Ha. Actually, that did happen. Anyway, Vivian has changed since meeting Nate. She used to be guarded and hard. Careful and calculating. On Saturday night her smile was easy and her eyes only for him. I saw in those two something I swore I couldn’t trust.
Permanence.
It looked damn good too. Easy, like Vivian’s smile. I thought maybe I had it wrong. Maybe I could achieve permanence too. But, like I said, Cris was right. I was caught up, is all. Who wouldn’t be? Nate and Vivian swept up everyone in their happiness whirlpool. Good for them. I mean that unironically, by the way.
Three days later, on a mundane Tuesday, I’m standing in front of the coffee pot in my kitchen waiting for my mug to fill. I’ve had a few days and nights to marinate on the idea of permanence. I came to the same conclusion I had before the engagement party briefly robbed me of my pragmatism.
Permanence is a nice idea, but it’s a myth.
Absolutely nothing in life is permanent. Hell, life itself isn’t permanent. Each of us will hang up our boxing gloves at the end of the last round, no exceptions. Nature isn’t permanent. Trees drop their leaves every fall. Birds crash into windows and break their delicate necks. Gone in a snap. The pink roses I gave Cris withered and died within a week.
Sorry. That was bleak. But it’s the truth. Pretending there is a never-ending daily rollover, or that there’s a way to stretch the perfect now into eternity is a kid’s dream. Being the kid I was, I learned at a young age dreams can turn into nightmares.
So, after a blip of irrationality appeared on my radar, I have once again come to my senses. I properly seduced Cris on Saturday night after we left the club—hey, she’s the one who invited me to guess what she was wearing under her dress. I masterfully steered us out of the choppy waters of commitment and straight into my bed.
A good night turned into a better weekend. She stayed Saturday night. On Sunday, we woke up late and had more awesome sex before she headed home to do the requisite laundry and other unsavory weekend tasks belonging to those of us who practice regular “adulting.”
A splashing sound yanks me from my thoughts. I blink at my coffee mug, currently overflowing onto the counter.
“Shit! Goddamn—” I muzzle the other swearwords I might have said. Cris is in her office and could be on the phone. Two seconds later she bursts into the kitchen, her hand over her chest, alarm in her wide gray eyes.
“I thought there was some sort of emergency out here.”
“There was, but I’m handling it.” I flash her a quick smile as I swap out one mug for another, carefully pouring the excess from mine so I can take a drink without spilling it down my shirt. I set both mugs aside and reach for the roll of paper towels, but she snatches it from me. “Sorry about the shouting.”
She mops at the spill. “Everything else okay?”
Other than feeling totally and completely thrown off every day since Sunday? Everything is peachy. I smile and hope mine is more believable than hers. “Great. You?”
“Oh. Yeah. Great.”
The silence that follows is stifling and for us, incredibly unusual. Maybe that’s what’s throwing me off. The sex on Saturday was amazing, and waking up to her on Sunday felt relatively normal—our new normal, anyway—but then Monday came and… Weird City, population: two.
I want old Cris back. The one I found attractive from afar but whose feelings I didn’t have to worry about hurting.
Trish called yesterday. I didn’t answer. I waited until Cris went home for the day and then I called Trish back. The bad news is her mom died. She was in tears when she told me. I guess there is no good news. The point I’m trying to make is, before Cris and I were sleeping together, I would’ve answered the phone call and not thought a thing about it. Now the idea of letting Cris make reservations for my dates is cringeworthy.
Which begs the question: Will we ever return to normal?
I need to talk to her about it, but not today. I’m too off-kilter today. I would probably make an ass out of myself. Correction: I will make an ass out of myself. The cosmic Magic 8-Ball has spoken. The universe is gleefully fucking with me, and the overflowing coffee mug is just one example of how.
“I knew things weren’t going my way when that file was corrupted first thing this morning,” I grumble, mentally cursing the universe as I help her clean up spilled coffee.
“Is Mercury in retrograde?”
