One Last Time: A Second Chance Romance

by Roxie Noir

The arm nearest me is the ocean, done Sailor-Jerry-meets-stained-glass style, the same as the rest of her tattoos. The easily visible ones, at least; I know her well enough to have seen the ugly, sketchy, self-made ones on her thighs, the faded butterfly on one hip, the lace garters with the bows on the back.

  The ships and the waves flicker in the firelight, almost as if they’re moving. Almost as if the doomed boat could escape the tentacle closing around it, as if the Kraken might change its mind at any moment and sink back into the depths.

  But it doesn’t. It stretches over her shoulder and onto her chest and back, red and orange and purple. It’s breathtaking, the way the tentacles look alive on her skin, the way that one wraps around one of the stars along her spine.

  She’s got freckles there, too. She’s got freckles everywhere, if you know how to look for them: they’re obvious on her face, her shoulders, her arms, the places where the sun hits easily, and they fade slowly into almost nothing on the rest of her body where the light never sees. Delilah is a gradient, a map, her islands ever-moving, ever-changing.

  The only sound is her breathing, the only movement the rise and fall of her back. It’s perfect, and peaceful, and even though my head is pounding and I feel like hell, I want to stay.

  I can’t.

  I know that. Even though I’m hungover as fuck, I know I can’t stay. She said last night that this isn’t real, and she’s right: this is drunk wedding sex. It’s a fantasy, a bubble, a brief glimpse into some other universe before ours comes crashing back around us.

  The past is permanent, locked in, carved into stone. It will always be there, always be true, and the best we can do is ignore it for a few minutes here and there while we have some fun.

  It’s unfixable. I’m unfixable. I’m broken in some deep and vital way, and no matter what I’m always going to be angry at her.

  Finally, I get up. I find my clothes, pull them on. I splash my face with cold water in the bathroom, fighting a wave of nausea so strong I nearly vomit. I fantasize about getting back in bed, putting my arms around her, waking up with her a few hours from now but she made herself clear last night.

  Leave before we fight.

  Before I do, go back into the bedroom, watch her for another moment. She’s facing the other way now, still asleep, and this time I take in the mountain vista and lake and delicate-but-bold swirling vines that rise up, over her shoulder, wrap around a different star from the other side of her body.

  I don’t leave a note, just put the key on the table where she’ll find it. Anything I’ve got to say she knows already, so it seems pointless.

  The cold air is instant, biting. I left my coat and jacket in the ballroom last night so I walk to my car wearing nothing but half a suit, the sky in the east turning the blue-gray of a winter sunrise.

  It feels like punishment and victory all at once. It feels like penance and triumph, like I’m paying the price for something I shouldn’t have done, but also like I’m celebrating the tiniest of steps forward because we didn’t fight. We could have. The fight was there, waiting, wanting to come out, but we kept it at bay.

  And now, back to the rules, I think as I reach my car, get in, crank the heat up. I sit in the driver’s seat for a long time, head against the headrest, letting the warm air soak in until I can really feel it.

  Virtual strangers. Polite acquaintances. Hello and how are you and nothing more.

  I close my eyes against the sunrise. If this is victory, it feels hollow.

  Caleb’s car is in the parking spot next to mine when I pull into my complex’s lot, and that’s when I remember: he and his twenty-two-year-old girlfriend are sleeping on the pull-out sofa in my office.

  “Fuck,” I say softly to myself, rubbing my temples. “Fuck.”

  I don’t want to deal with a happy couple today. Even though Caleb just tanked his entire academic career for this girl — this student — ever since they reunited two days ago he’s been disgustingly, blindingly happy, and I can’t handle that right now.

  Worse, Caleb doesn’t like Delilah. I can’t even blame him, because every time I’ve gone to her again only to be left shipwrecked, he’s the one who’s found me and put me back on my feet. If someone did that to him, I’d hate her, too.

  I unlock my front door as quietly as I can, praying that I don’t wake them up. I just want to get into my bedroom and into a shower before I have to deal with another person.

