A Love Like Yours

by Robin Huber

  He drops his mouth to my neck and unbuttons my shirt, dragging his lips across my collarbone down to my bra. I close my eyes and force a soft moan, trying so hard to feel something, but all I feel is uneasy.

  “Lucy, I want you so bad,” he says, unclasping my bra, and even his voice feels wrong.

  “I want you too,” I say automatically, but when he drops his mouth to my breast, it makes me shiver for all the wrong reasons. I roll my shoulder away from him and slip out of his arms. “Take me to bed,” I whisper, trying to sound seductive, hoping that by the time we get upstairs, I’ll be able to shake whatever is wrong with me.

  He scoops me up and, even though I feel pathetic in his arms, I let him carry me up the stairs to our room. He drops me onto the bed and climbs over me. His mouth goes right to my boob again, and it feels just as weird as it did before.

  Something’s wrong. I close my eyes and try to will it to feel good, but I can’t. It doesn’t.

  He sits up and pulls his shirt off, and I welcome the space between us, as fleeting as it may be. He somehow manages to get my jeans and panties off in the same few seconds it takes him to get naked. He’s moving with the speed of a train, unable to see the signs blurring past him, telling him that something’s wrong, that I’m not into this at all.

  “Wait.” I sit up and put my hand on his chest, and he freezes.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  I stare at him for a second, trying to think of a way to tell him about Sam. He deserves to know the truth. But I can’t do it. “I don’t feel good. I think maybe from the flight.”

  “Oh. Okay,” he says, trying to mask his disappointment. “Is it your head or your stomach?” He puts his hand on my forehead. “You don’t think it’s the food, do you?”

  “No, the food was delicious. It’s just a headache, probably from the flight. I’m sorry.”

  He nods thoughtfully and rubs my thigh. “You don’t have to apologize. I know you and planes don’t mix well. I should have thought to ask.”

  I shrug. “Do you think maybe you could get me some Tylenol?”

  “Sure.” He gets up and puts his pants back on.

  I reach for my robe on the end of the bed and slip it on. “Hey.” I grab his hand before he leaves. “Rain check?”

  “Just say the word.” He winks and leaves to get me some Tylenol, which I could actually really use now.

  Chapter 7

  Lucy

  “Good morning, sunshine,” Sebastian says, handing me a cup of coffee. “It’s a latte macchiato. Two percent milk. You’re welcome.”

  “Thank you.” I take it from him and smile.

  He gauges me and says, “You look very sunny today. I take it you liked Drew’s surprise last night?”

  Before I can answer, a man walks into the studio, carrying a large vase of white roses. There must be at least three dozen of them. “Delivery for Lucy Bennett,” he says, eyeing the paper in his hand.

  “You can put them there,” Sebastian says, pointing to the corner of the front desk. When the delivery guy leaves, he plucks the card from the vase and reads it out loud, “Ready for that rain check.” He raises an eyebrow. “I love you. Drew.”

  I sip my coffee and smell the roses, ignoring Sebastian’s stare.

  He puts the card down next to me. “Rain check?”

  “What?” I look up at him. “I was tired from the trip.”

  “Ahh.” He turns the vase until the roses are positioned to his liking. “You were tired.”

  “Yes.” I laugh awkwardly. “Is that so hard to believe?”

  “No. I just wish you’d tell me what’s really going on with you.”

  “Sebastian, there’s nothing going on.”

  “Lucy, your fiancé, the man that you love, rearranged his travel schedule to surprise you with an incredible dinner, and you asked him for a rain check.”

  “So what? I loved the dinner. I just didn’t feel like having sex, okay?”

  He holds his palms up and nods. “Okay.”

  I exhale an exasperated breath and sip my coffee under his watchful stare.

  “Just…you know that you can talk to me about anything, right?”

  I nod and smile softly. “I know.” But not about this.

  He gives me a sincere look and raises his dark eyebrows.

  “There’s nothing to talk about, Bas. I just want to enjoy my coffee and roses, okay?”

