This Can't Be Goodbye, page 4
“You sabotaged my campaign,” she whisper-yells. “Of course you’re lying.”
“One thing has nothing to do with the other. Why the hell would I have said those things about you?”
Her laugh is as ugly as my vandalism that day. “Why wouldn’t you have said those things?”
“Because.” When she makes a disgusted sound and turns her face away, I can’t control my building growl. “I was crazy about you, Naomi!”
chapter five
Naomi
I sit on Avett’s stainless steel operating table, hugging my knees while he grabs a cloth and disinfectant and whatever other doctor stuff he needs. Neither of us has said a word since he shouted that he was crazy about me in high school.
My head is a whir of questions.
I’m not sure what his silence means, but Avett is suddenly a magnet, drawing my wary gaze with every concise movement he makes. The man is nothing if not orderly, all of Avett always just so. His beard is perfectly trimmed. His shirt still looks smooth and ironed. There’s no denying how fit his athletic build is from his regimented workouts—thick thighs filling out his slacks, a hint of pecs under his pressed shirt, wide shoulders, tapered waist.
Avett Lewis has grown into a handsome man, as well as a strictly regulated one. As bitter as our exchanges have been over the years, he’s no longer the type to lie.
Too moral. Too staunch.
As shocked as I am by his shouted confession, I have to believe I misunderstood that paper-bag insult, but it’s not the only time he’s said rude things about me, and I refuse to ask about last year’s party. He doesn’t need to know how much he affects me.
Still, there’s a change in the air around us. I mean, it smells like antiseptic and the dog treats around the clinic, but the annoyance I’m used to feeling is replaced with alertness.
He sets up a warm bowl of water beside me. “The disinfectant might sting a bit. Grip my arm if you need to.” His voice sounds deep and low. The opposite of his heated words outside.
Feeling fidgety, I lean back on my hands. “I’m tough. I can take it.”
“I have no doubt you could hold your own with the Rottweiler who nearly clawed my face off yesterday.”
I try to suppress my smile. An actual smile around Avett Lewis. “Glad to hear bribing that Rottweiler to maul you worked, except your face is still intact.”
He shakes his head, one corner of his lips curving up.
With a steady hand, he wets his cloth and presses it to my cut. I flinch at the contact, but the pain isn’t too bad. Being this close to Avett, however, is an issue.
I can’t help studying his masculine profile—the sharp edge of his bearded jaw, the slant of his prominent cheekbones, the slight bump on his nose from when he broke it. I can’t help how erratic my heart pumps, even though I barely tolerate this man.
When he reaches for the disinfectant, I tense. This is the stinging part.
“If you squeeze my arm,” he says gently, “your nails will dig through my shirt. It’s not a beheading, but it’ll hurt me.”
The urge to laugh rises, but I press my lips flat. “Are you always this much of a sweet talker?”
“You couldn’t handle my sweet talking,” he murmurs, and my core clenches.
First, he confesses he crushed on me in high school. Now he’s taking care of me, looking all kinds of handsome in his natural habitat, murmuring flirty words like some kind of romance hero.
Avett Lewis cannot murmur. He can’t rewrite our entire history in one night. “I’d bet your sweet talking is as bad as your ability to wait in lines.”
He huffs. “I have no issues with lines. I have issues with people who don’t move when they should.”
I try to smother my grin, but it’s no use. “You’re so easy to rile.”
“Maybe it’s just you.”
“What’s just me?”
“You, Naomi James, have always gotten under my skin.”
Our eyes lock. His pupils flare. Not in annoyance, as is our default setting. There’s no mistaking the heat in his gaze, the curious searching as his eyes roam my face. A tingling sensation starts at the edges of my belly, spreading toward the center.
What is happening right now?
“Ready?” he says, leaning closer.
He’s kissing close, and a pull to lean forward too surprises me. My mouth dries. My heart beats in my fingertips, until I see the disinfectant-soaked cloth in his hand. Right. He’s not trying to kiss me. He’s about to inflict pain on me…while taking care of my leg.
