Riptide Affair, page 22
“Thank you, Miss Takahashi. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
Nope. You've already ruined my day. Your job is done.
“No thanks.”
“Okay, have a great—”
I hang up before she has the chance to finish.
The verdict is in:
I'm an idiot.
I zombie walk through the rest of my shift, trying my damnedest to just smush my feelings back into the steel cage that rests where my heart used to be. If I can do that, I'll be fine. At least that's what I tell myself. And that works...for a while. Right up until we close down the buffet and I'm standing in front of a cooling pot of tomato soup and a stack of plastic to-go containers. It's only then, as my tears spill into the pot, that I realize just how not-fine I really am.
The weekend I spent holed up in Jared's room while he recovered from the flu was a turning point in our relationship. It's the moment we went from being a fun fling to something more. Something deeper. Every time the memory hits, it cuts deeper than the time before. And that's not right. It should get easier. The passage of time should soothe the wound, not irritate it.
“Oh, sweetie.”
Hands grip my shoulders and I wipe at my cheeks as I'm turned and forced into a crushing hug.
“It's okay,” Laura whispers. “You'll be okay.”
“This sucks,” I grind out. “It fucking hurts to breathe! How stupid is that?”
“So stupid,” she agrees. “But you know what they say, tis better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all.”
I sniff back tears and lift my head, casting her a knowing glare. “You really believe that shit?”
“Absolutely not.” She tucks her arm through mine and grips me hard. “Come on. We're closing five minutes early and heading to the bar for a drink.”
Usually, I avoid the bar like the plague, but not tonight. Tonight, I just want to be surrounded by deafening chatter and a hundred faces who don't give two shits about my plight because they're trying to mend their own. I need my company to consist of lost causes and broken hearts and lonely souls.
“A big drink?”
“Huge,” she winks.
My chest aches when I release a sigh and lean my head on Laura's shoulder. “Few more heartbreaks like this and I'll be a full blown alcoholic.”
It was a joke, clearly, but Laura stops walking and looks down at me, her eyebrows wrinkling together in the center of her forehead. “No you won't,” she says resolutely. “You get your heart broken enough times and you won't need to drink. The memory of what you had will be sharp enough to numb the pain.”
And speaking of pain...anguish flashes across her blue eyes, and it's the same look I've seen a hundred times before, although that vacant, pained expression has come less and less as time has marched on. I thought she had healed from what happened to her, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe we never truly heal. Maybe the scar tissue is just thick enough to hide the wreckage from the world until we're strong enough to create a mask no one can see through.
“He's gonna come back, Laura.”
I know I shouldn't say the words, I shouldn't instill false hope, but I can't help it. I understand the hurt she's wearing beneath her bulletproof vest because I feel it as well. We are sisters in grief, and that means we're allowed to say the things others are too uncomfortable to voice.
Laura swallows and looks away. “No he won't, but thank you for being so optimistic.”
I squeeze her arm. Hard. “We're pitiful, aren't we?”
Her shoulders pull back up, a sign that she's not completely lost to the memory of what might have been. “Only, like, five percent of the time,” she says.
“And the other ninety-five?”
“We're awesome.” She looks my way and the corner of her lips pull up. “Obviously.”
“Obviously,” I whisper in agreement.
“Hey.” Laura knocks her shoulder into mine. “If he can't see what he's lost that's his own damn problem. You're fucking amazing, Mer, and years from now, he's gonna be sitting alone at home with a pot belly and a receding hair line and he'll think, 'God, I can't believe I was such a dumbass! I can't believe I let her get away!', all while you're lying in a king-size bed with the love of your life nestled between your legs and you know what? You won't even remember Jared Sullivan's name.”
Laughing at how preposterous that seems right now, I shake my head. “And where will you be in this idealistic future?”
“Sunbathing topless on a beach in Cancun while barely-legal instagram models in black speedos feed me chocolate-covered strawberries and mojitos as they rub sunscreen on my back.”