  It’s quiet as I close the door. It’s quiet as I walk into the kitchen, hit the button on the coffee maker that Caleb set up last night. It’s quiet as I climb the stairs toward my bedroom and the sweet salvation of a shower.

  I’m two steps away when my office door opens.

  Fuck.

  “Did you just get home?” Caleb whispers.

  “I went out for a run,” I say, voice hushed.

  “In jeans?” he asks, not fooled for a second.

  I turn, look my little brother full in the face. His hair is flat on one side and sticking out on the other, voice groggy, wearing nothing but boxers. The door’s shut behind him.

  They’re trousers, not jeans, but that point seems unimportant.

  “What?” I ask, looking him dead in the eye.

  “Don’t do this,” he says, and I fold my arms over my chest.

  “Do what?”

  Caleb swallows, stands up straighter. He crosses his own arms, mimicking my stance.

  “Don’t go back to her again,” he says. “Do you remember the last time? You swore —”

  “I was lying,” I say, voice flat.

  I don’t say, I’m always lying when I say I won’t go back.

  If I ever say it again, I’ll be lying then, too.

  “Please?” Caleb says, a soft, pleading note in his voice.

  My eyes are adjusted, and now I can see him better: green eyes and light brown hair that favors our mother, his face a vague echo of my own.

  “I’m fine,” I tell him, even if I don’t know that it’s true.

  “Are you?” he says.

  He may be an idiot, but my little brother is too smart for my bullshit.

  I turn away again, walk to my bedroom door.

  “Of course I am,” I say. “I’m totally fucking fine, just like always. I’m gonna take a shower, see you in a few.”

  With that I walk into my bedroom, close the door, and don’t look back at my brother standing there in the hallway.

  He’s right. I know he’s right. It just doesn’t matter.

  I stand under the hot shower for a long, long time.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Delilah

  When I wake up, I’m hungover and Seth is gone.

  Neither fact is a surprise, but I hate them both. My mouth feels like someone’s glued it shut, my brain feels like it’s been replaced with razor wire, and the other side of the bed is cold and empty. He’s been gone for a while. I don’t know how long.

  There’s not even a note. No Thanks for a good time, Seth. No That was pretty fun, Seth. There’s nothing. No clue that he was ever even here aside from the stickiness between my legs and a slow, dull emptiness that I try to ignore.

  I told him to leave, I think, lying in the huge bed, staring at the ceiling. We left the fireplace on overnight, and now the room is too warm, the air pressing in on me from all sides.

  I said you should leave before we fight, and he did, and now I’m upset about it.

  What did you expect?

  I know what I expected — this, exactly this — but I don’t know what I wanted. To wake up with him next to me so we could get into a fight? For him to accompany me to the brunch with my family that’s in — oh, shit — seventy minutes, still wearing his suit from last night?

  I get up. I shower Seth off of me and tell myself I should be happy that he’s gone, because at least we didn’t fight. That’s the pattern half-broken, right? Fucking without fighting?

  And now we go back to how things were before, where I see him around town and
pretend we used to know each other and I act like it doesn’t bother me that I’m probably not even the only woman within hearing distance who he’s fucked.

  I get out of the shower, dry off. A layer of lotion, then a layer of sunscreen, everywhere that has even a chance of seeing sunlight, because UV light and I are not friends. I find my brunch dress, ensure it’s wrinkle-free enough, dry my hair and then fight it until I’m presentable.

  I drink a glass of water, then sit on the edge of the tub for a full five minutes until the nausea passes.

  Just as I’m looking in the mirror to make sure I’ve got no visible ink, there’s a knock on the door and for a second, my heart leaps.

  He came back.

  He didn’t, of course, and I know that before I even open the door to find my cousin Wyatt, standing on my porch and trying not to make a face.

  “It’s safe,” I tell him. “Just me, and I’m decent. You get sent to collect me?”

  “I was asked to make sure that you’re all right,” he says, breath fogging in the air, hands in his coat pockets. “You look nice.”

