by Emma Renshaw
"Imagine that's true," I say, finally releasing the hand from his shoulder. "Let's get you there. I’ll bring you some clothes.”
He opens his mouth to argue with me, but I hold up a hand. “My fosters wouldn’t pay for shit. You need gym clothes. Shoes, shorts, and shirts. I have tons, don’t argue. You won’t like what happens if you wear jeans to work out.”
His eyes flash in surprise looking down at his legs. “Chaffing hurts. Take the shorts.”
The kid nods his head once.
“And the shoes,” I state firmly leaving no room for arguments.
He licks his lips looking around the gym to avoid eye contact with me. “I’ll make sure what you do in here makes your body star material for a football field, but you need shoes to do that.”
His nod this time is much more enthusiastic. I hold back my smile as I stick my hand out for him to shake like a man. I can only assume he's never been given this kind of respect when he stares at my hand in awe.
"James," I say, giving his hand a firm shake.
"Corbin."
Chapter 8
Tatum
The line at the coffee shop inches forward slowly. I'm dead on my feet. Sleepless nights and long work hours landed me here at a coffee shop on a Friday afternoon craving for some serious caffeine. I'd love to go home and crash early, but if I do my entire sleeping schedule will be completely out of wack.
Isabella asked me to come over for dinner tonight, but I turned her down. My thoughts are consumed with Patrick. Since my mom brought up the two of us going to the gala together, it's been on mind as I replay every word he said a couple weeks ago. I haven't seen or heard from him since, which isn't weird. We can go a while without running into each other, but I can’t deny—hope blossomed. I thought he would call.
Or text.
Or e-mail.
Something to let me know what he said wasn't a fluke. He hasn't brought up marriage as point-blank as he did since we broke up. There's been hinting around with promises of one day. One day has yet to happen.
I want to ask him to the gala. After hours of thinking, I've decided I'll be nonchalant when I ask. If I'm casual, he might be more inclined to go with me. I just know that if we go together, we'll be together again and he won’t act like he is now. Everything will go back to normal.
A voice, several people ahead of me at the cash register, shocks me to my core. Perfect. A grin stretches across my face as I watch Patrick walk down to the edge of the bar and wait for his coffee. He's in a navy suit, but he's lost the tie and has a button undone at the top of his light blue shirt. The blue matches his eyes perfectly, and I know when I see them, they'll practically be glowing.
He hasn't looked up at all, his attention entirely on his phone, my attention entirely on him. The barista has to try grabbing my attention twice before I turn to her and place my order as quickly as possible, then hustle down the bar toward Patrick. He's still waiting on his drink and looking at his phone, rubbing one hand along his angular jawline.
"Patrick," I say softly when I reach him.
His eyes lift from his phone, landing right on mine. A sexy, lopsided grin takes over his face as his eyes light up with happiness. "Tate."
"Hi." I bite my lip, suddenly nervous about asking him.
His gaze drops to my mouth before sliding back to my eyes. With heat filling his eyes, Patrick leans forward, lightly taking my chin between his thumb and finger and lifting my face toward his. "Hi," he whispers before his lips come down, meeting mine in a soft kiss that breaks all too quickly. "What's up?"
"Long week," I reply. "I needed a little pick-me-up."
"I know the feeling," he says, glancing back at his phone as he types a message. The smile slips from my face. When we were together, he'd never look at his phone when it was the two of us.
Unease swirls in my gut making me doubt myself and my feelings. If this goes poorly, that’s it. I’m done, I won’t wait around anymore than I already have. I push away the doubt and stand taller with determination.
"That's my order," Patrick says when the barista calls his drink out. He picks up the cup, leans down to kiss me, and whispers against my lips. "Bye, Tate."
"Wait," I say, fisting my hand in his shirt and keeping him close to my lips. "Can you hang around for a minute? I want to talk to you."
Patrick pulls away, sighing and looking down at his phone. “I guess I have a few minutes. I’ll grab a table.”