“Wow. You really have the future all mapped out, don't you?”
“I do, indeed,” she chirps. The pain in her eyes brought on by the mention of the one who got away has vanished, and I'm grateful. She's too good for him. I'm a little sad she's so hung up on someone who was so ready and willing to break her heart.
I'm not sure who's the pot and who's the kettle.
“Maybe if you're lucky I'll reserve a lounge chair for you and your family. Y'all can come visit me at my beachfront mansion and we can grill at sunset and build a bonfire and dance naked under the stars.”
Once the picture she paints sets in...we both fall quiet. And it's no secret as to why.
The truth of the matter is that neither of us have any notions of actually attaining a life that fabulous. These are delusions of grandeur. Fantastical dreams. Nothing more. And long, long ago, once we reached adulthood and realized fairy tales weren't meant for average women like us...we came to terms with our lot in life.
“Hey, maybe Ashley can drop a couple of those little umbrellas in our drinks and we can pick out our imaginary children's names.” She hops up and down like it's the best idea she's ever had, but she's not fooling anyone, least of all me.
“Yeah. Maybe.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Jared
After a harrowing day at work, during which I have to literally drag my ass from door to door, I finally kill the Jeep in the driveway and let my head fall back against the seat.
Thirty-one deliveries today. In the height of summer. With a busted AC in my truck and one hell of a hangover. Life just keeps getting better and better.
And that's the thought stuck in my head when I tilt my head to the side and let out a sigh, only for it to get stuck in my throat.
“Mother. Fucker.”
The ostentatious Porsche parked on the curb should have sounded alarm bells as soon as I turned onto our street, but I was too busy wallowing in self-pity to notice. Now, I have to stuff my misery away in whatever empty shadows I can find and plaster on a fake smile for their benefit.
Wonderful.
Pocketing my keys, I take my time exiting the Jeep and slowly saunter up to the front door, pausing on the porch. I don't have the energy for this. For them. At least if I'd had a little warning, I could have worked myself out of my funk enough to operate on a level above autopilot, but they're here now, I'm here, and there's no turning back.
The doorknob is hot beneath my palm as I turn it, push, and—
“Jellybean! There you are!”
I force my lips into some semblance of a smile and embrace my mother when she throws herself into my arms.
“We wanted to surprise you,” she says, blue eyes twinkling with joy. “Are you surprised? I bet you are. Look, Harvey, doesn't he looked surprised?”
My father folds down the top half of the newspaper he's reading so he can cast a bored expression toward my mother. “Looks downright flabbergasted, Celeste,” he deadpans, right before flipping the paper back up. He's a man of few words, which works, since my mother has enough words for both of them.
“Have you been watching the weather?” Mom asks. “That storm was coming right for our house, so I told Harvey to pack some bags and we'd come stay with our boys. If the whole house gets blown away, well then we'll just have to stay here until we find something better. Not that there was anything wrong with this house. I mean, I sent you pictures, didn't I? Lovely swimming pool in the back and a wraparound porch and beautiful crown molding in every room. Oh, I wish you boys would come down to visit. You'd love it. Maybe enough to move! God knows Blackjack is your home, but sometimes it's good to grab hold of a fresh start when it's presented to you. I was just telling your father on the drive up that if we hadn't decided to—”
“Mom!” I shout, grabbing her shoulders. She's a hurricane herself, packed into a five foot two package of bubbly, but at least I'm smiling now. “You have to breathe between sentences.”
She laughs along, a blush coloring the apples of her cheeks. “Sorry, Jellybean.” She caresses my cheek just like she did when I was a child. “Just happy to see my boys.”
I cast my eyes around the room. “Speaking of. Where are they?”
“Changing.” She plucks at my sweaty uniform shirt and cringes. “You need a shower. And a shave. And judging by the bags under your eyes, a few more hours of sleep.” She's quiet a beat as she searches my face, and when I see concern overtake her features, I know I've failed in hiding my misery. It's there. Etched into every wrinkle. Every dimple. Every pore.