  “I feel like shit.”

  He grins, because he’s an asshole.

  “Shut up,” I mutter, turning back and motioning for him to come in with me.

  “Here,” he says, holding out something in one hand.

  I take it: a small packet of Gatorade powder. The flavor is Pure Energy Championship, which is not a flavor.

  “I thought I should come prepared,” he says, and he’s clearly very proud of himself. “I may have forgotten underwear for today —”

  “Didn’t want to know that.”

  “ — But I did come prepared for a hangover.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “You can stay my favorite cousin.”

  “Thank God,” he deadpans. “I tremble to think what you put lesser cousins through.”

  “Delilah!” Ava squeals, practically the moment I enter the breakfast room.

  “There’s the married lady!” I say, trying to match her enthusiasm.

  I fail — hangover! — but I swear I try.

  Ava, bless her, doesn’t notice. She just gives me a giant hug and then pulls away, positively glowing with inner happiness.

  “Are you feeling better?” she stage-whispers, blue eyes wide with concern.

  “Yes,” I stage-whisper back, though I’m not quite sure what I’m feeling better than.

  “Oh, good,” she says, looking relieved. “I really hope that it wasn’t food poisoning or something, I know that Mom was really worried about those shrimp appetizers, and — oh, there she is.”

  Ava smiles radiantly, then waves across the room to where Vera’s standing, drinking a mimosa and looking utterly put together, just like always.

  “I think it was champagne poisoning,” I tell Ava, just as Vera catches my eye.

  Then, she waves me over.

  Crap.

  “Champagne poisoning?” Ava asks, frowning. “You think the champagne was — oh.”

  Then she laughs. I can’t help but laugh along with her.

  “Gotcha,” she says, and winks a truly outrageous wink at me. “I hope you’re recovering from champagne poisoning.”

  “Wyatt poured Gatorade down my throat,” I say. “I gotta go see what your mom wants. Congrats, kid.”

  “Thanks!” she says, and I cross the room to where Vera’s standing. Behind her is the mimosa bar, where a man in a vest is custom-making mimosas and various other breakfast cocktails. Wyatt’s currently ordering something pink and horrifying-looking.

  I have to look away when he pours champagne. I’m not sure I can ever look at champagne again. Seems like a bad idea.

  “You’re feeling better?” Vera asks, breaking off from a conversation with another woman who looks vaguely familiar.

  “Yes, much,” I say, demure and polite as you please. “Champagne really gets to me sometimes.”

  She just nods. It’s a little judgy, as nods go, but I’ll live.

  “Well, I’m glad to hear it. And Wyatt told us that Seth was very sweet and concerned and offered to help you back to your room.”

  Behind her, Wyatt turns, as if he heard a cue.

  He takes one look at my face, glances at Vera, and then shoots me finger guns.

  “Yes, it was so kind of him,” I say, and blush.

  I blush so hard I think I start sweating, and Wyatt’s shit-eating grin isn’t helping matters.

  “Well, if you see him again, I believe he left his coat and jacket in the ballroom,” Vera says, voice completely cool and neutral and oh my God she knows and now I want to die.

  I clear my throat. I blush harder. I think I’m sweating champagne.

  “I’ll let him know,” I say. “Thanks.”

  “Of course,” she says. “I’m so glad you two had a nice time.”

  “Such a nice time,” I echo, and Vera smiles.

  Blessedly, the brunch is a less formal affair than the wedding itself. There’s no seating chart, no speeches, and the food is all buffet-style, which means that I get two cups of coffee and one piece of toast, then sit at a table in the corner and pretend that no one can see me.

  I’ve gotten through one and a half cups of coffee and two-thirds of the toast when a plate of bacon appears in front of me.

  That’s it. Just bacon. A pile of bacon.

  “Toast won’t help you,” Wyatt says, pulling out the chair next to me and sitting.

  “Nothing can help me,” I say. It’s a tad dramatic, but I’m feeling a tad dramatic.

