by Watson, Lucy
“Rico’s Romeo Special.”
She claps with a loud squeal that echoes through the courtyard and rushes to meet me halfway up the staircase.
“Here, let me take that for you.” She grabs the pizza box from my hands with a playful smirk, then turns her hazel eyes to it. “Hello, my love. It’s been a long time.”
Yep. She’s seductively whispering to the pizza.
Rose would’ve loved her.
As I clear the last step, my phone chimes with a text. I decide to leave it in my purse. If it’s important, Derek will call. I do my skip-hop-thing to catch up with her long strides.
“I love your building.” My eyes take in the Spanish archways, the vibrant purple flowers climbing up the lattices, the waterfall fountain. “It’s so peaceful.”
And crazy expensive. She must sell a lot of freaking dresses.
She glances over her shoulder. “Thanks. After dealing with the public for ten hours a day, I need all the peace I can get.”
“I bet.” I almost add, try dealing with the public in life-and-death situations.
She stops with a bright smile and motions for me to go in. “I’m so happy you’re here.”
I return her smile. “Are you talking to me or the pizza?”
“Both.” She winks.
If I had to pick one word to describe Mara’s apartment, it would be Wowza. Stucco walls. Cathedral ceilings. Exposed wood beams. Spanish tile floors. Dome fireplace. Perfectly neutral furniture sitting on a large, soft cream-colored area rug.
And books.
An entire wall of books. Paperbacks. Hardbacks. Some without backs. Just wow.
“I take it you like to read,” I tease.
She stops in front of the built-in bookshelf, balancing the pizza on her hip, and flicks a hand to the books. “Emelia, I’d like to introduce you to the reason I’m single.”
And with that she sets the pizza down on the glass coffee table and disappears to the kitchen, muttering something under her breath.
“What do you mean?” I call out, not sure if I should follow her, or stay put. My eyes scan the pictures of her and her friends and family through the years. She has a lot of family. And a shit-ton of friends.
She walks back in carrying two bottles of craft beer and paper plates, with a roll of paper towels tucked under her arm.
“They’ve ruined me,” she sighs and sets down the paper towels and beer next to the pizza, taking a seat on the floor.
“The books ruined you?” I ask with a small laugh and take a seat opposite her.
I like that we’re eating on the floor with paper plates. Even though, judging by her apartment, I’m pretty sure she falls into the Palo Alto’s “old money category,” this feels casual and familiar.
“Book boyfriends.” She sighs heavily, hands me a plate, and opens the box. Her eyes go wide, and she helps herself to two slices. I do the same.
“Book boyfriends?” I question with a laugh, feeling giddy at how easy it is to be around her.
“I take it you’re not a reader?” she says with a playful smirk, before ungracefully shoving half the slice into her mouth.
There’s no accusation in her tone. No air of superiority. It’s just a question. With someone else I’d feel the need to list off all the classics I’ve read in college, hoping to appear well-read and smart, but with her, I don’t.
I shrug. “I mean, I’ve read books, but I’ve never ended up in a committed relationship with one of them.” I give her a playful smirk and take another bite of crispy-pancetta goodness.
My phone chimes with another text. I realize I forgot to let Derek know I arrived safely. I love the guy, but sometimes he’s worse than a helicopter mom.
Mara takes a long pull of beer. “You’re lucky. It’s too late for me.” She takes another bite and chews while she talks, which for whatever reason doesn’t bother me. “I’m like a guy who watches too much porn and can’t get it up for a real woman. No real man can compare to my BBFs.” She swallows. “I’m destined to grow old alone, surrounded by my hoard of books and cats.”
I glance around. “You have cats?”
It’s not that I don’t like cats. I do. It’s that cats don’t like me. Dogs love me. Horses love me. Hell, I even had a pet rat who loved me. Cats, though? Nope. I’m either ignored because I’m not worthy of their time, or they go full on attack-mode because I look like a tasty treat.
“Not yet, but I will.” She gives me a pointed smile as she tips her bottle back.
My phone chimes again. I wipe the grease off my fingers and reach in my purse for my phone to send Derek a quick text.