“Mom...”
“Sweetie, what's wrong? Are you sick?” She presses the back of her hand to my forehead, then furrows her light blonde brows. “No fever.”
“I'm fine, Mom. Just tired.”
A sad smile pulls at her lips. “You're lying.”
Never could get much past her.
“Yeah. I am. But can we drop it for now? Please?”
“Of course,” she says softly. “Go get changed.”
Huffing up the stairs, I unbutton my shirt as I go, stopping only when I reach the top. “We grabbing dinner or what?” I call back down.
“If you want,” Mom calls back, “but we're going to the bar so you'll have to deal with mozzarella sticks or an onion blossom because your father and I want to drink. Like, a lot. It's not everyday we have three designated drivers.” She chuckles to herself, but I freeze.
Turning on my heel, I march down three steps until I can see my mother's face.
“We're going where?”
“Woody's,” she says, like I'm daft. “Where else?”
“Literally anywhere else,” I snap. Then, I realize who I'm talking to when my father closes his newspaper and my mother's shoulders ease up toward her ears.
As a well-respected music professor and the star of some cringe-worthy sex education tapes from the eighties, my parents may have been super liberal in raising us, and they may have given all three of us a wide berth in hopes that it inspired independence, but if there's one thing my parents believe in, it's that whatever they say goes. No questions asked. No arguments. And that carried over into adulthood, if my immediate regret is anything to go by.
Mom crosses her arms. “You too good for Woody's now?”
Biting back a hundred different arguments, I force a smile and shake my head. As long as I can avoid the restaurant, I can avoid seeing Merrin. “No, Ma'am. I'll go shower.”
“And shave!” she calls at my retreating back.
Yeah. And shave...
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Merrin
There's something sticky on the bottom of my shoe. I don't know what it is, and it's stupid that I'm even acknowledging something so trivial since this damn bar is packed to capacity and the girls and I have to scream to be heard, but any distraction is a welcome one.
Maybe I stepped in gum outside.
Maybe someone spilled a sugary drink on the floor.
Or maybe it's jizz.
Yeah. As nauseating as that thought is, it's totally plausible. I shiver to myself, fight off a gag, and force myself to forget about it.
The night is young, so thankfully we're spared from seeing what goes on after sundown in this sin haven. The stage is blessedly empty and all five stripper poles are luckily uninhabited.
Glancing across the table, I smirk, reading Harper and Kate's expressions with ease. They're both remembering the time Laura was hard up for cash and spent an entire summer working one side of Woody's during the day and this side at night. The stories she shared with us during working hours were enough to make me want to tuck her in my pocket and never let another man lay eyes on her ever again, but she made enough in those three months to pay off three credit cards, so I try not to judge. But speaking of Laura...
“Okay. So. Don't freak out...”
Laura clutches her beer bottle in both hands, giving me the most miserable smile I've ever seen, telling me that whatever it is she did in the five minutes it took her to fetch a refill isn't something I'll like.
“Why would she freak out?” Kate purses her lips and presses a closed fist to her popped hip. She's in full mama bitch mode tonight. “What did you do?”
“I didn't do anything! But...” Laura's eyes flit to the side, and with one glance over her bowed shoulders, I deflate entirely. In the span of three milliseconds, I know any hope I had of enjoying the evening is gone. Fucking obliterated.
Because he's here.
“Oh, for fucks sake,” Harper grumbles. “This town is too goddamn small.”
Amen to that.
Staring at Jared's disheveled hair, I wrap one hand around my wrist, hiding the bracelet I slid back on weeks ago and have yet to take off. When I hear a forced laugh come from his mouth from across the room, my stomach turns into a cement mixer, fusing liquid rage with the sands of hurt, churning and solidifying until I feel heavy enough to break through the floor.
“It's fine,” I say evenly, looking everywhere except at the back of his ridiculously handsome head. “We're both adults. We can be civil. Right?”
