Dirty Charmer

by Emma Chase

  I shake my head, rushing out haphazard words to clean up the mess I’m making.

  “Someone like Riley would understand the disruption a child will cause to my career. That it’s something separate to be planned with care.”

  “Do you hear yourself? You can’t carve your life up into boxes, Abby. A box for your career, a box for me, a box for children. Life is all just one messy fucking box . . . and that’s what makes it beautiful. Can’t you see that? Can’t you try?”

  He rakes a rough hand through his hair, like he wants to rip it out. Because he’s too hurt and frustrated to see that I am trying.

  And then he’s muttering to the floor.

  “Jesus Christ, you’re hard to love sometimes.”

  My eyes jerk up, stunned at hearing those words from him—here and now and for the first time.

  “You love me?”

  Tommy goes still as a shocked statue.

  “Are you insane? What the hell do you think has been going on between us for the last year? That last five years! Of course I love you.”

  “You shouldn’t.”

  I don’t know why I say it. I don’t mean it—not even a little.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  Tommy flinches, stuttering back a step away from me—like I’ve sliced him open and ripped his guts out. Then his jaw goes to granite and his eyes turn glacial.

  And he rips my guts out right back.

  “I was wrong. You’re not so special. You’re scared—no different than anyone else in the fucking world.”

  Then he turns and walks out the door, slamming it shut behind him.

  Leaving me, just as I asked him to.

  * * *

  Tommy

  Talk about a kick in the balls.

  The priests always say our sins will catch up to us eventually. That there would be consequences.

  Welcome to Judgement Day.

  And my arse has landed square in the center of purgatory.

  I’ve always thought purgatory was the shittiest of deals. You can’t move up, you can’t go down, you’re just . . . stuck.

  Christ, this fucking girl.

  I can’t decide if I want to shake her until some sense falls out or hold her close and promise it will all be okay.

  I want to do both—and apparently, she doesn’t want either. The only thing she wanted from me was to get gone.

  And it’s bloody hard. Because as frustrated as I am with all that she is . . . I still fucking love her.

  Her stubbornness, her fire, and how it blends so perfectly with her fragility.

  She’s a designer drug—cut just for me. Those qualities had me hooked from the very beginning, kept me coming back and back for another fix. And now they’ve got me strung out. Scraped raw over her.

  It’s completely pathetic. And I don’t do pathetic. Bad poets, they do pathetic—not a man like me.

  I walk across town in the early morning light. I don’t go back to my place and I sure as shit don’t go anywhere near my mum’s. I can’t speak a word of this to Janey—she’ll never let Abby forget it if we make it through.

  But I need to get my head on straight. I need to shed this anger and sadness, molt it off like a pitiful snake.

  So I head to the gold standard of relationships—Lo and Ellie’s.

  They’re both in their kitchen, at the stove, when I lumber through their back door, moving slow, like my veins are filled with lead and my muscles weigh a few hundred pounds each.

  I hear the happy, high-pitched chatter of Finn and Declan through the monitor, but even that can’t pull a smile out of me.

  Logan doesn’t say a word, but I feel his gaze—assessing and probing and understanding. I lower myself into the oak chair at their kitchen counter and Ellie slides a cup of tea in front of me.

  “I think this might be it. It might really be over,” I tell them. “Abby says she’s going on a date with that doctor she works with.”

  All right, she didn’t say that directly—but it was implied.

  So just in case, I tell Logan, “We may have to take this guy out.”

  He knows I’m not serious.

  Well . . . he knows I’m only half serious. Three-quarters, tops.

  So he shrugs. “Okay.”

  Ellie’s not so sure.

  “No. No, there will be no taking out of anyone.”

  She pushes playfully at her husband’s shoulder as he moves past her to the stairs to get the boys.

  And then I tell Ellie everything, because she’s easy to talk to—kind and smart and a steel safe of a secret keeper. I tell her about my toxic mix of a morning—about us thinking that Abby might be expecting and her freaking out. And then I tell about how we confirmed that she’s not—and Abby freaked out even more.

  When I’ve finished speaking, Ellie takes a slow breath, nodding to herself.

  “There are two kinds of people in the world, Tommy. People like you and me—we’re like . . . driftwood floating on top of a wave. Easy, light—we go where the current takes us and nothing really pulls us down. And then there are the Abbys—the Logans. They’re more like . . . anchors. They dig in deep and get settled. They like consistency and steadiness—because they know they’re the only thing keeping shit from crashing together or sailing off course.”

  Ellie taps the counter with the tips of her pink nails.

  “But when that sea floor shifts and things change big time—it uproots them and it sends them spinning. And they need time to dig back in and settle in a new spot. A new normal.”

  Ellie smiles gently.

  “Abby will settle and she’ll settle on you—I know she will. You just have to wait her out.”

  Foreign bitterness burrows in my stomach, like a nasty alien. It crawls up my throat and speaks words from my lips.

  “And what if I’m tired of waiting, Ellie?”

  Her blond head tilts sympathetically.

  “Are you?”

  It only takes a moment for me to snort like it’s ridiculous. Because it is.