“I can’t blame Mercury for the coffee incident. I zoned out and pressed the brew button twice.” I hold out my hand to take the soggy paper towel from her. “Stupid.”
Our fingers brush and pure electricity skitters up my forearm. My chest tightens and expands before tightening again. I can’t blame Mercury for that either. I don’t know what the hell to blame. I don’t know if there is anything to blame on anyone. She still works here. She’s still my best friend. What the hell am I upset about? Like she said, I have my cake and I’m eating it too.
The thought makes me feel more confused and less grounded than before.
“If it doesn’t stop raining, we’re going to have to skip our run,” she says. I turn to the window where the delicate summer raindrops fatten and pick up speed.
“I’m up for a skip day. God knows what’ll happen if I go outside. Twisted ankle? Heart attack? Sinkhole that swallows the entire park?”
“Very unlikely,” she responds easily. I’m starting to think she’s A-okay with everything and I’m the one wigging out. “As your coach, I will remind you that regular exercise is good for your heart and your mind.” She taps her temple.
I can’t resist pulling a reaction out of her. I wind one of her curls around my finger. “Coach? I thought you went by Firecracker now.”
“Coach works too.” Her smile wobbles, and it’s not as sincere as she’d like me to believe. She’s not A-okay at all. She’s not herself, but to be fair, I’m not myself.
I’m not sure we can blame that on Mercury, either.
Cris
I have been wearing noise-canceling headphones for the last two and a half hours. I am working, but I definitely don’t need complete silence to do it. What I need is a break from the strange vibe buzzing between Benji and me.
I’m not sure where it came from. Sure, the discussion at Club Nine wasn’t the most comfortable one, but afterward we found our rhythm fine. The sex was great that night and the following morning, no surprise there. I didn’t plan on staying over, but once we were snuggled in bed after wearing each other out, and Benji had turned on the TV hanging over his dresser, I couldn’t motivate myself to leave. Especially knowing I would have to put on those damn shoes to do it.
Leaving on Sunday wasn’t like I imagined. I didn’t expect to do the walk of shame, but I did expect to feel at least slightly uncomfortable. Not so. We lay in bed, he brought me coffee, and then I drove home to do some housework. Come Monday I was convinced my worrying was for naught. Until I showed up and said hi to Benji. He was sitting at his desk like normal, but the way he looked at me before jerking his gaze away and mumbling “good morning” was anything but normal.
The awkward trend is continuing today, and for some reason it’s making my skin itch. Well, not for some reason, but for a very obvious reason I’m trying not to acknowledge. Even noise-canceling headphones can’t shut out the worry that I let the proverbial Siamese out of the sack.
Have I been acting like I’m in love with Benji? I have racked my brain and sifted through every conversation we’ve had over the last three days. Oddly enough, sex is the Switzerland of our relationship. The intimacy is there, but we transition out of bed and back in again without encountering any emotional landmines. Things just…go well. They start great and end phenomenally. I’ve had the orgasms to prove it.
So what’s up with him being so not-Benji today? Yes, the corrupted file was irritating, but Josie was able to send most of the information in an older file, and he and I have been working all day to fill in the information we lost. I heard him on his video chat earl
ier. At one point he totally lost the thread of the conversation and asked Josie to repeat herself. He never does that.
Then there was the fleeting eye contact. More than once his gaze slid away from me only to return and slide away again. That wasn’t normal for him. He likes eye contact. I like having eye contact with him. It’s probably how we grew so close so quickly. There weren’t a lot of boundaries between us in the beginning. How odd now that there are almost none, to have a gap the size of the Grand Canyon keeping us from relating to each other.
I don’t get it.
I pull off my headphones and hear him talking on the phone in his office. His voice is low, gentle. Almost a murmur. Almost a romantic murmur.
I shouldn’t listen. Eavesdropping is rude in any situation. Except for work, I justify. What if there is another problem with the file? As his life assistant coach, isn’t it my job to anticipate his needs?
Yes. Yes it is.