My heart stutters. Stops. Then starts again with an adrenaline jolt. Why? Because I’m looking at a screen full of missed texts from the perpetual pain in my ass.
Ben: Where the hell are you?
A picture of a frowning Mrs. Baker sitting on our new couch with a gaggle of smiling little old ladies takes up my screen. I’m pretty sure the one with the oxygen, holding a binder on her lap is, Betsy, our wedding planner.
Panic bubbles in my chest.
My ears prickle with heat.
Ben: Get your ass home.
Ben: NOW.
Ben: I’m not fucking playing.
I snort with a glare at the phone like he can see it.
I could build an elevator to the moon with the amount of douchiness this guy has.
“Who is it?” Mara asks, around her quickly disappearing slice.
“Benjamin freaking Crawford,” I growl.
“Oooh.” She wiggles her brows suggestively. “We went to the same high school.”
“More like, ugh…” I give her a disgusted look with the accompanying sound effect.
I turn my eyes back to the phone. My teeth clench as my fingers fly over the screen, telling him all the many glorious ways he can go screw himself.
I pause over the send button and reread my tirade. Even though it pretty much sums up exactly how I feel, it also shows how deep under my skin he is. Like a burrowing mite who lays its eggs under your skin kind of deep.
Scabies.
Ben is like scabies.
I erase my rant, and I opt to play it cool, something I think will piss him off even more.
Me: Not gonna happen, dear. Have fun. XOXO ;)
I hit send with a satisfied grin, feeling in control and scabies-free. Just as I’m about to set my cell down it rings. I yelp, and in a rush of panic, I throw it. Because I’m cool like that. My wide eyes flash to Mara.
She busts out in a full belly laugh. “The look on your face.” She snorts. “You just threw the phone.” She snorts again.
“He’s calling!” I shriek.
This makes her laugh harder.
The ringing stops. Still chuckling, Mara twists open the beer and hands it to me. “Drink up.”
“Thanks,” I say, taking a big gulp.
In the next breath, my phone chimes with a message.
My eyes go wide. “He left a message.”
It seems I’ve mastered the art of stating the obvious.
“Listen to it.” Her words are rushed, her eyes excited, clearly entertained by my little situation with my fake fiancé.
“No way.” I take another gulp, stifling what would have been the mother of all beer burps.
“What if he’s confessing his undying love.” She shoots me a sassy wink.
Setting down my beer with a chuckle, I wipe my sweaty hands on my jeans and do a crawl-reach on the rug to retrieve the offending phone buried in its shag. Retaking my pizza-eating position, and another gulp of malted courage, I push play with the speaker on.
The sound of his deep, gravelly voice fills the room. His rumbly cadence is so sexy it physically hurts.
“Hey, babe, I’m not sure if you got my texts, but Mrs. B and her girls are here to help plan our big day… You know, I’m not good at any of this stuff.”
Physically. Fucking. Hurts.
I watch Mara melt as his phone-sex-worthy v
oice. Her expression is wistful. Her pizza forgotten. Her body ensnared in the web of bullshit he’s spinning.
“They brought everything. The only thing missing is you. Hurry home, honey.”
At the soft-spoken endearment, an emotion I can’t name reaches into my chest and squeezes my heart. It’s painful. But then everything that has to do with Ben seems painful.
There’s a pause, then the sound muffles like he moving the cell over his shirt or something.
Then his voice drops to a harsh whisper, dark intent laced in his every word.
“You don’t walk your ass through that door in twenty minutes—you will regret it. Trust me.
Click.
The line goes dead.
Did he just freaking Liam Neeson me?
My teeth clench.
“Oh. My. God.” Mara’s staring at me, a shocked expression written on her delicate face.
“Welcome to my world,” I grind out.
Before I can think about what I’m doing, I text him. I know I’m taunting him, poking the tiger, or is it the bear? Whatever it is, I’m poking it. Hard.
Me: Don’t wait up, honey bear.
I hit send and hold my breath waiting for a response. Nothing. Which freaks me out even more.
