“Yeah, and she’s up to her eyeballs in you, just like you’re up to your eyeballs in her. How can either of you see anything clearly when you’re drowning in each other?”
Holy shit. I can’t believe that worked. Before I can cling to hope, I shake my head. He can’t be right. Maybe I need to point out I’m the one freezing my ass off while clinging to the door Cris is safely floating on. Somehow though, I don’t think he’ll understand. I could lose the Titanic references and try and explain some other way. Explain how she and I have everything under control and eventually life will return to normal. There may be dregs from our sexual relationship, but they won’t last forever.
In the end, I don’t explain. I tell him what’s been looping my brain like a stock car on a racetrack. “She’s getting married once. I’m getting married never. That’s what she told me when I suggested we keep doing what we were doing.”
His eyebrows rise. “You wanted more.”
Those words are a punch to the sternum. I fight for my next breath. “I don’t want more. Not like you mean.”
“You sure about that, Pukey?”
“I didn’t puke on Divide and Conquer!” How many times am I going to have to remind him?
“Only because you didn’t eat. And you didn’t eat because you were torn up over the idea of losing the tournament. A stupid math tournament, Benj.”
“It wasn’t stupid,” I grumble. “I know what you’re angling for, but you’re wrong. I didn’t lose a tournament. And I didn’t lose Cris.”
“She might be in your office, but she’s not in your bed. You lost her. Which would not be a big deal if you never wanted anything long-term in the first place. You just said you do.”
“She doesn’t!” My arm starts shaking, rattling the ice in my glass. I put my hand to my forehead. I need to get the hell out of here. “Thanks for nothing. I talked to Archer, and he wasn’t a whole hell of a lot of help, either. The more I talk about what happened with Cris, the more lost I feel. I may as well be the center of the Bermuda fucking Triangle for all the help the two of you are being. I was looking for a tiebreaker.”
“Kinda hard to have the tiebreaker when you don’t know how you feel. Or rather, you do know how you feel but won’t admit it. You want to know what I think? Really?”
At the idea of him sharing more hard truths, my stomach does another barrel roll. Nevertheless, I need honest feedback and he’ll never lie to me. So I say, “Yes.”
He faces me, his crooked nose shadowing his frowning mouth. When he was at my house last year, he looked similar, more desolate, but similar.
“Do I want to hear this?”
“I don’t know,” he admits with a headshake. My hand automatically goes to my stomach at his bleak tone. He doesn’t look happy about what he’s about to say, but he lays it out. With the brute force you’d assume would come from a guy his size.
“You’re in love, brother.”
I try to laugh but the noise escaping my lips is more of a pathetic wheeze. Biting my lip, I scan the immediate area around me, the lush grass and the fence, the sun-dappled trees with mulch at their bases. There’s nothing in my eyeline offering support, save for the man who just delivered a throat punch in a silk pillowcase.
“That’s not…” Shrugging for effect, I try to sell it. He waits, eyebrows lifted. “She’s not…” Another headshake from me. Nate slow-blinks, appearing slightly disappointed.
“Look. I understand with your upcoming nuptials you might think this is what is going on, but I’m telling you…” My throat constricts, cutting off my words.
“Like I said.” He caps his water bottle and gives me a supportive slap on the shoulder. As he walks past me toward the house, he calls over his shoulder, “Better ’fess up and win her back or invest in a lifetime supply of antacids. Your call.”
There in the middle of Nate’s lawn, my stomach in turmoil and my Sprite fizzing audibly, I realize he might have a point. And that I am a giant fucking moron. Being with Cris was easy. Almost too easy. My whole adult life I’ve thought of relationships as complicated. Temporary.
My argument about permanence being a myth seems incredibly shallow when I remember our time together. She’s my best friend for a reason. I trust her implicitly. She trusted me too.
She made a mistake.
Not in trusting me with her virginity, but trusting me with a tender part of her that I totally manhandled. We crossed a line, and in doing so, uncovered another layer we hadn’t acknowledged until now. Is it possible our relationship was built to last? Is she The One? Who the hell knew that was a real thing?