  “No. I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of waiting for her. And it’s fucking awful.”

  All the movies they make about love . . . the books and songs about the transformative joy and beauty and peace of finally finding that one person who really does it for you.

  They leave out the other side—the terribleness of having your heart and happiness chained to someone else’s.

  Knowing somewhere down deep that if you lose them, you’ll never feel like a whole you ever again.

  Yep . . . still fucking pathetic.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Abby

  THE MOMENT TOMMY LEAVES, I want to rush after him, pull him back in and take back what I said.

  Because obviously I’m a complete mess.

  But I don’t do any of that.

  Because that wouldn’t be fair to him.

  My stomach purges twice more and I suspect I may have the flu. Though the symptoms of influenza and heartbreak are shockingly similar—everyone knows that.

  For the first time in my career, I call in sick—because even if I wasn’t, I’d have no business being anywhere near an operating room.

  For a day and a half, I don’t leave my flat. I sleep some—a tossing, restless slumber—and when I wake a terrible worried weight sits on my chest that I’ve ruined us.

  I text with Luke and speak with Etta on my mobile. If I’m being honest, “speaking” is an exaggeration. Mostly it’s just crying, with an occasional word making it through here and there.

  As my grandmother said, my practicality is my greatest talent. So I sit on the sofa and try to sort it out. What I want, how I feel, to set new goals. How to become the top-notch surgeon I want to be, and love Tommy like he deserves—with the new added craving of a life with him and a home and a dozen beautiful dark-haired rascal children.

  I try to make a list. Lists are helpful.

  But I end up staring at the page, seeing that last look on Tommy’s face—the a
nger and hurt that I put there—and the devilish smile that was achingly missing because I took it away.

  And I keep waiting for it to pass—this awful hollowness in the center of my chest. But it just gets worse—with every hour—more painful with every tick of the clock.

  Because I miss him. I miss him so damn much, I can hardly breathe.

  A knock comes at the door. I set my not-a-list on the table, and for the first time the ache lessens just slightly. Because I think it might be him.

  But when I open it, I’m surprised to find my parents standing there instead. My father in his tweed jacket and gray bowtie, and Mother wearing a black pencil skirt, red blouse and pearls. Both of them looking dignified and polished . . . and concerned.

  And I’m suddenly aware of how I look—in my two-day-old nightclothes, with my hair in a bedraggled bun, my face blotchy-red and my eyes puffy.

  “Hello. What are you doing here?”

  I can count on one hand the number of times they’ve dropped by—and never without ringing me first.

  I open the door wider and they file in.

  “We were having lunch near your father’s office when Luke rang us,” Mother explains. “He suggested we check on you. He said you’ve been ill.”

  “Are you all right, Abby?” Father asks.

  “Yes . . . no, I . . .” I gaze back and forth between them as a burning pressure rises behind my eyelids. “I . . .”

  And I completely fall apart in front of them.

  Covering my face, sobbing into my hands, laying out the sordid mess in fractured sentences and sniffling hiccups.

  Once I start, I can’t seem to stop. We migrate to the sofa and I tell them everything—things that a year, a month, a week ago I would’ve cut my tongue out before confessing to them.

  I tell them how Tommy and I began with an arrangement of convenience that grew to something more. Something deep and precious. I tell them about Grandmother’s threats and how we overcame them, about Tommy’s mother and how she hates me, and I point my finger at them and rage that I know they both dislike him as well—and that they’re total and complete arses for it.

  I tell them about the short chaotic moments when I thought I was pregnant—and the bizarre mixture of joy and stark terror I felt at the prospect.

  And I tell them the aftermath—the way I pushed Tommy out the door and the horrible, stupid way I tried to explain myself. I tell them of the regret I’ve felt every moment since.

  I tell them that I’m a fool. That I can’t believe there was a time I worried that Tommy would be a distraction. That being without him is the worst distraction of all.

  But with him beside me, next to me, holding my hand—I can face anything.

  Everything.

  “Well, that’s . . . quite a bit of information,” my father says stiffly.

  And then he frowns.

  “Where did you get the notion that we dislike Tommy? Your mother and I happen to like him very much.”

  I look up at him with watery eyes.

  “You do?”

  Father hands me his handkerchief, nodding.

  “He’s a good man—hardworking, direct. And I like the way he looks at you.”

  My heart squeezes with a piercing pain.

  “I like the way he looks at me too,” I whisper.

  Right before I burst straight back into tears.

  After the second wave subsides, Mother presses a cup of tea in my hand and I’m able to swallow a few sips.

  “I’m sorry about this,” I tell them, because at this point I’m just completely pitiful.

  “I’m sorry I’m not more like Sterling and Athena—I’ve tried to be, but I can’t. And I’m not going to try anymore. I just want to be me. I like me, and Tommy likes me—or at least he did. I’m sorry if that’s a disappointment to you.”

  “A disappointment?” My mother gapes. “Where the devil did you get that idea from?”

  Father leans forward. “Your mother and I have always been so proud of you, Abigail. I’m sorry if we’ve been remiss in telling you. We assumed you knew.”