  He squares his broad shoulders, inhales a deep breath, and exhales with a smile. “Okay. Well, I think today’s going to be a great day. The sun is shining, the sky is blue, there’s a nip of fall in the air…and one of us got laid last night.”

  “Sebastian.”

  “What? I’m allowed to bask in the glow. You should try it sometime.”

  “Sebastian, you’re like the sun. You never stop glowing.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “It was meant as one.”

  He wraps his arm around my neck. “Come on, we still have about a mile of red tape to get through for the exhibit.”

  “What’s on the agenda today?” I ask as we walk to the back of the studio.

  “The schedule, the waivers, the price list, the theme. Want me to go on?”

  I had no idea what an undertaking the exhibit would be. If it weren’t for Sebastian, I might have thrown in the towel already. “Let’s get started.”

  Sebastian stands up and pulls me up off the cement floor, where we’ve been sitting for the last three hours, scheming and planning and organizing for the event. “I don’t think I can brainstorm anymore. My cloud has run dry.”

  I stretch my arms over my head. “I know, mine too.”

  “How about I go get us some lunch? Sustenance will help. Fill our stomachs, nourish our brains.”

  “Okay.” I look around at the mess we’ve made. We’re standing in the middle of a storm of scattered papers, open notebooks, our laptops, my iPad, and about twenty prints of potential artwork we’re considering for the exhibit. “I’ll clean up while you’re out and peruse the internet for a conference table, so we can actually work like grown-ups.” I laugh.

  “Why would you do that? This is what I love about this job. We can sit on the floor, make a huge mess and be creative, and no one can say anything about it. I cannot be creative around a conference table.”

  I laugh again. “Well, maybe just some floor pillows, then.”

  “That’s more like it. I’ll see if I can find some while I’m out.”

  “Don’t take too long or we’ll be eating dinner here too.”

  “I won’t.”

  Sebastian leaves and I begin organizing the chaos on the floor. Unlike the front of the studio, which is wall-to-wall white and adorned with my paintings, the back is all cinder block and exposed pipes and air-conditioning ducts. I like the industrial feel, and there’s plenty of windows for light, so I’ve never bothered finishing it. I just added a big area rug, an old leather couch, and a couple of chairs, which we never actually sit in. It’s a nice contrast to the clean, vibrant storefront. The two spaces contradict each other like the halves of my brain.

  I get up and take my laptop to the desk in the front of the studio. I need a change of scenery. And I need to catch up on the emails I’ve been ignoring all morning. I sit down and look at the open space, wondering how I got here. I still feel like I need to pinch myself to be sure I’m not dreaming. Just a few years ago, I was struggling to make ends meet. Now I own my own gallery. Well, I’m running it anyway. It’s technically still in Drew’s name, but he’s gifting it to me for our wedding. Which is why this exhibit has to be a success. I want to earn back every cent he put into it, and the only way to do that is by selling my paintings. Over time, I should be able to pay him back. It’s the only way I can accept it.

  I begin reading through my emails. I reply to a few and flag the ones I want to come back to later. After a few minutes, I look up from my task, and I’m startled to see someone standing outside
on the sidewalk, staring at me through the glass.

  The studio seems to turn upside down, and I have to grip the desk, because it feels as if I might fall out of my seat and land on the ceiling. My eyes lock with the most beautiful set of eyes I’ve ever seen, eyes that have seen places inside me that no one else knows exist. My lips part, desperate for a breath that will bring the sweet relief of oxygen to my lungs.

  Sam gazes at me and I gaze at him for what feels like an eternity, one I never want reprieve from, and then he mouths the word hi.

  Hi, I mouth back, and it brings a flood of emotions screaming to the surface, feelings that I’ve repressed, ignored, and denied for so long. I hold my breath as he reaches for the door and pulls it open, stepping through my protective bubble, which pops and vanishes into thin air.

  My heart is racing so fast I think I might pass out.

