is?” he shouted back at me, tracking me down the dim hallway that led toward Penelope’s master and two other spacious bedrooms. One of the extra rooms was used as an office, laden with decorative pieces she used for staging. The other room had been converted into an over-glorified walk in closet that housed clothes and shoes with labels I had never even heard of.
“You’re a real fucking asshole, Raquel,” Dougie declared.
My footsteps tapered off as my hand found the doorknob of Penelope’s bedroom door, a simpering smile tilting my lips as I glanced at him over the curve of my shoulder.
“That the best you got, Douglas?”
His fingers curled into his palms, thumb extending to rub over the valley of his knuckles, as if trying on the idea of beating my ass, arousing a sly snigger from me that made him shoot a scowl in my direction.
“There’s a lot of fucking things I want to say to you, but won’t.”
“Oh?” I said, releasing my hold on the knob to glare at him. My hand propped itself on my hip. “Indulge me.”
I watched the steady rise and fall of his chest, his mind as loud as a freight train, steam practically coming out of his ears. “You’re self-absorbed. Everything is about you, you don’t give a shit about Penelope or anyone else.”
My laugh came out as a patronizing titter that set my own nerves on edge. “Right, coming from the guy who treated her like a piece of ass for the first three months. Tell. Me. More,” I punctuated sarcastically.
He vaulted himself in my direction, not stopping until he was close enough where I could see the granite of his jaw, the vein in his forehead pulsating, and smell the faint traces of beer on his breath.
“Her terms, not mine.” His eyes burned as he spoke. “She was never a piece of ass for me. Ever.”
My spine steeled at that, my mouth popping open.
Dougie’s nostrils flared, fists tight against his thick thighs. My head snapped back at his admission, vignettes from the bar indolently flipping through my mind as the pieces of the puzzle settled themselves into place.
Penelope had wanted to have fun with him, but she hadn’t anticipated…oh, God.
The baby and the guy.
The vehemence left his face as reality registered in my own, my features slackening as he considered the gravity of what he’d said.
Just like it had last week, the truth was staring me dead in the face, if I was only willing to look.
He was…Dougie was…fuck. I couldn’t even get the words out of my brain, the idea moving around like an uninhibited pinball I couldn’t get control of.
The writer in me demanded I ask the question that crawled painfully out from the back of my throat with talons that scratched the closer they inched toward my tongue.
“Are you…” the words got stuck in my throat. I took an uneven breath and managed to complete my sentence. “Are you in love with her?”
“Yes.” He didn’t hesitate. Nothing in his visage so much as twitched or indicated even an iota of misgiving. My jaw rocked together as I processed his proclamation. I had thought—no, I had believed so wholeheartedly that Dougie was to blame for the rift between Penelope and me…that he and his seed had played a central role in my downfall, that his presence was at fault—right up until this moment. Just like his being in love with my best friend was true, it was also true that I had been at the crux of our falling out, not him.
Me, in all my infinite, entitled, self-serving wisdom.
Dougie was simply providing Penelope with the life she had always been trying to tell me she wanted.
We stood there, looking at each other like two dejected morons, shuffling our weight on the balls of our feet inside a property that cost more than either of us would ever earn in five years, now owned by a woman who would happily forego it all if it meant the two of us could figure out how to get along.
I didn’t even know where the hell to start. I broke eye contact first, looking down at my black socks for something to do, noting that the fibers around my big toe were thinning.
“Look.” The breathlessness of his voice summoned my attention. Dougie’s face was rankled, his fingers threading through his unkempt dark hair. “Contrary to whatever narrative you’ve convinced yourself is true, I’m not trying to come between you two.”
“Feels that way,” I muttered.
His expression softened, his shoulders dropping in defeat. “I’m not trying to replace you, Raquel. I know my place in the hierarchy of Penelope’s heart.”
I cocked an eyebrow at him, waiting.
He used his fingers to list them, starting with his thumb. “This baby, you, Louboutins, and then me.” Then his pinky finger jutted forward unexpectedly. “Unless there’s a sale at Restoration Hardware, then I am rightfully demoted to number five.”
Laughter I hadn’t realized I desperately needed erupted from my belly, filling the narrow hallway. Dougie smiled sheepishly at me, relief settling into the tired lines under his eyes. “Can we please try to get along, for her sake? I could really use an ally right now.”
