“Smith?” I guess one of the most common names in America.
“Nope,” he says. “Scott.”
“Ah, like Steve Carell in The Office.”
“Exactly," he says, eyes lit.
“All right, I’m passing out a worksheet,” Paula says, voice smooth like butter and carried on a cloud. “Today’s lesson is ...”
I try to focus on Paula’s instructions, but I can’t stop thinking about earlier today … in the garage.
Obviously I feel like an idiot for thinking he was trying to kiss me. I mean, it was dark and he leaned in so close I could feel the inviting heat of his mouth against mine. What was I supposed to think?!
But more importantly: why did I want it?!
My cheeks turn red. I’m rarely embarrassed, but I've been cringing and confused since the moment it happened.
“Melrose?” My partner says, snapping his fingers in my face, which annoys me to no end. “You still with me?”
I wave his hand away. “Yeah, sorry.”
Michael hands me one of the worksheets. My eyes scan the words but I don't read them. They might as well be random letters, nonsensical phrases.
I need to snap out of this.
He can steal my dignity, but I won’t let him steal my focus.
Clearing my throat and sitting up straight, I read lines with Michael, giving it as close to one-hundred percent as I possibly can, and when it’s over, I gather my things and head to the door.
“Hey,” Michael stops me. “A bunch of us are going to get drinks after this. You want to come?”
I pull in a ragged breath and offer a gracious, “No, thank you. Maybe next time?”
His expression falls, but he maintains his smile.
He might feel rebuffed, but at least there was no kiss involved in our scenario.
* * *
When I get home, the place is dark, soundless.
Sutter must be out.
Jogging up the stairs, I change into pajamas and grab Murphy to let him outside. I’m sitting on the back steps when my phone vibrates beside me and Nick’s picture fills my screen.
My heart jumps as I tap the green button and answer. “What’s with the actual phone calls lately? I feel honored.”
“Melly.” It’s loud where he is. People chatting. Music. Guitar strings being plucked and strummed and tuned.
“Where are you?”
“Phoenix,” he yells.
“Having fun?” I ask, speaking up in case he can't hear me.
“Yeah, Melrose, say, listen,” he says, “is everything okay between you and Sutter?”
I pause, unsure how to answer.
Why is he asking this?
Did Sutter say something?
“Things are … fine. I guess. Why?” I ask.
“Well, you sent me all those weird texts a couple weeks ago and then they stopped. Are you guys getting along now?”
As best we can. “Yes.”
“Cool, cool,” he says. “I was worried. I’d feel like shit if I made you live with some asshole.”
“If it was that bad, I’d have left by now.”
He laughs. "True.”
A woman’s voice fills the phone, though I imagine she’s next to him, maybe shoulder-height. There’s a tightness in my chest when I picture some beautiful, long-legged blonde who has an all-access pass to Nick’s whole world.
Never thought I'd be jealous of a groupie, but there’s a first time for everything.
The phone is muffled for a moment. I couldn’t make out what they’re saying if I tried.
“Sorry about that,” he says when he comes back. “So … I mean, did anything happen? With you and Sutter?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Did you make up? How did you go from hating him to saying everything’s fine now?” Nick asks, though I can hardly hear him. It’s almost as if he’s speaking in a lower voice now, like he doesn't want anyone to hear.
“I wouldn't say we … made up.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
I rest my elbow on my knee, my hand cupping my cheek, and I suck in a short breath. “I don’t know … I guess we just reached a mutual understanding?”
I refuse to tell him that mutual understanding involves screwing each other whilst maintaining the fact that we are not friends. Not buddies. Not pals. Not together in any capacity.
“All right, cool,” he says. “Just wanted to check on you.”
“How thoughtful of you,” I say, a smile in my voice. “But everything’s fine. You’ll be the first to know if it isn't.”
He’s being summoned again, same girl’s voice as before, and I get ready to end the call.
“Goodnight, Nick,” I say as I scan the backyard for Murphy.
“Mel?” he asks.
“Yeah?”
“I, uh … I miss you.”
It takes a second for me to realize I'm not breathing, nor am I capable of forming a proper response. Nick has never, in the history of our friendship, said he missed me, and we’ve spent huge portions of our lives apart.
But now?
Now he misses me?
And he feels the need to tell me this why?
I don't want to assume things. Apparently I’m the worst at that sort of thing. But I can’t deny the tiniest flutter in my chest.
A smile claims my lips. “I miss you too.”
20
Sutter
"So … tell me about yourself.” Kai is making a jackass of himself in front of Melrose as she drives a corkscrew into the top of her wine bottle.
“That’s the best you can do?” She laughs, not looking up.
“Huh?”
“That’s your pickup line?”
Kai hooks a hand around the back of his neck, rubbing it as he wears a nervous smile. I told him before. He’s got no game.
“Yeah, I’m kind of old-fashioned like that. I see a pretty girl and I immediately want to get to know her,” he says. “I like to cut to the chase.”
Her lips flatten and her eyebrows lift, and she nods. “All right. I can respect that.”
“So …” he says, hand gripped around the neck of his beer bottle as he holds it against his chest.