  He walks into the studio and all I can do is watch him, terrified. I’m terrified of why he’s here. I’m terrified of what to say. I’m terrified of what he’s going to say. But mostly, I’m terrified of the way that he’s making me feel right now.

  I get up and carefully walk around the desk. I’m also terrified of falling on my face, because I seem to have lost all feeling in my knees.

  He stands just a few feet away from me, and we stare at each other for another silent eternity. He’s bigger up close. Has he gotten taller? He’s definitely more muscular, but I’ve seen him without a shirt on enough to know that. I try not to look at the tattoos that are peeking out of his rolled-up sleeve. I know them by heart, but seeing them in person makes me feel like a stalker for having memorized them. I keep my eyes on his handsome face. His eye looks terrible—the cut over his eyebrow is glued shut, and it’s bruised around the side—but he’s still the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. His caramel hair is cut short, and his chiseled jaw is covered in light stubble that surrounds his full lips. I would give anything to see his dimples, but his face is too intense right now.

  I swallow hard and try to force something out of my mouth. “How did you—”

  “The fight,” he says before I can finish, and my heart quickly runs and hides somewhere inside my chest. “I saw you there.” He waits for me to say something, but I can’t form any words. I just want to hear him speak again. I want to hear the warm familiarity of his voice. “What were you doing there, Luc?”

  I feel a piece of my heart splinter off when he calls me that, like no time has passed at all, like he’s still the only person I’ve ever let in. I drop my eyes to the floor, to the walls, to my paintings that seem so irrelevant now, to anywhere but his face. I can’t look in his eyes and lie, but I can’t tell him the truth either.

  He boldly places his hand under my chin, and I suck in a breath. “Hey,” he says, lifting my face so that I’m forced to look at him. I can barely keep my eyes open because the sensation traveling from his fingertips is surging through me with the force of a hurricane.

  I pull my chin away and take a step back to put some space between us again.

  “Sorry,” he says, pulling his eyebrows together, like it’s just occurred to him that he crossed an invisible line, a fracture in the earth at our feet separating our lives.

  “It’s okay,” I whisper, unable to speak any louder.

  He stares at me again and more silence passes between us. “I just, I want to know why you came. Are you…okay?”

  Okay? No, I’m not okay. I love you and I don’t even know you anymore. And I’m engaged! A few of the tears I’m working so very hard to contain make it to my eyes, but I blink them back, hoping he doesn’t notice. “I’m, um…” I close my eyes and shake my head. If I say anything else, even just a single word, the dam is going to break. I open my eyes, force a weak smile, and nod over the lump in my throat. But he’s watching me with so much intensity, like he’s desperate for me to say something, anything to answer the question in his eyes.

  “I mean, you came to the fight, but you didn’t try see me afterward or anything, so…” He pauses and stares at me again.

  I swallow hard and look into his familiar eyes, and I’m wrapped in a blanket of warmth that shields me from the elements and protects me from the hurt and the pain and the anxiety of the moment. He feels like home. I’m compelled to answer him honestly, to tell him that I’m not okay, that I still think about him all the time, that I was wrong, that I miss him, that I’m sorry, that I’m proud of him, but the studio door swings open and Sebastian walks in with our lunch, balancing several square pillows against his chest that are stacked high, covering his face.

  “A little help,” he says, but before I can blink, he stumbles and the pillows scatter across the floor. He looks at me and he looks at Sam, then he looks at me and he looks at Sam. I’ve never seen him so shocked before. His eyes fix on Sam and his mouth pops open. “Sam Cole.”

  Sam presses his lips together and nods.

  “You’re Sam Cole.”

  Sam nods again and Sebastian gives me a confused look. “Why is Sam Cole here?”

  “Sebastian, can you give us a minute, please?” There’s no way to evade his questioning, but I can at least postpone it for now.

  He bobs his head and raises the bag in his hand. “Got lunch,” he says, still sounding perplexed. Perhaps he’s putting some version of the puzzle together in his head. He makes his way to the back of the studio, and Sam and I are alone again.