The heat of m
y anger waned as I evaluated his offer. Whether I liked it or not, he was the one Penelope had chosen, and if I loved her as much as I felt I did, I had to accept it.
Making a quick decision, I held out my hand gingerly in his direction, fingers flitting impatiently with my armistice. His face softened, his own gruff hand taking mine, giving it a squeeze. I thought that sealed the deal, but then he surprised me by jerking me forward, my mind not even having time to react before he pulled me into an impromptu hug. His arms crushed around me, and it took everything I had to temper the unexpected sob that crawled up my throat.
I hadn’t realized until now how desperately I needed to be hugged.
We stood there, the moment no longer feeling awkward with Dougie’s massive biceps circling me and my arms wrapped around the width of his waist. He was sturdy, like a tree trunk, a warmth to him that made me feel safe, as if I was in the care of an older brother I’d never had. I let myself relax in his hold, concentrating on the first pulls of oxygen into my lungs that hadn’t felt forced.
We continued to stand in silence, holding onto each other, until he uttered the most unanticipated statement. “Sean likes you, y’know,” he murmured into my hair.
My body stiffened in his hold as his words settled over me like the season’s first snowfall, soft flakes kissing the frozen surface that beckoned winter anew. The sentiment held a startling beauty that left me unnerved, the yearning I had momentarily forgotten brewing beneath my belly button once more.
I swallowed the blades in my throat, mustering a muffled reply against his chest. “I know.” Logic be damned, I liked that smug shithead, too.
“Give him a chance, Raquel,” he quietly implored. “He won’t hurt you.”
Easy for Dougie to say; they were friends. Cash had promised me the very same thing a long time ago.
Aloud I said, “He might.” Despite how things had ended between Sean and I that afternoon, some small part of me recognized the point he had been trying to make, now that I had calmed down and could examine it logically. It just didn’t change the overwhelming trepidation I felt every time I was in his presence. Sean and Cash weren’t even in the same stratosphere, but the shadows of my past lingered in the areas of my life that the sun would never touch.
“He won’t,” Dougie repeated, his arms tightening, as if to crush the mountain of doubt out of me.
I pushed out of his embrace, looking up to meet his stare. “You don’t know that.” Sean was a real-life threat to the safety of the walls I had built around myself. He wanted me to drop the shield that I had kept close to me for so many years to protect myself. If I let him in, if I allowed myself to fall…I didn’t trust myself to survive when it all inevitably blew up in my face again—because it would.
I wasn’t the woman who got the fairy tale ending; I was the one who got the war.
“You’re right, I can’t know that for sure,” he agreed with a sigh, “but I know him. That has to count for something.”
His resolve was unfaltering as he surveyed me over his twisted nose, a reassuring glint in his forest green eyes that beckoned me to trust him.
Dougie moved a rogue lock of hair out of my line in vision, shucking it under my chin in a brotherly kind of way.
“Now, go make peace with our girl while I go order a pizza.”
“No mushrooms,” I called over my shoulder, watching him disappear down the hall.
I took in a breath, staring at the handle of Penelope’s bedroom.
It was time to bury this hatchet.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
The blackout curtains were drawn together tightly. They served their purpose, for Penelope’s bedroom was dark, save for the oppressive blue-tinged light coming from the TV on her dresser. She was propped up in bed, a mountain of pillows behind her, her golden hair looking uncharacteristically greasy and piled high on the crown of her head. She met my eyes, her expression impassive as she schooled her surprise, her lips a flat line. She looked away, her gaze going to the TV screen as the audience of the show she was watching erupted into laughter.
I stepped inside and shut the door behind me. Penelope’s face grew sullen when I turned to face her, her under-eye bags deep enough to contend with my own as her shrewd blue eyes assessed me.
I shoved my hands into my back pocket, glancing at the TV. It looked like she was watching a rerun of How I Met Your Mother. It was one of her favorite shows next to Friends. No one appreciated sitcoms the way Penelope did. Friends was a welcome background noise for her in college when she was studying, was her default when she was in a bad mood, or just when she wanted to laugh. She learned everything she knew about fashion from Jennifer Aniston’s Rachel Green, and in a lot of ways, they were similar in the sense that they both came from well-to-do families in pursuit of something simpler. Something of their own.