  “Bacon can,” he says, raising his eyebrows and pointing at the plate. “Name me a problem bacon can’t solve.”

  I look at the bacon. Despite the current state of my appetite — nonexistent — it looks pretty good, all greasy and crunchy and… bacony.

  “Vera knows what I did last night,” I tell him. “I don’t need bacon, I need one of those flashy things from Men in Black.”

  “Oof,” he says, and casually takes a slice off my plate. “Well, I tried to tell her that he was just taking care of your dumb drunk ass.”

  After Seth went to my chateau last night, I went back into the wedding to grab my cape and also tell Winona that I wasn’t feeling well and was going to bed. I didn’t even think to grab Seth’s coat and jacket.

  “Thanks,” I say, and pick up a slice myself. “Doing the Lord’s work out here.”

  “Am I?” he asks, taking a bite of bacon reflectively. “Is lying to Aunt Vera about you hooking up with some rando the Lord’s work, Delilah?”

  I look at the bacon in my hand without eating it.

  “One, yes, it is,” I say. “Two, not a rando. We dated in high school. And have… seen each other a few times since.”

  Wyatt chews his bacon and watches my face, clearly running this information through the Polite Family Translator and coming to a conclusion.

  “Does Aunt Vera know that?”

  “She knows we used to date.”

  “But not the other part.”

  I just give Wyatt a how much do you tell your parents about your sex life? look.

  “Delilah,” he says, very seriously. “I think you won the wedding.”

  “Is that why I’m drinking a bucket of coffee and solving problems with bacon?” I ask, waving my slice at him. I still haven’t taken a bite.

  “You somehow got Aunt Vera to hand-deliver you a booty-call to the swank society event of the year,” he says. “That’s amazing. That’s next-level.”

  I want to say yes, but now the booty call is gone and Vera knows what happened and also everyone at the wedding last night knows I’m Seth Loveless’s latest fling in a long-ass line of flings, and I kind of want to crawl into a hole in the ground, but I don’t say that.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Teach me?”

  “No.”

  “Is it witchcraft? I’d learn witchcraft,” he says.

  “You could always just ask Vera to set you up with someone,” I say innocently, tilting my
head.

  Mistake. MISTAKE. I carefully point my head upright.

  Wyatt just narrows his eyes, chewing another piece of bacon.

  “I’m not sure society girls are my thing,” he says, slowly. “I mean, I’m sure plenty of them are nice, but I’ve never like… had a super-stimulating conversation with any of her friends’ kids, you know?”

  “I don’t think the interesting ones come to her events,” I agree. “I think the interesting ones are off doing interesting things.”

  “Exactly,” he says. “I need me an interesting woman to be my booty-call wedding date.”

  I finally take a bite of the bacon, chew it very slowly, then swallow. Everything seems to go well.

  “I’m not sure I recommend it,” I say. “I think I might wake up in the back of a truck, heading for some sort of charm school boot camp.”

  Wyatt just grins, then pats me on the shoulder.

  “Won’t happen,” he says, standing. “We all know you’re way past help. I’m getting another Bellini, you want anything?”

  I just put my face in my hands and groan.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Seth

  The second I pull into my mom’s driveway, I contemplate leaving. I’ve showered and eaten and drunk my weight in Gatorade and then coffee, so I’m at least passable, but I’m far from good.

  I’m also not excited about facing my brothers. After this morning’s run-in with Caleb, he and Thalia hung around my house for a bit before heading out to brunch in town, because they’re a couple who does cute couple shit.

  I still don’t like their origin story. No matter what, I’m always going to think it was a fucked up thing for Caleb to do.

  But I also have to admit that I can’t help but like Thalia. For a twenty-two-year-old, she seems to have her shit fairly together, and you know what? She loves my brother.

  Hard to fault that. I love the idiot too.

  Before I can get out of the car, the screen door slams open and a puff of hot pink takes off like a rocket across the porch, down the stairs, and across the driveway.