  “Your assistant?”

  I crease my eyebrows and nod.

  “I had my team call around after the fight. You came with him and his partner.”

  “His husband,” I say, though it’s irrelevant.

  “Why did you come to the fight, Lucy? Why did you come and sit right beside the ring? Did you think I wouldn’t see you?”

  “Who’s your team?” I ask, skirting his question.

  “Joe, Tris, my manager, a few other people in my circle. Will you please answer my question?”

  “Tristan Kelley. He’s your trainer now, right?”

  “Yes.”

  I exhale a quiet breath. “You did it.” I shake my head slowly. “You really did it.” I can’t help but smile and gaze up at him with the same awe I felt during the fight when everyone was cheering for him.

  I can tell that he’s frustrated because I haven’t answered his question, but the corners of his mouth turn up defiantly, just enough to show me his dimples, and my heart comes out of hiding. “I told you I would.”

  My smile quickly vanishes and I’m filled with guilt. I press my lips together tightly, trying to hold in another wave of emotion, but it’s too big to contain now. The tears leak slowly onto my cheeks.

  “Are you happy?” he asks.

  Say yes, you’re happy with Drew. I look into his eyes, contemplating my answer, but the truth is I don’t know anymore. I shrug and answer, “It’s not that simple.”

  He looks at me with his beautiful, strange eyes, the blue mixing with the brown like paints running together. “It is that simple.”

  I shake my head and wipe my cheeks. “You have no idea what all I went through after you left, what I had to overcome without you, or what I’ve struggled with every day since you showed up on my TV.”

  He drops his chin and says quietly, “I’m not the one who left.”

  “You went to prison for drugs, Sam. What was I supposed to do?”

  “You were supposed to believe me.” He reaches for my wrist, just as boldly as when he reached for me before, and runs his thumb over the gold bracelet dangling from it.

  I swallow hard and say softly, “It was all I had left of you.”

  “I bought this for you with the money I earned mopping floors at the gym. I never sold drugs,” he says quietly, and a cry bubbles out of me because I want so badly to believe him. I’ve gone over it in my head so many times over the years. I want to believe anything but the truth. That Sam chose drugs over me.

  “I’m getting married,” I say, overcome with frustration, because I never would have met
Drew if Sam hadn’t been arrested. “You weren’t supposed to leave.”

  “Neither were you.” The pain in his voice makes me cry harder.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper. My heart aches, knowing that I can’t go back and change the past, doubting that I would now even if I could. I love Drew. He’s my reality now.

  “It’s too late for sorry, Lamb.”

  I want to cry even harder when he calls me that. I inhale a shaky breath and wipe my eyes. “Please don’t call me that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that’s not who I am anymore. We have different lives. We’re different people now,” I say resolutely, double knotting Drew to my heart.

  He stares at me for a few silent seconds and then shakes his head. “No we’re not. You’re still the little girl sitting across the table from me, picking at her sandwich. The girl who called me to her room night after night because she couldn’t shake the memories of seeing her mom dying on the floor in front of her. The girl I walked to school for six years and protected from the wolves that stalked our neighborhood. The girl I called Lamb because she was so pure, she was unlike anyone I’d ever met before. The girl who was, and still is, the most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid my eyes on.”

  I look away, as if I can somehow hide from his words, from our history, from the memories.

  “And I’m still the boy who fell in love with that girl. The boy who promised to always protect her. The boy who lived and breathed for her happiness.” He creases his eyebrows and runs his hands through his hair. “I came here to tell you goodbye, Lucy. To tell you that you were wrong. To finally let you go.”

  My heart weeps in a dark corner inside my chest.

  “But you see, the problem with that is, I don’t know how.”

  My heart stammers.

  “So just tell me that you’re happy, tell me that your fiancé is the love of your life, so I can let you go.” He watches me intently, waiting for me to respond, but I can’t bring myself to answer him.