Rattled and dreading the sting of that cloth, I grip Avett’s arm. The second he applies the antiseptic, I jerk and squeeze his biceps.
He winces. “Your nails could double as instruments of torture.”
The stinging lessens a bit, and I ease up my grip. “If I wanted to torture you, all I’d have to do is steal your alarm clock.”
He dabs at my wound, moving carefully. “What has my alarm clock ever done to you?”
“It’s not what it’s done to me. It would mess up your regimented schedule. Imagine the joy it would bring me.”
He stills for a beat. “Who says I’m regimented?”
“Sorry. Do you prefer the term anal?”
He pulls the cloth away and gives me a hard look. “You know nothing about me, Naomi.”
“You’re right. I don’t know that you run every morning along the exact same route by the junkyard, or that you never eat sugary foods, or that you grocery shop on Mondays. I also don’t know that you wear specific shirts on specific days of the week.” I point to today’s ironed blue button-down. “This is your Wednesday shirt. You’re a walking calendar.”
He straightens and folds his arms. His dark eyes narrow in an assessing way. “You’ve been paying close attention to me.”
“I…no.” Heat floods my face. “Not like that.”
“Like what, then?”
“It’s a small town, Avett. Everyone knows everything about everybody. I was just making a point.” And keeping track of my enemy. The last time I let my guard down with him, he doubled down on his high school insult. Which I need to remember, since he clearly doesn’t or he’s pretending he’s grown out of his rudeness.
He watches me a moment longer, then says, “I’m not anal.”
I snort. “You make the army look disorganized.”
Giving me a challenging look, he presses the disinfectant cloth firmer to my wound. I squirm but stay quiet.
The suturing goes relatively smoothly. I keep my eyes closed, counting my breaths to keep from freaking out. Needles are not my friend.
He finishes his work and applies a bandage, back to being gentle and thorough, and nerves flit through me. I replay his confession outside the clinic—I was crazy about you—the instant leap of my heart in that moment. This whole time with him I’ve felt safe and cared for. I’ve been utterly attuned to him. Undeniably attracted to him. Now and always, really. The day I saw him kiss Tvisha Shah outside the Smash Shack when he moved home, jealousy struck, sudden and shocking.
I don’t know why Avett Lewis has always been my weak spot.
In high school, I first noticed him when he was quiet and sad. The Bower family, including his best friend, had left town without a word. I’d just lost my grandfather and then my dog, JoJo. I knew how it felt to be brittle while life and school went on like everything was normal. I recognized Avett’s quiet sadness and felt a secret kinship with him.
I have no clue how I gathered the nerve to go up to him and tell him as much. I wasn’t exactly flush with social confidence back. I was an only child, used to spending time with adults, not kids. My parents pushed me academically, encouraged studying and extracurriculars over having fun. If you want to succeed, my mother would say, you need to put in the work. Nothing good in life comes without sacrifice. That advice was always followed by her usual, Make us proud.
My goal in life back then was to do just that—make my parents proud. I sacrificed friends and dates and fun for good grades. I worked my butt off to get on the Dean’s list and be school president. Then I met Avett, and my socially starved heart bloomed.
I’m not sure if it was how reclusive I was back then or if it was just him. Either way, I fell hard while keeping my distance. My heart would beat so fast when he was near. Focusing on school became a struggle.
Then I found myself sitting at a table next to him in the library, studying for the same calculus test. When he muttered angrily and dropped his pencil, I chewed my lip, wanting to talk to him. Terrified to talk to him.
Want won out.
“Who would win in a fight,” I asked, swallowing my nerves, “the Flash or Spider-Man?”
He looked at me, startled, then grinned, revealing a dimple in his left cheek miles more fascinating than word problems. “The Flash. No contest. He’s too fast to hit.”
“Right, so, if the Flash’s body position is marked by the displacement function”—I pointed to the calculus function he got wrong—“how do you calculate the Flash’s acceleration when Spider-Man’s velocity is five?”