“Be there in a second,” I say. “I promise it won’t take long.”
I watch Patrick walk away, hoping my order arrives quickly. Thankfully, it does. I smile as I take the seat across from him. He glances up at me from his phone, but his gaze quickly returns back to the screen, talking to me while he continues swiping. How can a person change so quickly? Or did I just miss this? "What's up?" Patrick’s tone is bordering on bored.
"Um," I hesitate, wanting his full attention. “I’ll wait for you to finish emailing.”
Patrick sighs, putting down his phone, and finally looks at me. "Tate, I really do have to be somewhere and need to get going. What's up?"
"Would you like to go to the charity gala together?" I ask in a rush before quickly adding the disclaimer, "As friends, of course."
Patrick gives me a sympathetic and placating smile. "Tate," he says slowly. "I—"
"I thought it could be fun, for old times’ sake. We'll both be there, anyway. It could be fun." I take a deep breath, biting my lower lip. “I already said that.”
"Yeah, I'm sure we'd have fun," he says.
"Yeah," I respond, my smiling growing and hope filling my chest.
"But I don't know who I want to go with. I kind of want to keep my options open. Alana and Todd just broke off their engagement, I thought about asking her."
"Oh." My tightly clasped hands fall into my lap facing the defeat.
He spreads his hands in front of him and shrugs. "If not, maybe we could go together. As friends, though."
"Of course," I whisper, fighting to keep my smile in place and the burn of tears out of my eyes.
"If we went as friends, you'd have to be cool if I went home with someone else."
I swallow, unable to respond. I try to force a laugh, but it sounds like I'm choking instead. I force a lie from my lips. The sadness completely leaves me and anger, irritation, and fury set in. I feel all of those feelings toward him, but mostly toward myself. My tongue runs over my teeth before I take a deep breath and respond as normally as possible. "No big deal. Thought it would be fun, and it'd take the pressure from needing to find a date. Greg is a good-looking guy, maybe I'll see what he's up to."
"Tate," Patrick says in a mocking tone. "Greg wouldn't go there with you."
"Why not?"
"He knows you're mine."
"Yours?" I ask on a disbelieving whisper. A small, shocked laugh leaves my lips.
"Yes, mine. This is all temporary. Everyone knows that. No guy is going to go there with you when they know who you belong to."
I'm stunned into silence. Has he kept men away from me? He thinks it's okay that he can date but still considers me his? Before I can say another word, he gets up from his chair, leans down for a light kiss to my lips, but I pull back and turn my face away. The kiss lands on my cheek and he departs quickly without saying another word.
“He’s joking,” I quietly say out loud to no one. “He’s got to be joking.”
I hate the way my heart is breaking for someone I realize I truly didn’t know. Every side of him that’s he’s shown me since our break up has been awful. I wanted to believe that was the façade, but it wasn’t. The guy I spent over a decade with was the façade. I look around at the other tables, shocked that no one is paying attention to my life imploding. My eyes close as the tears start to form out of frustration. Taking a deep breath, I wipe under my eyes, stand up, and head out into the crisp fall evening. Tears are coming, but I don't want to do it in public. The tears are inevitable. I hate that I’m crying for
someone who doesn’t deserve it. For a life—a future—I wouldn’t have been happy with.
I'm surrounded by tissues from my crying jag. Since I got home, I've been watching sappy movies, allowing myself to cry during every sad and happy scene. Watching sappy movies is my favorite way to release pent up emotions. I don’t truly have to think about what’s burning inside my chest or clogging my throat, but I can let it all go while getting lost in another reality. Of course I didn't have any junk food in the house, so I've been waiting until it's late to go to the store. I don't want to run into anyone.
My cart is full of the best junk food in the world—food I'll probably hate myself for eating by the end of the weekend, but it will taste wonderful. Chips, dips, cookies, and cakes. When Patrick broke up with me, I mourned for one day, but then I convinced myself he'd do what he said—come back. I never thought this separation would last eight months. I thought a couple weeks tops. I never thought I’d become the girl who sat around waiting for him while he said awful things and made me feel incredibly small and worthless.