Penelope had tried to get me into How I Met Your Mother, assuring me that the tone was similar to that of her beloved Friends…but I hadn’t understood the appeal. That was, until last week, when I was desperate to participate in anything that reminded me of her.
“I watched this episode a few days ago,” I tentatively said, just as the characters of Ted and Stella began to argue over the invitation of Cobie Smulders’s character, Robin, to their spontaneous wedding.
A caustic grunt left her. “You hate this show,” Penelope reminded me, not meeting my eyes.
“I don’t hate it.” I lifted a hand to scratch my cheek. “I guess I just didn’t really give it a chance.”
“Like you don’t with most things,” she retorted hotly.
I didn’t miss the backhanded nature of her remark and its relevance to nearly every facet of my life.
“You don’t like giving anything that you don’t understand right away a chance,” she continued.
“That’s not entirely true.” I forced myself to modulate my annoyance at her rapier-like remarks. Her brow arched at me as though to say, “Isn’t it?” and I found myself rendered mute.
All right, so there was some truth to it.
She had every right to be mad at me, but that didn’t mean she needed to make this harder than necessary, did it? My confidence wavered as my hands freed themselves from the safety of my pockets, arms swinging back and forth as I skittered toward the bed, fearing she might dismiss me before I met my destination. I dropped my weight onto the edge of the king-sized mattress, recognizing its bedspread as the one she had bought at Nordstrom—the one I’d hated but she’d been crazy about. The sheet felt warm under my resting palm; I figured Dougie had been lying beside her just before I showed up. As I shimmied into his spot, I considered how many times before him that Penelope and I had holed up in this very bedroom, eating Indian takeout and watching terrible B-rated horror movies after a crappy night out until one of us passed out and tucked the other in.
Settling against Dougie’s firm pillow—the only one Penelope hadn’t taken over—my nose caught traces of his body wash in the cotton. I watched her out of the corner of my eye. Her profile failed to give away her disposition: lips a thin line, eyes blinking every few seconds, the TV casting harsh shadows against her sallow-appearing skin.
“How have you been feeling?” I coaxed.
Penelope pursed her lips like she wanted to say something nasty, but apparently thought better of it. “I’m swell.” She adjusted the duvet, settling it at her hips. “This is the first time in a week that I’ve gone twenty-five minutes without throwing up. I can barely keep saltines and water down, I haven’t washed my hair in five days, and my best friend resents me for being pregnant.”
A grimace settled on my features. “I don’t resent you,” I amended with a shake of my head.
“Don’t you?” She didn’t look at me as she expressed the doubt.
My stomach twisted. It felt like someone had wedged a hot serrated blade in my gut. “Penelope—”
“Someone you claim to care about tells you that they’re pregnant, and you make it into a you problem.” Sh
e scowled at me, her eyes icy pools oddly fringed with tears. “I needed you.”
I sucked my quivering bottom lip between my teeth under Penelope’s surveying stare. Guilt slammed into me like a jackknifing semi, sucking the air out of my lungs until I felt like I was bartering for my next breath.
“I needed you, and you weren’t there,” she repeated, her voice cracking, breaking my resolve.
Tears stung my eyes, and tried as I may to blink them back, they spilled over in hot rivulets down the stretch of my cheeks. It felt like all I had done the past week was cycle between crying and being pissed off, but there was something strangely cathartic about crying in front of Penelope.
I didn’t want her to feel isolated. I hated that she felt I’d abandoned her, that I had been the source of her hurt…I had been a terrible friend.
A sob choked in the back of my throat. I grabbed her hand in my own, knitting our fingers together, hating how stiff they felt in my grasp. “I’m sorry, Pen. I never wanted to hurt you.”
“I’ve always supported you,” she whispered.
My tears blurred my vision as I tilted my chin down listening to her continue.
“I never made you feel inferior. I’ve never ostracized you for doing things I knew were bad for you. I respected your decisions and loved you for them.”
“I know.” I nodded stiffly, sniffling. “You didn’t deserve any of that.” I swallowed the painful lump in my throat. “You’ve been trying to tell me for a long time that…this was the life you wanted. I just…I wasn’t hearing it.”
Penelope’s inhalation shook through her as my observation lingered between us. A beat of a second passed, her thumb working across my knuckles before she spoke.