Harper's eyes narrow. “Riiiight. And I have a tattoo of Mother Theresa on my left ass cheek.”
I grab the pitcher in the middle of our table and top off my stein, watching as the foamy head toddles around the lip, threatening to overflow. Much like my emotions.
Before Jared came into my life, there was no drama, no heartache, no immense feelings of longing I couldn't control or daydreams of what my life could be if only I had the courage to step outside of my comfort zone. Life was clean. Tidy. Uncomplicated.
Empty.
Lonely.
Lackluster.
I tip my glass and drain half my beer, far past buzzed at this point. We both live in Blackjack and no matter how badly we hate each other right now, there will be times when we're forced to be at the same place at the same time. It's inevitable. So, he's just going to have to get over himself and accept the fact that we're stuck. One of us will have to be the bigger person if we're ever going to reach a point where our blood doesn't boil when our paths cross.
And when Jared stands from the table and approaches the bar for a refill, I decide I'm going to be that person. Only, when I rise, I almost fall flat on my ass and Harper has to grab hold of my wrist so I don't bloody my nose on the sticky floor.
“Whoa there, Nelly. Where do you think you're going?”
“To powder my nose.”
She huffs out a laugh. “You're not wearing makeup.”
“It's an expression,” I argue. “I'm going to the bathroom.”
She sets down her beer and scoots back in her chair. “I'll go with you.”
“Nope.”
I'm off before she can object, drunkenly jogging-slash-stumbling my way to the bar. If I make it, she won't make a scene by dragging me away. I know her. She knows my fragile ego has already taken a hit and can't sustain much more damage.
Multiple sets of eyes take me in as I pass, and at first I think it's because of how unsteady on my feet I am, but then I realize none of the eyes tracking me venture higher than my jawline and I remember what I'm wearing. Laura's 'fuck me dress'. It's skin-tight, midnight blue, and has a boxy neckline with a small triangle cut out in the middle that perfectly frames my cleavage. The hem hits me mid-thigh, just long enough to ensure my ass isn't on display for everyone in Blackjack. Judging by the look on the lust-struck faces of strangers and familiars alike, it's safe to assume I could have my pick of the litter if I were so inclined. But I'm not. The ensemble may be doing its job, but I have zero interest in striking up a conversation with any one of the cavemen with their eyes glued to my rack, let alone allowing any of them to take me home to become a notch on a bedpost.
As soon as the bar is within reach, I grab for it and lower myself onto an empty stool next to Jared, grateful my drunkenness didn't result in a faceplant. Although, regrettably, in my haste to make it to him before he rejoined his brothers, I didn't think of a damn thing to say. Not a thing. Back at the table, I was still level-headed, thinking an apology would be enough to chip away at his icy exterior, but now that I'm sitting right next to him, watching the muscle in his angular jaw tick in annoyance, I realize...I don't want to apologize. And even if I did, a few more rounds of “I'm sorry” aren't going to get me where I want to be.
Suddenly, I'm feeling petty as fuck.
He wants to leave—I know he does, his body is practically screaming retreat—but he won't, not until the bartender retrieves his drink, and Ashley's taking her sweet ass time.
Squaring my shoulders and dragging in a fortifying breath through my nose, I place both arms on the bar...and I wait.
One Mississippi.
Two Mississippi.
Three—
“Why the hell are you still wearing that?”
He had to say something. Had to. He couldn't help himself. And I knew this about him hours before I ever walked my fine-ass self over here and threw down the metaphorical gauntlet.
I turn my entire body to face Jared, steel chainmail wrapping around my heart and liquid courage pumping through my barbed-wire-guarded heart. He may not be looking back, but I see him. I feel the tension coiled in his shoulders, ready to snap. “Because I love it. And I don't discard the things I love.”
Jared huffs. Just one derogatory exhale-grunt that does nothing to dim the way my body is lighting up in his presence, and then, his eyes finally cast to the side long enough to take in what I'm wearing.