I have my answer when I step back into Nate’s house. Vivian is arguing with him about mayonnaise, of all things. He’s gesturing with the butterknife in one hand, a slice of sandwich bread in the other, defending his position. They pause when they notice me in the doorway. Her face melts into a smile that is both sad and satisfied.
“Oh, Benji.” Her arms close around my neck. I catch my brother’s proud smile over her shoulder. No, not proud. Loving. He loves this woman and he should. She’s a good person. A great person. At one point she didn’t allow herself to have nice things, either. Nate loved her regardless. The same way Cris loved me.
“I think I fucked up,” I say, my throat suspiciously tight.
She holds me at arm’s length. I search her face for a reason to have hope, anything hinting I’m not too late to save what Cris and I had…if I didn’t already annihilate it by being a selfish, clueless prick.
“I’ve never been in love before,” I tell her.
Her smile widens. She pats my cheek. “It’s easier than you think.”
I cling to those words as tightly as Jack clung to the door. Hopefully, things turn out better for me than they did for him.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Cris
“Do you want me to kick his ass?” Dennis asks.
I was able to convince all three of my brothers to come home for a late Sunday dinner. I blamed my sadness on living alone. While cooking and baking in preparation for their arrival, I convinced myself that when the house was once again filled with their raucous, youthful energy, my sadness would magically vanish. It didn’t work out that way.
Somewhere between saying “pass the salmon salad” and announcing we have a chocolate cream pie for dessert, the sadness hit me tenfold. I sobbed over my empty plate. Full-on ugly cry.
Six hands lifted me out of the chair and corralled me into the living room. Now I’m sitting on the sofa, Dennis on my left, Timothy on my right. Manuel, arms folded over his chest, is taking up a stuffed chair in the corner. His frown hints at the battle scene taking place in his imagination.
“Remember when I said I was happy for you?” he growls. “I take it back. I’ll go with Dennis to kick Benji’s ass.”
Their rallying to my defense is sweet, but there is no one to blame. Benji was being Benji, and I was being myself. My own delusion made me believe I could have sex with a man I was already half in love with and not fall the rest of the way. Maybe I’m the one to blame.
I swipe my eyes with a tissue and give my brothers a watery smile. “Nobody’s ass needs kicked.”
“Needs kicking,” Timothy corrects with a smile. He places a supportive hand on my knee.
“That too.” I sniff. “I still love my job. He’s still my friend. My heart was confused when we went back to the way we used to be. I just…have to sort it out. In my head.” God knows sorting it out with my heart hasn’t done any good. “I haven’t sorted it out yet.”
Understatement of the millennium.
At work I am plagued with memories of my orgasm on the couch or kissing Benji in the kitchen. I have to wind my hand into a fist to keep from reaching for him or blurting out that I made a giant mistake by telling him I didn’t want to continue our relationship. Maybe we could keep our sexual affair and I could give up the idea of marriage altogether. Most marriages don’t last anyway, right? I’m so damn miserable. I’m
beginning to believe part of Benji would be better than none of him.
But I don’t have “none” of him, either. I have him as a boss, as a friend. We work out, though I refuse to step foot in the downstairs gym. I fear my own volatile reaction if I even catch a glimpse of the stone shower. What happened in it will forever live in my memory as one of the best moments of my life. I keep telling myself the addition of sex into our stable relationship made us unstable. Like too much water in an overflowing stockpot, doomed to spill over and steam away on the cooktop.
Only the pot has nearly boiled dry. I’ve lost the intimacy we had when we were sleeping together, and I’ve lost the ease we had as friends. We can’t seem to find the comfortable middle we so effortlessly carved out over the last year and a half. But I’m not going to stop trying. I treasure his friendship. Losing it is unacceptable. We shared things over the last two months we never shared before. We told stories from our pasts we never told before. We were different. We were good. Really good. Which is why this hurts so much.