As much as I’m mourning for what I thought would be, I’m mostly crying for the small part of myself I lost during these eight months I sat around waiting.
Eight months of seeing him and getting mixed signals. Eight months of berating myself to move on but letting it fly out the window the moment he showed me any attention. Dreams and plans are hard to let go when it's everything I ever wanted. I refuse to keep doing this to myself and vow to never let it happen again.
The tears start flowing again as I picture all my dreams of a happy marriage with Patrick washing down the drain. That was all a lie. Eventually I would’ve seen this side of him, eventually I would’ve felt trapped. I look around to see if anyone is near me. There's not. It's empty here tonight except for a few workers restocking the shelves. I open one of the tissue packs in my cart to wipe my eyes and blow my nose. The tissue comes away from my face streaked with mascara. Groaning, I drop my head down to the cart handle. I forgot to check in the mirror before I left. My mascara is probably all over my face, which makes my eyes start to water again.
I pop up when I hear a mumbled curse behind me.
Oh, no.
This isn't happening.
Slowly, I turn around to face the last person I want to see. James. Okay, maybe second to last. I want to see Patrick even less than him.
"What are you doing here?" he growls, looking at me from head to toe, his lip curling slightly into a sneer.
I can't stop my eyes from rolling and a groan releasing past my lips. His attitude is one thing I don't need right now.
"Picking strawberries," I retort. "What does it look like I'm doing?"
His eyes have dropped to my pajamas. If it were any other guy, I'd say he's looking at my chest, but I'm pretty sure I repel James. Every time we've had a physical therapy session, we argue almost the entire time. Personally, I have a great time seeing how red I can make him.
It's too bad I repel him, because he's insanely sexy. Even now, way past midnight in the middle of the frozen treats aisle, he looks like he's about to pose for a magazine ad. His gray eyes are bright and sparkling, even through the annoyance. The muscles that make his shirt look close to popping only enhance the tattoos down his arms. I'm not sure what's so sexy about seeing a man in a plain, white T-shirt and well-worn jeans, but wow, James wears it well.
"What in the hell are you wearing?" He’s still staring at my pajamas with confusion written all over his face.
I look down at my outfit and notice the buttons are misaligned, so a tiny patch of my stomach is showing. I shrug. "Pajamas."
"Are those cats?"
"Kittens," I answer, sniffing and trying to sound superior, like this is the next ‘it’ item in high fashion. "Kittens chasing little balls of yarn. It's cute."
"It's childish," he responds dryly before making a choking noise. His eyes go from my feet to my face and back again. "Fuck. I didn't notice your shoes."
I look down at my slippered feet, wiggling my toes and giggling when I hear James curse again.
“Polar bears are my favorite animal." I wiggle my toes again, making the bear claws dance and tap against the floor. "They're bear claws."
"Christ."
I finally look back up at him, meeting his eyes. His head cocks slightly, a frown taking over his beautiful face. "Are you okay?"
The soft whisper and earnest question bring on a fresh wave of tears. Before they fall, I clear my throat and blink quickly to get rid of the moisture. He isn't asking because he thinks he has to; he's asking because, for some odd reason, he actually wants to know the answer.
My mouth pulls up on one side, the only smile I can muster at the moment. "Bad night," I say, looking down at my white and fuzzy polar bear paw slippers to compose myself.
When my eyes meet his, the regular annoyance is gone, and sympathy is in its place. His eyes flit all over my face, the frown growing deeper by the second. I’m uncomfortable under his scrutiny, needing to change the look in his eyes or I’ll melt right here into a puddle.
"Why are you here?" I ask, even though I gave him attitude just minutes before for the same question.
"Shopping," James grunts.
"Do they only allow you to come at this time so you don't scare away the customers?" I ask seriously with a little bit of concern in my voice.
Bingo! His scowl is back, the annoyance pouring quickly back into his eyes, and his face is moving through his shades of red at a rapid rate. "Surprised they even let you in without supervision. You look like you're twelve."