Melrose pours her wine, keeping her back to him. Clearly she’s not interested, but Kai’s posture is cemented. He’s not going anywhere anytime soon.
I have to intervene.
This is too painful to watch.
Plus, I’ll shit myself if she so much as considers giving Kai a chance. Love the guy, but no. Just no. Guy’s a serial monogamist. When he gets a girl, he tends to keep her around for years, and I don’t want to spend the next five years seeing Melrose on Kai’s arm at every barbecue and get together.
Don't think I’d be able to look at her without thinking about all the things we did and all the things I still want to do to her even if I won’t allow myself to do them.
“Kai,” I say, giving him a look and nodding toward the living room. Melrose watches the two of us and takes a small sip of her red wine as she watches Kai trek into the next room.
“You don’t have to do that,” she says when he's out of earshot.
“Do what?” I wrinkle my nose before turning to reach for another beer from the fridge.
“Fend off guys for me,” she says. “It’s weird.”
"How is it weird?” I unscrew the cap with a refreshing hiss and take a swig.
Melrose shrugs. “It’s strange to me that you can’t stand me, yet you don't want me to go out with anyone else. It’s like … you don't want me, but you don't want anyone else to have me.”
“You’re only half right,” I say.
“Whatever.” She rolls her eyes and takes her wine upstairs.
I head back to the living room, taking a seat across from Kai. A couple other guys from work are discussing the ostentatious penthouse apartment we wired this week. I’ll never get how people drool over that kind of lifestyle.
To me, t
he simpler the better.
I don’t need laundry dumbwaiters, fridges that open by voice command, or “smart” toilets.
“Dude, Sut, was that your roommate?” Christian asks.
I take a swig. “Yep.”
“No fucking way. You said you were living with some girl, but guess you forgot to mention she’s crazy fucking hot?” He eyes the stairs, as if he’s expecting her to come back down here. “She single?”
“I don’t know,” I lie. “Don’t know, don’t care.”
Kai shakes his head.
“What?” I shoot him a look.
“You like her,” he blasphemes in my house.
“Like hell I do,” I answer, taking an even bigger drink. I stare at the UFC weigh-ins happening on the TV screen in front of us, but I can sense the three of them staring in my direction like a damn peanut gallery.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and when I check the screen, I find a text from Tucker.
TUCKER: DAD'S DRUNK AGAIN. FIGHTING WITH RHONDA. I LOCKED MY BEDROOM DOOR AFTER HE PUT HIS FIST THROUGH THE WALL.
God damn it.
I text him to pack a bag. At least it's the weekend. He can stay with me until Sunday night, then I’ll have to take him back so he can go to school.
I can’t count how many times I’ve reported Dad to CPS. The first few times, they’d show up at random times, but usually before he'd go to work or right after he got off - he wasn’t drunk then and the house wouldn’t be in total disarray. The last few times, I think they stopped taking me seriously. Their investigations were always “unfounded.” Turns out you can’t take a child away from a parent simply because the parent drinks too much sometimes. It didn’t help that Rhonda vouched for his “character.” They’d interview Tuck as well, but he was always too scared to give the full details. He knew if he did, Dad wouldn’t waste any time making his life a living hell as soon as the CPS worker stepped out of the house.
But enough is enough.
I rise, drawing in a hard breath.
“Where you going?” Christian asks.
“I have to pick up my little brother. You guys are going to have to take this to Kai’s or something,” I say, checking my phone to make sure Tuck got my message, and then I make my way to the kitchen to pour out my wasted beer.
When I’m done, the guys are headed to the door.
“Where are they going?" Melrose stands at the base of the stairs, halfway between the front door and the entrance to the kitchen. Her wine glass is empty and her hair is piled into a messy bun on top of her head. Sexy black leggings with angled cut-outs hug her legs, and a loose lavender tank top hangs over one shoulder, exposing a neon yellow bra strap.
“I have to go get Tuck.” I drop the rinsed beer bottle into the recycling bin. I’ve only had a few sips and I’m fine to drive, but I hate that Tuck might smell beer on my breath. Even though there’s a huge fucking difference between getting shitfaced and beating up your girlfriend and destroying your house ... and having some drinks with friends … I can’t help but feel hypocritical.
“Is he okay?”
“What?” I buy time, trying to decide if I want to tell her the truth or some variation thereof. “Yeah.” I exhale. “He’s fine. I just … my dad likes to drink. He’ll be better off here.”
“Want company for the drive?” Her question is a surprise left hook.
I turn to face her, wondering if I heard her right. “Really?”
She shrugs before rinsing out her goblet in the sink. “I remember Tuck telling me it was over an hour each way. And it’s kind of late. Thought maybe you'd want some company for the drive? Plus, I want to get out of the house. I've been cooped up all day preparing for an audition, and I could use a change of scenery.”
“Uh. Yeah. Sure. If you want to.” I make damn sure I don’t sound over-enthusiastic … but I’d be lying if I ignored that microscopic-sized part of me that’s almost … kind of … likes that she’s tagging along. Even if I don’t exactly know why.
