“I didn’t get mixed up with him. We spent a week together before he left for his deployment and we exchanged some letters and then I never heard from him again,” I say. It sounds so simple when I summarize it.
Ian chuckles. “Yep. Sounds like him.”
“What, is this his M.O. or something? Does he do this sort of thing a lot?” I ask.
His jaw juts forward as he contemplates an answer. “Let’s just say he’s a creature of habit.”
Great.
“Isaiah tends to write people off once he gets what he needs from them,” he says. “And then he moves on. I’ve seen him hurt people and destroy lives and not think twice about it. It’s like he doesn’t have a conscience.”
My gaze narrows. “That sounds nothing like the guy I met.”
“I know, right? He’s good at what he does. He’s good at seeming normal and likable and being the good time guy everyone thinks is cool, but he’s anything but,” Ian says.
We linger in silence, me soaking up this new reality and Ian reaching his hand across the table to cup mine. It’s a sweet gesture if not a little awkward, seeing how we literally just met two days ago.
“Did he come home?” I ask. “From Afghanistan?”
Ian exhales through his nose, studying me. “He did.”
My eyes burn, but I blink them away, hating that there’s an ache in my chest more intense than the one that was there before.
“Look, I can see that he hurt you,” Ian says, his palm still cupping the top of my hand. “But believe me when I say this, Maritza, you’re better off without him in your life.”
35
Maritza
“So yeah, we were lying on his couch last night watching Interstellar and his phone kept going off. I saw him silence it. A half hour later he got another text and then he started acting weird and said I should probably leave because he had a test to study for all of a sudden …” I tell Rachael about my night with Blake as we stand outside the back entrance to the café, waiting for Hollie to unlock the door. “So I called him on it. I refused to leave until he told me why he was acting so weird and then he confessed.”
“Confessed what?” she asks.
“That he has a girlfriend,” I say. “And he’s had one the whole time.”
“But you two weren’t dating, right? And you haven’t slept together.”
“Right,” I say. “But I don’t want to be someone’s side piece and I feel like we were headed in that direction.”
Hollie opens the door and we shuffle in, one of the chefs staying a few steps behind us with his nose buried in his phone.
“I just feel like he left out a crucial piece of information,” I say. “So we’re done hanging out. I can’t trust a guy who has a girlfriend and tries to meet girls on Tinder at the same time.”
“That eliminates ninety-five percent of men in LA.” Rachael clocks in and shoves a pen in her apron.
We check in at the hostess stand with Maddie and get our table assignments, but halfway through the morning rush, a new patron is seated at one of my tables.
“Ian. Hi,” I say, flipping my notepad to a clean page.
“Morning.” He glances up at me with a honey-brown gaze that crinkles at the sides. “Think I’ll try one of those pancakes today. The guys at work won’t shut up about them.”
It’s been a little over a week since I met with him at the coffee shop and he dropped an armful of bombshells in my lap. And I have to say, as wild of a ride as that was, I finally have some semblance of closure.
Everything makes sense now and it boils down to this ugly truth: Isaiah is a womanizer who lied and used me.
Nothing else really matters.
“Good choice,” I say, jotting it down. “And coffee with room for cream and sugar?”
“I forgot. You’re psychic,” he says with a wink and a smirk.
Everything about Ian is sweet and disarming today, and while I don’t know him, we almost have this common bond, this shared secret.
Leaving to grab a coffee carafe from the back, I return to fill up his mug, leaving a couple inches at the top. “Going to work today?”
Ian adjusts his tie. “How’d you guess?”
“Promise I won’t make you late this time.”
His mouth curls at one side as he makes his coffee.
“I’ll be back in a bit, all right?” I ask, resting my hand on his shoulder for a brief second.
“Oh, hey,” he says when I turn to leave. I stop, spinning to face him once more. “Do you maybe … want to grab a drink sometime?”
His question comes out of nowhere and my lips part but nothing comes out until I manage to muster a quick, “Can I … can I think about it?”
“Of course.” Ian’s confidence doesn’t appear to be shaken in the slightest and he reaches for his coffee mug with a steady hand.
Returning to the back, I bump into Rachael hanging a ticket on the line.
“Ian just asked if I wanted to get drinks sometime,” I tell her, leaning close.
“What? No, he didn’t.”
I nod, biting my lip.
“What’d you tell him?” she asks.
“That I’d think about it,” I say.
Rach rolls her eyes. “Which means you’re going to say no.”
“I need a break from men,” I say. “And even if I didn’t, I don’t need to go out with the identical twin of the guy whose face I’d really love to punch right now. It’s confusing. And I don’t need that in my life.”
“Amen, sister.” Rachael laughs before heading back out to the floor.
Peering out toward my tables, I observe Ian for a minute or so, watching him scroll through his phone before tapping out a text and then turning his attention toward the sidewalk outside, people watching.
He’s so sweet and from what I can tell, genuine.
Then again, apparently I’m a horrible judge of character.
I can’t pick the good ones from the bad ones to save my life.
As soon as Ian’s order is up, I run it out to him, making sure to grab a warm bottle of maple syrup on my way.