Mara exhales loudly and takes a sip of her beer with a small frown tugging on her lips.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m sad for him.” Did I hear her right? Sad for Ben? What? She wipes the grease from her mouth and gives me a sad smile and continues, “When I saw the video of you two… I thought he had found happiness.”
My stomach drops. “Oh, are you guys close?” I do an excellent job of keeping the edge out of my voice.
As much as I like Mara, I think her being friends with Ben might be a deal-breaker.
She quickly shakes her head. “No, not close at all. I didn’t like know him personally or anything. He was in my sister’s class, but everyone knew when his mom died.” She exhales with a shrug. “He was always walking around smiling and laughing, and then one day he just wasn’t. I always thought it was so sad.”
I try to picture Ben walking around smiling and laughing, but I can’t.
Or maybe I don’t want to.
“And then he dropped out of school with his girlfriend and got into some bad shit…” She takes another sip of beer. “My sister said he checked her into rehab, the same day he enlisted.” She shrugs. “Guess, I always hoped he’d be okay, you know?”
I nod, my voice somber. “Yeah.”
Mara stands, her expression mock-severe. “We’re going to need more alcohol, aren’t we?”
I grin. “Probably a good idea.”
* * *
I leave Mara’s in the back of an Uber because one beer turned into two beers, which turned into too many to drive. But not enough to erase the feeling that took hold of me once she started talking about Ben. My heart constricts at the memory of her words.
Feeling suddenly flush, I crack open the car window for some fresh air.
“You okay?” my Uber driver asks, concerned laced in his casual tone. Probably afraid I’m going to puke. Poor guy.
“I’m good. Just a little warm,” I reassure the back of his mop of dark curls.
With an exhale, I let my head fall back against the headrest, watching all the other cars on the road. Each car holding someone with their own stories. Their own heartaches and happiness. This should make me feel less alone, but it doesn’t.
Exhaling, I hug my purse to my chest, turning my thoughts to my new book boyfriend tucked inside, the one Mara said will save me from falling for Ben, or any other man for that matter.
Yes, in my tipsy state I told her about the Eskimo Kiss of Death. She told me about her ex-boyfriend, Nate, who’s now her brother-in-law. She met him studying fashion design at the San Francisco Academy of Arts. I also learned Nate has a crooked penis and cries after sex.
We talked a bit about Greg, and his love of the word “hump,” and his unfortunately perfect penis, but mostly we laughed about her crazy high-maintenance customers and their ridiculous demands—like having her retag the dress sizes because they refuse to buy anything over a size 6.
And Derek. We talked a lot about Derek. But not because she hounded me with questions about him (which was refreshing) but because Derek was a safe topic. A pizza-and-beer type topic. Unlike Greg. Unlike our marriage. Unlike my family. Unlike why I stopped working in hospitals. Those are topics best saved for tequila. If ever.
The car jostles as smooth road meets rough gravel. The familiar towering trees that line our road set a swarm of hornets loose in my stomach.
It’s safe to say, I’m not excited to come face-to-face with what I’m sure is a very pissed-off Ben.
Even though it’s hard for me to hate him after knowing more of his story, it doesn’t mean I’m in any rush to be in his company.
None at all.
My Uber driver clears his throat, and I meet his doe-brown eyes in the rearview.
“We’re almost there,” he states. Apparently having obtained his doctorate in the Art of Stating the Obvious, too.
“Thanks, Chuck,” I say, with a quiet smile, my eyes fixed on the approaching house.
I’m relieved to see only a few lights are on.
Maybe he’s asleep. Or maybe he’s not home. Do I cross my fingers while saying a silent prayer? Yes, I do.
“It’s Ryan,” he says with a smooth laugh. My ears perk up at the inviting sound. It’s a good laugh. “But you can call me Chuck. I’ve never been called Chuck before.”
I laugh a little too hard for the occasion. Guess I’m still a bit tipsy. “Well, Chuck, tonight’s your lucky night.”
He laughs again. The sound is light and warm. The antithesis of everything dark and cold that is Ben.