I touch the compass necklace at my throat. I shouldn’t be wearing it. It was Benji who reminded me I was my own true north. To trust my own judgment. I’m not sure I can. Look where my judgment landed me.
“What is there to sort out?” Manuel shakes his head. “You’re clearly in love with him. And he broke your heart.”
“He didn’t break my heart,” I say in my defense, the words etching my throat as if they’re fighting being spoken. “Anyway, you don’t know him. He doesn’t have the same plans I have. Staying with him means relegating myself to dating without the promise of a future. I can’t do that to myself. Or you guys.”
In unison, Dennis and Timothy both say, “Us?”
Manuel chimes in with, “What does this have to do with us?”
“Everything has to do with you three. You’re my brothers and I love you. I would die before setting a bad example for you guys. I want you to know what’s possible in the world.”
“That’s a shit reason to get married,” Timothy blurts.
“Hey—” But before I can remind him not to swear, Manuel cuts me off.
“What if one of us decides not to get married?”
“Or what if one of us ends up divorcing, or marrying two or three different people over a lifetime?” Dennis says.
“Are you going to disown us? Write us off because we’re like Mom?” Timothy asks.
“Of course not!” My head swivels to each of them. Surely they don’t think I’d disown them over something so trivial. “I love you too much. And that’s hardly the same thing.”
“It’s exactly the same thing,” Manuel argues. “You don’t have to try to live a mistake-free life because Mom has made seven of them.”
“And you wouldn’t ask us to be perfect,” Timothy says.
“You never expected us to be perfect,” Dennis adds.
“Yes, but I’m the oldest and I go first. I have a responsibility to be a good role model.”
“You are a human being first,” Timothy says. Look whose psychology class is paying off. “We’re our own role models. You can’t control what we do, but you can be yourself, Cris. Who you can’t be is Mom.”
“She’s cornered the market.” Dennis smirks and then stands and looks to Manuel. “I still say we kick his ass.”
Manuel stands.
“I’ll drive.” Timothy stands as well.
I need to put a stop to this before they stir up trouble for everyone. “Why don’t we eat some chocolate cream pie instead?” I look around at my taller-than-me brothers and realize I’m addressing grown men. Not the little boys I helped with homework or bandaged their scrapes. They tower over me, unconvinced. “I promise I’ll talk to him tomorrow morning. If he says something stupid, then you can kick his ass.” When I’m greeted with stone faces, I add, “I’ll drive you there myself. Okay?”
Manuel nods once. “Okay.”
I start for the kitchen, but Dennis wraps his hand around my arm. Always the affectionate one, he pulls me into a hug first. Manuel embraces me next and then Timothy joins in. I sigh, not crying despite the urge to release the pent-up, confusing emotions swirling inside of me. Instead I soak in the moment and the love of my brothers who have my back no matter what.
I’m then told to sit down. Dennis asks if I want coffee or tea. Timothy and Manuel shove each other playfully as they walk to the kitchen and argue over who will eat the most pie.
Manuel shouts, “Ice cream too?”
“A lot of ice cream,” I shout back.
I shouldn’t feel better, but I do. The heartbreak—fine, I admit it’s broken—will keep until tomorrow.
Hours later, I’m slouched on the couch watching Friends, not having bothered to change out of my jeans and T-shirt. I ate more pie and ice cream than I want to talk about. I don’t want to go to bed. I don’t want tomorrow to come. Not that sitting here watching reruns of my favorite sitcom is going to stop time. If anything the distraction is accelerating it. This episode is particularly funny, but I can’t muster up the energy to laugh.
My cell phone rings. I recognize Benji’s ring tone immediately. I blink at the clock, slightly worried he’s calling me at eleven p.m. Snapping into assistant mode, I pick up, anticipating a work problem.
“Hey, is everything okay?” is how I answer.
“In life coach terms, no. I need you. Can you come over?”
“Of course.” I’m already off the couch and sliding my feet into sneakers. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Thanks, Cris,” he says, his voice scarily toneless.