He studied me a moment and tipped his head. “What’s with the comic-book references?”
I nibbled my lip. “You read comics, and it’s easier to learn things when the subject is interesting.”
“How do you know I read comics?”
“Because I do too. I noticed them in your locker.”
He rolled his pencil between his fingers, his dark eyes so intense I had to glance down.
“So”—he scooted his chair closer to mine—“Spider-Man and the Flash and velocity. Please help me make sense of this madness.”
I helped him that day and fell harder every time we saw each and spoke.
Until I overheard him telling his friends he would only touch me if I had a paper bag over my head.
I sit on the edge of his exam table now, dangling my legs over the edge, needing more. A better understanding of why I’ve never been able to kick thoughts of Avett, good or bad. “Were you serious before? You didn’t actually say those things about me?”
He puts the last of his supplies away, methodical as ever, wiping the surfaces and lining up containers. Slowly, he walks over to me and places his hands on either side of my thighs, caging me in. “I was serious about that. And the other part.”
My breath stutters in my lungs. “What other part?”
He moves his right hand, just enough for his thumb to cover my pinky finger. “I was crazy about you in high school.”
God. My stomach dips, and I press my thighs together. I’m clearly still attracted to Avett. Probably more so with our daily banter. I love to hate this man, and judging by the way his attention keeps dropping to my mouth, I’d say he loves to hate me too.
Our bodies are so close, the quiet so quiet, the heavy air between us thickening with what I believe is sexual tension. But the party last year, the things he said to Ricky, not knowing I was behind them to hear…
His broad chest swells, pushing at the fabric of his work shirt. I avert my gaze, but I can’t keep from glancing back. The intensity of Avett’s attention has heat flaring behind my ribs.
“You were at Andrew Chan’s party last fall,” I say.
He frowns and slowly stands back. “The one in his backyard?”
I nod. “You were talking to Ricky by the fire.”
“Okay,” he says slowly. He rubs his brow then nods. “You were wearing the purple sweater with the square neckline.”
I startle. “How do you remember what I was wearing?”
He licks his lips. “How do you know which shirts I wear which days?”
We stare at each other as our breaths deepen and our awareness grows. We’ve been very attuned to each other for a long time.
But that’s not why I brought this up. “I was talking to Maggie,” I go on. “I was behind you and Ricky, and he made a joke about you and me in the coffee line. How much we love riling each other up.”
His brows pinch, his eyes darting like he’s racking his brains for memories. Then he stills. “Yeah, okay. I vaguely remember.”
I swallow hard. “You told him I was a shrew who was reckless and shouldn’t be near kids let alone teach them. You said I would die single and alone, since no one on this planet would be able to tolerate me.”
He closes his eyes and mouths a soft “Fuck.”
Tears sting my eyes. I don’t know why. I was there. This is old news.
“Naomi.” His voice is plaintive, as his expression. “I’m sorry. I honestly don’t know why I said that stuff. We just…”
He trails off, and I wait. I want to know why he said such hurtful things. Maybe understand why I was so affected by his words, when I already believed Avett didn’t like me.
“Actually, that’s bullshit.” He rubs his chest and sets his jaw. “I know exactly why I said that shit to Ricky. You’d been on a date that week with Eric Ackerman, and I was jealous.”
I jerk back, shocked. “You hated me. How could you have been jealous?”
He lifts his shoulders and lets them fall. “I don’t begin to understand my feelings where you’re concerned, I just know they exist. But that’s no excuse for what I said to Ricky. I know you’re an amazing teacher. You’re the reason I passed calculus, and I’ve heard parents boast about you—the extra help you’ve given their kids, how you find ways to make science fun. I said stupid shit out of jealousy and because I was frustrated that I still felt things for you, when you obviously hated me. It was wrong, and I’m really sorry.”
I blink at him, blown away all over again.