"My pajamas are cute," I say, placing my hand on my hip, my heart kicking into a gallop. This is what I needed. Familiar. Arguing with James is becoming second nature.
"For a twelve-year-old," he responds gruffly. "Don't even get me started on the shoes."
"The shoes are the best part," I argue, trying to keep my smile from breaking loose.
"And the hair." His hand flies in my direction, motioning around the top of my head. "Do you own a mirror?"
"It's not that bad," I say, curling my fingers into a fist to keep myself from running my hand over my hair. James takes his phone out of his pants, looking down a second before holding it up in front of my face.
"What are you doing?" I ask in surprise staring at his phone in front of my face.
He looks down at the screen before turning his phone around to show me and cocks an eyebrow. On the screen is a picture of me. It's not a great picture. In fact, it's a terrible picture of me. I'm not sure I've ever looked so bad in a picture.
I look up at him in horror. My hair is piled on top of my head with frizzy fly-aways sticking out in every direction. Albert Einstein would be having a better hair day. The mascara I feared being around my eyes is there, and faint black lines travel down my cheeks, only more highlighted by the flush underneath them.
"Told you." James tucks his phone back in his pocket. “Your hair looks like a bird’s nest. Something could be living in there.” James’s hand reaches out patting my hair with an eyebrow raised.
"Delete that," I hiss.
His big shoulder shrugs as he crosses his arms over his chest. "Insurance," he responds.
"Insurance?"
"Yep."
"I can't believe I ran into someone this late," I grumble to rows of ice cream, rocking back on my slippers.
"Why are you here this late? Without shoes?"
"These are shoes," I argue, lifting up my foot and showing him the bottom of my slipper. “They have soles.”
"They're slippers. Those aren’t soles. You step on something, there's no protection. Then my physical therapist will need a physical therapist, and I'll be shit out of luck."
"I won't step on anything," I protest, lowering my foot back down to the scuffed floor.
"Why are you here so late?"
I stick my tongue in my cheek, avoiding his eyes, while pointing to the ice cream. “Ice cream.”
"Christ. I've never s
een you before, and now you're everywhere." My gaze flashes back to him. This is the first time I’ve seen him outside of our sessions, where I have to see him.
"What are you talking about?"
"You're my therapist. You're here. You're at the cafe. You're at the post office."
I think back to the last time I went to the cafe and the post office. I went to the cafe on Wednesday, but I didn't see James there. I didn't see him at the post office on Thursday, either. "I didn't see you," I respond.
"That's because I saw you and left." His hand falls to the metal cart in front of him gripping it hard.
"That's rude," I snap. "I'm not that bad. And how do you know you've never seen me? We could have passed each other a thousand times before we met and not known."
I don't actually think that's true. Even if Patrick and I didn't break up, I'd notice James walking down the street. He is so far from my usual classically handsome, straight-laced type, but James turns heads. Everyone's head. He’s impossible not to notice.
"Believe me, I'd remember seeing you," he says.
I can't tell by his tone if that's a compliment or not. Would he remember because he thinks I'm nice to look at, or because he finds me so repulsive, I'd be hard to forget?
Chapter 9
James
Christ.
I can't believe fucking Tatum is here. Even with black shit all around her eyes and her hair looking like something is living in it, she's still fucking beautiful. The thin silk of pajamas with fucking cats chasing fucking yarn hides nothing. Her slim body and full curves are on perfect display. She should seriously look in a mirror before she leaves the house.
The stocker at the end of the aisle has been staring at her ass and long legs for several minutes. He doesn't seem to mind that those long legs end in polar bear slippers. Polar bear slippers. Who is this girl?
Her blue eyes are so round and huge, and the pain in them is gutting me, which only pisses me off more. Why do I care if she's been crying? She's been the bane of my existence since I met her, grinding my gears in every way she can think of. It pisses me off watching her smile when she says something she knows will make me angry.