“Are you sure everything’s okay?” My heart is pounding, sending buckets of adrenaline to my bloodstream.
“Nothing’s okay. I’ll explain when you get here.” Then he’s gone.
Well, that was ominous. I grab my purse and dash out the door. On the drive to his house my mind concocts one worst-case scenario after another. Thankfully the rational part of my brain is functioning. If one of his family members was hurt, he would’ve led with that. If someone was in the hospital, I’d be heading there instead.
He said it was a life coach problem, which could still mean something happened with work. Maybe he has to fire somebody he likes and wants tips for how to handle it.
Except none of that makes sense, either. He doesn’t have a case of nerves at work. That’s the area where he absolutely shines. He’s lost in work every day at his desk. Which is why I refill his water, bring him hot tea instead of a fourth cup of coffee, and schedule his workouts so he doesn’t forget. That’s my job.
No other reason?
No. None.
Mourning what could’ve been isn’t going to help solve whatever problem he’s having tonight. I’m sure he has a very good reason for calling me, and after time well spent with my brothers, I’m more than prepared to tackle it.
I park in his driveway and climb out of the car, my cell phone in hand. He must’ve seen me coming. The garage door opens a second later. I see the shoes first. Shiny, expensive. Then dark trousers, a thick leather belt. By the time his checked shirt gives way to his handsome face, my knees are weak. I remind them to stay strong. We can do this.
Other than the weird garage-door reveal—I typically enter via the front door—nothing else seems out of place. His hair is fantastic as usual and, other than the dark hollows under his eyes suggesting he hasn’t slept much lately, he looks good.
“Boy, am I glad to see you.” He wastes no time coming to me, and my stupid heart, who really cannot take a hint, pounds mercilessly against the walls of my chest. I silently lecture her, a fruitless endeavor.
He takes my hand and pulls me through the garage, past a bench and his latest woodworking project, and finally into the house.
I gasp when I step into the kitchen. It’s so bright that for one terrifying second I think the house is on fire. Lit candles dot nearly every surface. There are vases of roses everywhere—red ones. Red rose petals litter the floor, the furni
ture. He takes my cell phone from my hand, places it on the coffee table, and continues to lead me through the house.
“What’s going on?” My voice echoes strangely in my own ears, as if I’m in another realm. Maybe I am. Maybe I’m still fast asleep on the couch not laughing at any of Joey’s one-liners.
“Donut?” Benji offers.
“Huh?”
He points out a plate on the kitchen counter holding what looks suspiciously like the brioche vanilla crème donuts we enjoyed in Florida.
“Are those…?”
“It wasn’t easy with short notice, but there they are.” He continues tugging me through the house. I quicken my steps to keep up. At the sliding door, he pauses and gestures for me to go out ahead of him.
There are floating candles and flower petals in the pool. The lights aren’t violet like before, but pink. My heart is doing cartwheels, but she’s been wrong a lot lately, so I’m hesitant to trust her.
“You said you weren’t okay.” My confusion gives way to denial. This can’t mean what I think it means.
“I’m not. At least not yet.” His palms bracket my hips as he stands behind me, his lips against my ear when he asks, “Do you want to swim?”
“It’s eleven o’clock,” I say numbly.
“It’s later than that. Do you?”
“I didn’t bring a bathing suit.” I study the sparkling surface of the pool, a lump in my throat forming. He wants to have sex again. That’s what this is about. I refuse to hope it’s more. If he asks me to resume our physical relationship after he’s romanced the hell out of his house, I’m not sure I have the strength to say no.
“No suits needed,” he rumbles into my ear. “In fact, I prefer you without.”
I turn to face him and see what, I’m not sure. Again I’m met with the sense I can’t trust myself. He tips his chin. “You first.”
“Benji…” I’m not sure what’s going on, but I’m sure whatever it is will end badly for me. Say we do have sex—amazing, incredible, mind-blowing sex. Afterwards I’ll go home and then what? Die? That sounds about right.
Charmed by the Billionaire Page 21