His insult in high school devastated me at the time. My confidence was lacking back then, and he made it a million times worse. I shied away from guys after that, couldn’t muster the courage to take a chance only to be laughed at again. Last year, overhearing Avett’s insults was like I was that teenager all over again, questioning my worth.
But it’s not like I haven’t talked shit about Avett over the years too. We torment each other in public and gripe about each other in private. He claims his behavior is linked to jealousy. Maybe that’s why he affects me so much too. I hated seeing him kiss Tvisha and was extra challenging with him the next day.
“You’re forgiven,” I say softly.
His Adam’s apple slowly drags down his strong neck. “Yeah?”
I shrug. “Hating you is exhausting. It’s not good for my beauty sleep.”
“You definitely don’t need any extra beauty.” His dark eyes roam my face. “You’ve got the quota on lock down, but…” He places his hand on top of mine, the simple contact zinging up my arm. “You seemed sad this morning, and then this run, and you didn’t want me to take you to the hospital in case you saw your mother. Is everything okay?”
Right. Yeah. That.
My spine straightens, all zinging flatlining. Being with Avett is messing with my mind. I may forgive him, but I’m not sure I can forget the negative energy between us, and it doesn’t matter. Not with my plans.
“Just some family stuff.” I ease down from the table, moving away from his strong, capable hands. “No big deal. Anyway, it’s late. We should both get home, but thanks for the stitches, and for not stabbing me while you worked.” I fit on a smile. “Hopefully your alarm clock doesn’t go on the fritz tomorrow and send your day into a tailspin.”
He taps his fingers on his thigh, his focus on me absolute. “I have a backup alarm for my alarm, so no need to worry about me.”
Of course he has a backup alarm for his alarm, but he’s right. I don’t need to worry about Avett or give him a second thought. I don’t need to think about his confessions tonight or try to work out why my body feels oversensitive near him. I don’t need to relive the feeling of his hand on mine or replay the rough tone of his voice as he said, You, Naomi James, have always gotten under my skin.
chapter six
Avett
My alarm blares at 6:07 a.m. Once I silence it, my backup alarm goes off at 6:11. I head out for my morning run at 6:30 and finish with sit-ups, push-ups, and pull-ups.
In five years, when I buy this house from my parents, I plan to convert the basement office into a proper home gym. I won’t change much of the general decor. I love the light blue dining room and white pocket doors that open into the country kitchen.
Hopefully the woman I marry will love the understated and comfy furniture, the wildflowers in the backyard, the cute bench and flagstones laid out to make the outdoor space warm and contemplative. I often picture myself laying out a blanket on the grass, with a spread of cheese and wine. A backyard picnic with my future wife, in this quaint neighborhood that will become our home.
This morning, Naomi is that fictional woman lounging in my yard.
I don’t have any business thinking about her. Our post campaign run-in might have been a misunderstanding, but my cruel words to Ricky at that party weren’t. I’m not proud. I’m downright ashamed of what I said. Feeling confused over my jealousy is a piss-poor excuse for my behavior.
Still, images of her fill my head while I exercise, inescapable and insistent. I wonder if she was as attracted to me last night as I was to her. I wonder if she enjoys tender nights with lovers or experimenting and testing her boundaries. Based on the tormenting woman I’ve come to know, I’d say she loves taking control, using filthy words and bold moves to drive her partners crazy.
I wonder about Naomi as I shower, imagining the taste of her skin, how those nails would feel digging into my ass. I grip myself and stroke to the rhythm of my fantasies, tighter, faster, coming in thick streams like I’m seventeen again—desperate and horny and consumed by Naomi James.
I trim my beard, then drive to Sugar and Sips, thinking about our overlapped fingers on my operating table, the confusing emotions she inspires, this woman I hate. This woman I’ve always crushed on, even when she’s driven me nuts.
I replay her one-eighty in the clinic, brushing me off and closing down when I asked if she was okay. Honestly, seven years later, I’m still a mess over Naomi James, unsure how she feels about me, wishing I had a chance with her, worried any move will end in blunt rejection.