“You’re not going to regret this,” I tell him.
“These things are like crack, I hear,” he says. “Is it true you only get one?”
“Yeah,” I say.
He spreads a pat of cinnamon butter across the ‘cake. “Sounds like a genius marketing ploy.”
“Right?”
“Anyway,” he says. “I’m going out with some friends this Friday. Dos Rios. If you and your friends want to meet up for drinks, cool. If not, no big deal. Just thought I’d ask.”
“Never been to Dos Rios. Is it any good?”
“It’s incredible,” he says. “Best margaritas in the city. You like margaritas?”
“Margaritas are my jam.”
Ian chuckles. “Then you should go. If not for me, then for the margaritas. They’ll change your life.”
“Now that sounds like a marketing ploy.” I give him a playful wink. “I’ll be back in a bit.”
He slices into his Brentwood pancake and I head off to check on another table, wiping the dopey grin off my face before I get there. I can’t remember the last time I smiled like that, over something so silly, but Ian’s so easy to talk to. He puts me at ease without even trying. He’s disarming in a way that Isaiah never was.
I suppose one margarita never hurt anyone …
36
Maritza
Melrose is on her third hibiscus margarita by the time Ian and his friends show up to Dos Rios Friday night.
“Hey.” Ian takes the chair next to mine at the high-top table we saved. A few of his friends, all of them suit-and-tie business types, fill in around us. His golden gaze lights when it finds mine in the dark bar. “Glad you could make it.”
“Thanks for the invite,” I say, the taste of flowers and tequila on my tongue.
“It’s crazy how much you look like him,” Melrose leans over me, pointing her finger in Ia
n’s face.
“Right,” I place my hand around her arm and guide her back to her spot, “since they’re identical twins. Ian, this is Melrose, my cousin.”
“You two must get mixed up all the time,” she says, her elbow in front of me as her chin rests on her hand.
Ian nods. “It happens more than I like.”
He looks to me.
“But it isn’t always a bad thing,” he adds.
Melrose’s jaw falls and she nudges me, making an awkward deal out of nothing. “Can I ask you something, Ian?”
“Anything,” he says as another one of his friends approaches the table and starts handing out bottles of Dos Equis like it’s going out of style—two per person. These guys don’t mess around, though I imagine working in finance has got to be stressful. It’s so unpredictable, so volatile at times. Too many highs and lows for the average person to handle. “What do you want to know?”
“So what’s the deal with your brother?” Mel asks. “Why is he such a fucking dickwad?”
I hide my eyes in my hand. Here we go. Once the filter comes off, it’s impossible to put it back on.
“Can we not make tonight about him?” I ask.
Ian takes a sip of his beer as his gaze passes between the two of us. “I don’t know why he is the way he is. I just know that the only thing we have in common is the way we look. Other than that, we’re night and day in every way possible.”
“Who just freaking ghosts the nicest, smartest, prettiest girl in the world?” Melrose asks, barely trying to hide the slur in her voice.
Ian looks to me, his lips curled at one side. “A fool. That’s who.”
My cheeks warm as I turn my attention to my margarita, twisting the stem of the glass between my fingers.
“My brother hates commitment. He’s a closed book. He holds grudges longer than any bastard I know. He has a nephew he won’t acknowledge. And see, the thing about my brother is that if he’s not in control at all times, you’ll lose him. He’ll turn his back on you and not think twice,” Ian says, taking a generous swig. “My family singlehandedly blames him for what happened to my father a decade ago. He’s got demons.”
“What happened to your father?” Melrose asks.
I elbow her in the ribs. “Mel, enough. It’s none of our business.”
Ian picks at the label on his bottle for a moment. “He died in an accident when we were seventeen.”
My hand lifts to his. “Oh, god. I’m so sorry to hear that.”
He offers an equally as apologetic smile and holds my gaze before his expression softens. “What do you say you finish that drink so I can buy you another one?”
“You really don’t have to—”
His mouth pulls up at the sides and for a split second, I see Isaiah in him more than I ever have before, in the mischievous, sexy smirk that once made me fall harder than I ever anticipated.
But the man sitting in front of me is the furthest thing from the man who once wrapped his arms around me and pointed out constellations on a perfect spring evening, and it isn’t fair to compare the two of them after learning what I’ve learned, after experiencing what I’ve experienced, after feeling the way I’ve felt.
I don’t know Ian quite yet.
And as it turns out, I never really knew Isaiah.
The only thing I do know is that I’ll never allow a man to make me feel half as disposable as Isaiah made me feel.
Never again.
37
Isaiah
Nervous is not a sensation I’m familiar with.
Scared is a feeling I’ve ever truly known once before, when my life literally flashed before my eyes and settled in a cloud of smoke so dark I couldn’t see the screaming comrade in front of me.
But none of that compares to the way I feel right now, standing outside Maritza’s café, watching her stride across the checkered floor in her little black shorts and little green apron, smiling at everyone she passes, not a care in the world.
There’s something light and buoyant about her, and for a moment, like a woman who moved on from the meaningless fling she had eight months ago and found someone new to love her and treat her the way she deserves.