Chuck stops the car in front of the house and says something that I don’t quite make out because I’m too focused on gathering up the nerve to face Ben.
I guess I hesitate for too long because before I know it, Chuck’s steps out of the car and is opening my door.
He extends his hand for me to take. It’s warm and surprisingly strong.
“Thanks.” I feel my skin goosebump from the chilled air, or maybe it’s the air of impending doom.
“Do you want me to walk you up?” His voice is earnest and sweet, a welcoming change from Ben’s gruff grumble.
I meet his eyes, finally getting a good look at him. Mid-twenties. Kind brown eyes. Nice lips. And a mop of brown curls. He’s cute, in a computer-analyst-meets-Brazilian-soccer-player sort of way.
“That’s okay. Thanks.” I grab my keys from my purse and shoot him a smile. “You’re definitely getting a five-star rating.”
Okay, I’m stalling. There’s a good chance Ben’s asleep, but there’s also a good chance he’s waiting in there with various torture devices, all of which I’m in no rush to get acquainted with.
“You too. I mean, you did give me a nickname, so…”
The Star Trek theme song sounds loud from his pocket, startling us both.
“Sorry.” He hastily pulls out his phone, looking a bit embarrassed. “I’ve got to run.” Regret colors his voice as he runs his hand through his soft curls while giving me a crooked smile.
I hold up my hand in the Vulcan greeting and say in my best Spock voice, “Live long and prosper, Chuck.” Because that’s not weird at all.
Amusement flashes in his eyes, and the corner of his mouth quirks.
I force myself to turn and head for the stairs before I do something stupid like beg him to take me with him.
Or steal his car.
Or kidnap him while stealing his car.
Just as I reach the steps, gravel crunching sounds as he jogs up behind me. I spin around, thinking I forgot something.
Maybe I look startled because he stops cold at a very non-intimidating distance and hands me a poster card. “If you like dive bars, my band plays here on Saturdays. It’s a good crowd.”
&
nbsp; I take the poster card.
“Cool. Thanks, I’ll check it out.”
“Yeah?”
“Sure, it sounds fun.”
“Great.” He shoots me a sheepish grin, holds up his hand in the Vulcan gesture, then turns and jogs to his car.
I feel lighter as I take the stairs, while slipping the card into my purse. Could it be I’m starting to acquire something that resembles a social life? Maybe things are starting to look up.
I fumble with the keys as I unlock the front door, turning in the doorway to wave at Chuck who waits for me to go inside before driving off.
I wonder if there’s a guy like him on Mara’s wall of book boyfriends. If not, there should be.
I quietly shut the front door as to not wake any sleeping giants, listening as his car drives away before I turn around.
I step into the black and white tiled entryway like I’m Lara Croft, my senses on alert for any tell-tale signs of impending doom. The air is warm and carries the faint scent of paint and something else… gardenias?
Just as I give myself the all-clear and start to tiptoe toward the den, where I’ll be locking myself in for the night, a woman’s voice followed by Ben’s deep laugh sounds from the living room, blocking my escape.
My heart seizes painfully in my chest. My wide eyes fixed on the direction of the living room. Ben is in there with a woman.
With a woman.
And she made him laugh.
A wave of nausea crashes against me. The force of it causes me to sway a bit. I take in a steady breath through my nose and brace a hand against the nearest wall.
This has nothing to do with Ben… who cares if he’s with someone. You just drank too much. Get. A. Fucking. Grip.
“Thanks for offering to drive me home. I could tell Reina wanted some time alone with Jesse,” the woman says in a smoky voice.
“You think?” Ben chuckles.
“I know, right?” She laughs with him. Their laughs sound good together.
“Let me go grab my wallet, and we’ll head out.” Ben’s voice betrays the fact he’s standing from the couch.
This is my cue to get the hell out of here before I get caught looking like a poor man’s Lara Croft standing in the dark like a weirdo.
“I noticed you do that with your neck a lot.” Her sultry voice is tinged with concern. “A deep tissue massage would really help relax the tension you hold there… I can give you one, if you want.”