21
Melrose
"Does this happen often?” I ask when we reach the highway. Sutter’s truck rumbles along an open stretch of pavement, the surroundings getting darker and darker as we grow farther removed from the city. “You having to pick up Tucker?”
“Depends.” His hand tightens at the top of the steering wheel. “What’s your definition of often?”
“Have you ever thought about being his guardian or something? So he could live with you?”
"All the time.” He pauses, like he’s lost in his own head for a moment. “It’s not as simple as it seems. Dad won’t let him go because Tucker’s his key to milking the system.”
“Ugh. I’m so sorry. That must be so frustrating for you. I never had any siblings growing up, but I was really close to my cousin, Maritza, and being the older one, I was always protective of her. I can’t imagine wanting to help someone and feeling so powerless.”
Sutter says nothing, and a solid minute of silence passes between us before he messes with the radio, tunes into a classic rock station, and settles the volume on low.
Aerosmith’s Love in an Elevator croons through the speakers, and Sutter takes an exit that leads us to another highway.
I want to ask him more about his childhood, why he’s never mentioned his mother. There are layers to him. I can tell. And I’ve barely broken through the first one.
Maybe if I knew more about him and about his past, it could explain his hot-and-cold antics, his distance and guarded personality.
“So no brothers or sisters?” he asks out of nowhere a few miles later.
“Nope. Only child,” I say.
“So they spoiled the hell out of you.” He states it like it’s an undisputed fact.
“Not at all.” If he only knew. “They made me work for things. I had a job the day I turned sixteen. And growing up, when all my friends would have six-figure birthday parties with celebrity guest appearances, mine would be in Gram’s backyard with close friends and family. Maybe a face painter or balloon animal guy, but nothing extravagant. My parents definitely live in their own little bubble and trust me, they know how to vacation like a couple of filthy rich Americans, but they’re not flashy people. They’re not obnoxious.”
“That's … that’s actually refreshing to hear.”
“You’re shocked.”
He turns to me, but only for a fraction of a second. “Yeah. I am.”
I glance out the passenger window and realize out here, I can see every single star against a canvas of night, like everything is suddenly becoming clearer.
“Can I ask you something?” I turn his way and he shrugs. “Where’s your mom? Why doesn't she have your brother?”
His full lips merge and his nostrils flare, and I immediately regret asking.
“Gone.”
Folding my hands in my lap, I stay quiet. I don’t pry. If that’s all he wants to give me, then I won’t push it. It’s none of my business, even if the nagging curiosity in me is screaming to ask more questions.
“She left when Tuck was two,” he volunteers. “Just up and left. Didn't want to be a mom anymore, I guess. Or it was just too hard with Tuck not being able to hear and trying to teach him sign language while trying to learn it herself. Who knows. Anyway, she was working at a bank. Had a client who came in all the time. He asked her out. He had money. He was her ticket out. And she took it and ran with it."
“That’s horrible. I’m so sorry.” Some quick math tells me he would've been about fifteen when his mom left.
“Yeah, well, she’s a horrible person. We’re all better off without her.” He checks his rearview mirror as a car approaches and passes us.
I try to picture a teenage Sutter. I try to imagine the deep abandonment she threaded into his young heart by walking out on them, his father taking to the bottle to cope, Sutter taking over the raising of Tucker and learning sign language, and having no support system of any kind, at least not in his immediate family.
<
br /> No wonder he’s so coldhearted.
We only feel what we’ve been taught to feel.
Sutter slows as we approach an intersection ahead with a blinking yellow light and a sign that says, “Welcome to Valle del Sol.” Three minutes later, he pulls into a small trailer court, parking outside a pale blue trailer with a small, junk-covered wooden porch on the side.
“Stay in here. I’ll be back in a minute.” Sutter leaves me with that before climbing out.
As I watch him go inside like some fearless hero in an action movie doing what needs to be done because no one else can, my body is flooded with a strange warmth. I don’t know what it means. And I don’t know if I want to know what it means.
Even if his kisses are fire and his touch is dynamite and he's starting to grow on me the more I peel back those layers … I don’t suspect he'd ever let me in. His heart is too damaged. Wrapped in scar tissue and padlocked for good measure.
Less than five minutes later, Sutter and his little brother emerge, a backpack slung over Tucker’s left shoulder. His eyes lift and meet mine from the other side of the windshield and he gives a small wave.
The ride home is quiet, but my thoughts are loud.
* * *
It’s late when we get home, almost midnight, and I head upstairs to change and find Murphy. When I get back, I see the two brothers having a silent conversation in the living room. Tucker sighs, hands on his hips, as his big brother signs something about sleeping on the couch.
Tucker signs back that the couch gave him a backache last time. Sutter tells him to man up. Tucker’s movements are harder, his expression pinched. He really doesn't want to sleep on the couch.
“He can have my bed,” I intervene. “I’ll take the couch.”
“No, that won’t be necessary," Sutter tells me. “He’s slept on the couch a hundred times before.”
I know it’s not my place, but I can’t help myself. “He had a rough night and if he needs a good night’s rest, I’m more than happy to give up my bed.”
Sutter pinches the bridge of his nose before rubbing his eyes.
The Complete P.S. Series Page 32