I wouldn’t fault her for it, but sometimes life happens and impossible things get in the way of the things we want most and there isn’t a damn thing we can do about it.
I’ve been home three weeks now.
I’ve stopped by the café seven times, each time only to find that it was her day off or I’d already missed her.
But today the stars aligned because here I am and there she is and there’s a letter in my pocket with her name on it—a letter that survived Syrian air strikes and Army hospitals and rehabilitation centers.
Drawing in a deep breath, I head in. The bell jingles with the door and the hostess glances up from her stand with a practiced smile.
“How many in your party, sir?” she asks, pretending this isn’t the eighth time she’s seen me in three weeks.
“I won’t be eating today. Just here to see someone.”
The hostess gives me a stale smile and directs me to have a seat at the breakfast bar.
Thanking her with a nod, I make a beeline for the restroom first. I need to gather myself, splash a little water on my face—anything to keep myself from sounding like a bumbling idiot when I see her.
Vulnerability is a horrible look on me, but then again, so are these burn scars covering the left side of my torso and curling up the back of my arms.
If she’ll hear me out …
If she can see past the burns and the limp in my gait and the distant look I get in my eyes when I’m having a flashback … then maybe we can pick up where we left off.
The men’s room is empty and the scent of lemon cleaner and bleach invades my lungs. Hunched over one of the sinks, I twist the right handle and cup a handful of cool water, lifting it to my face.
A second later, I dry off with a paper towel, give myself a once over, and take five long, deep breaths.
This is about as good as it’s going to get and I’m about as prepared as I’ll ever be.
Yanking the door open, I step out into the hallway, only to run head first into Maritza herself. She startles, taking a step back until she’s up against a wall between a USA Today newspaper rack and an antique gumball machine.
“Maritza,” I say, stepping toward her.
“What are you doing here?” Her face is pinched and this isn’t exactly the warm, joyous reunion I’d hoped for.
“I came to see you.” Reaching for her hand, I stop when she waves my assistance away.
“Seriously, Isaiah? You think you can just … disappear from my life for months and months without any kind of explanation and then walk back in here and act like you did nothing wrong?” Her hands lift to the sides of her forehead as she rants. “Do you have any idea how worried sick I was for you? How many nights I spent checking casualty reports and death records because I was certain the only reason you’d stop talking to me was because something bad happened—”
I smirk, cutting her off. “—Maritza.”
“—No. Let me finish,” she says. “I’ve waited a long time to be able to say these things to you, and you’re going to stand here and let me say them. Do you understand?”
My arms fold. She’s so fucking adorable when she’s angry. “Sure.”
“I don’t know how you can just stand there being all flippant after what you did to me,” she says. “But you know what? I’m done being angry. I’m just annoyed. And I’m not even annoyed at you. I’m annoyed at myself for being dumb enough to think that the time we spent together meant anything. Looking back, it was all so silly, wasn’t it? The stupid wax museum. The observatory. The farmer’s market. I assigned all this meaning to everything because I guess, somewhere deep inside, I wanted it to mean something because underneath it all, I was starting to fall for you.”
“Maritza …” I lift a hand, hoping she’ll let me get a word in.
“I’m not done yet.”
“All right.” I anchor my feet to the ground, arms still crossed as I give her my attention. Maybe in a moment, she’ll give me a chance to explain why I couldn’t get a hold of her, maybe she’ll give me a chance to tell her that I thought of her every minute of every hour of every day while I was fighting for my life, lying comatose in a hospital for weeks and waking up with a nurse telling me the doctors were trying to figure out a way to save my leg.
“You know, I’m glad this happened,” she says, dragging her hands through her hair as her lips pull into an incredulous grin. “Because if anything, I learned that there are kinder, better, nicer people out there than you and you’re not the person I thought you were. You saved me from … you. So thank you. Thank you so much, Isaiah.”
She turns to leave, but I hook my hand around her elbow, reeling her back to me.
“I can explain,” I say. “I can explain everything.”
“Yeah, well, I accepted a long time ago that I was never going to have your explanation and now that you’re offering it to me, I don’t want it.” Her words slice through the tight space between us. “Whatever reason it was that you stopped talking to me … it’s inconsequential now. I’ve moved on.”
“I get that you’re angry,” I say. “But I think you’ve made some assumptions …”
“Assumptions?” Her dark eyes widen and her brows arch. “You’re right, Isaiah. I did. I assumed you were a good person. I assumed we were on the same page with the no lies and bullshit rule. And I assumed we had something special—or at the very least a friendship.”
“No,” I say, lifting my hand, but she continues to talk.
“You’ve been home a while, haven’t you?” she asks.
“A few weeks, yes,” I say.
“Tell me,” she says, squaring her shoulders with mine. “Is it true you have a nephew you don’t acknowledge?”
My eyes narrow. How the fuck would she know that?
“And is it true you’ve ruined peoples’ lives, Isaiah?” she asks. “Is it true you … is it true your family blames you for your father’s death?”
The Complete P.S. Series Page 18