I practically leap out of my chair and then linger in my doorway. His voice rolls down the short corridor between our offices. I quickly conclude he’s not on a business call, but I can’t make myself return to my desk.
“Of course I’ll come. Was there ever a question I wouldn’t?” Definitely his tender voice. I know it well as he’s used it with me a lot. “You don’t have to apologize for what happened last year.” He pauses and then says, “I mean it, Trish. Don’t think another thing about it. We were who we were. And now we are who we are. Sometimes things happen to bring people together. Maybe this is one of them.”
My back hits the wall, and I have to fight not to sag down it and curl my arms around my knees. I was in his bed two days ago and now Trish is calling and he’s speaking to her with his tender voice about…getting back together? Why is he being so damn nice instead of telling her no?
There’s only one answer. Because he’s not telling her no.
I was the one who drew the line between us very clearly. He’s moving on. With Trish.
I’m trying not to hate her. And simultaneously trying not to cry. I should have known he couldn’t stay out of the dating pool for long. That’s not who he is. And wasn’t my speech at Club Nine about how I knew who he was, and I knew who I was, and the best thing to do was to end this in a timely manner?
But that was before he took me home and made love to me and let me sleep over. That was before I let myself forget my righteous speech about how we should split up.
“I’ll see you on Thursday,” he says into the phone. “Seven o’clock. You too. Bye, Trish.”
Ugh. I’m going to throw up.
I hustle back to my desk and put my headphones on. I try to look casual as I type on my keyboard, sending gibberish to the screen.
He steps into my office and waves his hand in front of my laptop to get my attention. Pretending to be surprised, I pull off the headphones and smile up at him.
He looks the same as he does every day. Painfully attractive in trousers and a button-down. His hair is perfect, his full lips—I know from experience—taste exquisite. He also looks different. He looks like he’s no longer mine.
“I changed my mind about running.” He holds up his cell phone. “Weather app says thirty percent chance of rain. I say we risk it. Why not, right?”
I can think of a few reasons why not to take risks. One being my stupid heart. Another being my misguided sense of optimism. I’m not sure if I’m more sad or enraged. Running with my boss/best friend/former lover would be the best way to burn off the confusing swirl of emotions clogging my bloodstream.
Twenty minutes later, I realize I’m dead wrong about that.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Cris
Benji and I are running in a veritable deluge.
I pause under a tree and then question my safety as thunder rolls by overhead, low and ominous. We’re a few miles from the car, making this run an epically bad idea. Which seems to be the theme for my life lately.
“I guess a thirty percent chance is still a chance,” my best friend calls over another peal of thunder. Rain is splattering his face and hair. We’re soaked to the bone. I’m starting to get a chill from it. I didn’t pack a coat since the sun was shining when we left. I should have known this was coming, which also mirrors my circumstance with Benji.
“I see we’re the only morons here,” I grumble. The park is abandoned. I turn to march in the opposite direction. It’s going to be a long, wet walk but we don’t have a choice at this point. I bump his arm as I pass him. “Meet you at the car.”
“Hey, you all right?”
I shouldn’t say anything, but as soon as he asks I know I’m not going to be able to help myself. My body has chosen a side in the sadness/rage debate. Rage won. “No, Benji. I am not all right.”
“Aren’t you supposed to find meaning in this?” He gestures to the sky as he blinks water out of his eyes. “You are a life coach.”
There’s a lightness to his voice like he’s back to normal. And since my life isn’t back to normal, that pisses me off.
“Oh, am I?” I shout over the driving rain. “Am I supposed to be totally Zen soaking wet and freezing my ass off? If you recall, I suggested we work out in the gym. The dry, temperature-controlled gym. You were the one who dragged us out here. Why don’t you dispense the wisdom for a change?”
“What the hell’s your problem?” he barks when I turn toward the parking lot again.
“I knew this was going to happen. I absolutely knew it.” I also know I’m upset about way more than being caught in the rain or not bringing a jacket. I saw this coming and didn’t do a damn thing to protect myself. Yes, the rain. Also, falling in love with my best friend. I’m officially an idiot. Someone buy me a jester hat. Believing we would somehow survive this experiment intact wasn’t naive, it was grand-scale delusional.