  Mother nods.

  “I used to worry about Sterling and Athena, that they would be successful . . . but not happy. But you, Abby—dear girl—I was never worried about you. You have such a spark inside; you always did. And when you ran down to Tommy at Bumblebridge that day, and climbed on the back of that dreadful motorbike—your face, Abby, was so full of life. I knew then that you had found your happiness, and you would hold on to it with both hands and never let it go.”

  I shake my head miserably—and say aloud what I already know.

  “But I did let it go, Mother. I’ve messed things up terribly with Tommy.”

  “Well, you get that from your father,” she says dryly. “He mucked things up with me dozens of times before we were finally settled. Back and forth, up and down we went.”

  “It’s true.” Father sips his tea. “But admitting you’ve mucked it up is the first step. Now you just have to fix it.”

  “What if I can’t? What if . . .” The words catch in my throat. “What if he’s finished with me? What if I’ve broken his heart?”

  My mother’s smile is gentle.

  “Then it’s a good thing you’re a remarkable cardiac surgeon. If you’ve broken the lad’s heart, you’ll know just how to put it back together again.”

  Those words—those words from her—are just what I need to hear.

  Because I don’t need to sort out anything—it’s already sorted. As long as Tommy and I have each other, we’ll be able to face, and have, and love whatever life has in store for us. Together.

  “I need to go,” I blurt out, standing. “I need to go see him right now.”

  And I fly out the door . . . in my slippers, nightshirt and robe. I make it halfway to the road before I realize it.

  When I come back in, my parents are not surprised to see me.

  “I forgot to put on clothes first.”

  As I head down the hall, I hear Father tell Mother, “She gets that from you.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Abby

  SOUND DECISIONS ARE ALWAYS ACCOMPANIED by a pushing sense of urgency. It’s human nature that once a solution has been found, you want to enact that solution as soon as possible. The urgency is fueled with determination and at times—carelessness.

  Run, run as fast as you can . . .

  That’s why I take the stairs down to the first floor of my building, instead of waiting for the lift.

  That’s why outside—clothed now—I trip over nothing but my own feet and almost stumble into the road as I hail a taxi, bathed in the bright yellow of the unusually sunny day.

  It’s why I blurt out the address of S&S Securities to the driver too quick for him to understand, and he looks over his shoulder with a garbled, “What’s that now?”

  And I have to repeat the destination a second time.

  Because the fog of confusion has lifted and my thoughts are a rushing river of apologies and heartfelt declarations.

  The words that I’ll say to Tommy the moment I see him—the words that will make everything perfect and good between us again. I’m not afraid or hesitant. Tommy won’t reject me, or even if he does at first—I’m resolved to come back again and again until I can make it right.

  The only possible ending for us is a happy one. I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life. I can do this. We can do this.

  I’m so stuck in my own head, I don’t realize I’ve left my coat behind until the stark chill of the leather taxicab seat seeps into my skin, making me shiver.

  I’m so fixated on how the scene of our reunion will play out, seeing it in my head, I don’t notice how fast the taxi is flying through the streets—too fast—until we take a turn so sharply, my shoulder smacks up against the door and the safety belt cuts into my collarbone.

  I open my mouth to tell the driver to slow down—but my voice breaks when I see the glass bottle of whiskey rolling to and fro o
n the center console.

  The empty bottle.

  “You can let me off here,” I say.

  But he doesn’t respond.

  I tap his arm, the words coming louder and commanding.

  “Stop the car. I want to get out now.”

  And the whole world slows down into snapshots of microseconds. Like a nightmare where the air is gelatinous and every movement is sluggish, requiring an all-consuming effort.

  The driver turns his head my way and I see what I was too hurried to detect before—how his mouth is slack and his eyes are clouded beneath heavy, half-closed lids.

  The light in front of us is bright red.

  There’s a silver car stopped perpendicular in the intersection, coming closer and closer.

  I rear back and squeeze my eyes closed and raise my hand. But it renders no effect.

  An ear-piercing scream of steel against steel rents the air. My head jerks to the left while my body is thrown forward so forcefully the air gushes from my lungs. The vivid blue sky spins on a wheel going beneath me, then above, and beneath again, and the stench of gasoline burns in my nose.

  And as the blackness creeps in to consume me whole, I hear the words I couldn’t wait to tell Tommy—all the words I’ll never get to say—echoing in my ears.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Tommy

  I SHOULDN’T HAVE PUSHED HER.

  Not then, not like I did.

  It’s the recrimination that haunts me all the next morning when I’m supposed to be focused on training at the shop. That and the tortured, terrified look in her eyes when she pleaded with me for time—just a little.

  And I didn’t give her that.

  Because I was all twisted up inside. About what she was thinking, feeling.

  Because I liked the idea of seeing two blue lines on that test. Maybe not yesterday—but one day. That Abby and I could create a whole new little person together, who would have the best parts of each of us. Her adorable quirks and magnificent mind and my indomitable personality.

  Yeah . . . I liked that a whole fucking lot.

  And then the horror slammed in that Abby might not ever want that with me.