“You haven’t been yourself the last few days,” he accuses.
“Me?” I stop walking. “What about you? You were the one who would hardly look at me on Monday. You were the one giving me forced smiles in the kitchen today. And what’s up with that lovey-dovey phone call with Trish two days after I was in your bed?”
Oops. I wasn’t supposed to bring that up.
His eyebrows crash together. “What are you talking about?”
“You didn’t know I heard that, did you? I wasn’t going to listen, but then you used the voice.”
“What is ‘the voice’?” He looks completely confused, and I can’t decide if he’s trying to avoid trouble or if he has short-term memory loss.
Memory loss is an outside possibility, but just in case, I explain. “I heard you on the phone saying you would meet Trish Thursday at seven o’clock. That’s two days from now. What was your plan? Sleep with both of us? Or dump me before you crawl into her bed?” Steam escapes the fissure in my heart like a geyser might erupt at any moment. “I had no idea you would move on at lightning speed. I know I’m not supposed to be taking this personally, but it’s kind of hard not to.”
He has gone from confused to really, really angry. Adrenaline pours into my bloodstream, sending a thrill through my veins. He’s finally as upset as I am, making him the perfect target for the accusation arrow I’ve loaded into my bow.
“You’re mad about my plans with Trish. On Thursday. At seven o’clock.”
It hurts to hear him state it so plainly. Nevertheless, I incline my chin. “Yes.”
“You’re invited.”
My turn to be confused. “What?”
“To the viewing. Her mother passed away on Monday. She called to ask if I would come, told me I didn’t have to, and then said to make sure to thank you for the flowers she knows you picked out and sent when her mother was sick. And then she said, and I quote, ‘I’d love to see Cris if she can make it too.’”
Rain splats the top of my head and tightens my blond curls into ringlets. I digest what he told me slowly. Shame creeps in as a low roll of thunder takes the worst of the storm with it.
I am a jackass.
A shiver climbs my spine. “I didn’t know her mother passed away.”
“So I gather,” he says, his voice pure steel. “And yet it was easier for you to believe I was planning to have sex with her on Thursday night?”
It was. I’m not sure if that says more about who I am or more about who I think Benji is. I guess it doesn’t matter. What we had was destined to come to an end. Why drag it out? Eventually he will call a woman and arrange a date, and it’s going to hurt this badly or worse.
We shouldn’t have slept together Saturday night. But I’m weak. My rain-soaked tirade proved how weak. He needs to move on. I need to let him. I need to move on too, taking the amazing memories with me. If we call a truce, maybe we can salvage the relationship we had before we had sex.
“I’m sorry,” I say, willing to take the first hit. “Truly. Both for Trish and for accusing you of something you aren’t guilty of.”
“It’s okay. For the record, I don’t want her back. If you recall our conversation the night of the engagement party, it involved me asking you if you’d like to be the one who shares my bed.”
“I recall.” Vividly. It was everything I thought I wanted to hear. No end to Benji-and-Cris sex? Best news ever! Part of me still wants to yell Cowabunga! and leap into the unknown with him.
Stupid.
I’ve never had the privilege of being irresponsible. I’ve been raising kids for as long as I can remember. Similarly, Benji is my responsibility. My professional one and, as his life coach, my personal one too. Sleeping with him when we know it won’t last is the epitome of irresponsibility.
“So. Are you going back to the car?” he asks carefully, his expression grave. I sense he’s asking more than if I’m going back to the car. He’s asking me if I’m turning my back on him too. Or if I’ll continue on the path, weather the storm, and come back to him.
For now, anyway.
His wet T-shirt is molded to his chest. His running shorts are glued to his thighs. Raindrops trickle down his legs. I know what I want, but I also know what he needs. Even if he doesn’t. He might not dive into a casual sexual relationship right away, but he’s more than willing to have one with me.
Charmed by the Billionaire Page 19