Breaking Giants, page 9
“Rose,” he breathes.
I realize I’ve been frozen with my hand on the doorknob for an inappropriate length of time.
“Sorry,” I choke, and open the door a crack to peek outside. “No cameramen hiding in bushes. Good to go.”
I step out of the way and open the door enough for him to slip out. He moves slowly enough for me to savor his scent, and pauses halfway across the threshold. Our shoulders brush, layers of clothing doing nothing to quell my body’s instant reaction. Wantneednow.
“Listen to the B-side of the next single.”
I stare uncomprehendingly at him. His lips compress, sunlight catching in his whiskey eyes.
“The song is yours. Just… I’m sorry about everything. You’re amazing, Rose. The timing… I wish—”
The timing is inopportune.
Desire is gone in a flash. My low laughter surprises the hell out of Julian, who frowns in confusion.
“You know what I wish? That you hadn’t said that.” I’ve kept it together long enough. Too long, it seems, because I suddenly don’t give a shit anymore. “Congratulations on your forthcoming nuptials. Have a great life.”
I kick his boot out of the doorway and slam the door in his face. And listen with an empty heart to his footsteps walking away.
11
beware the fortune tellers
Tuesday afternoon, three weeks and a few days after Julian’s visit to my house, I’m cleaning the bakery case while The National croons through the café speakers.
The beautiful weather has held strong. Sunlight streams through Tullamore’s tall windows, filling the space with diffused radiance. Ten or so patrons sit around tables or read in stuffed armchairs. Everyone’s savoring the peaceful afternoon.
Less than a week after the photo-fiasco and charity event, the media forgot about me. Although a few pictures of Matt and I have shown up on gossip sites—I’m particularly fond of the one taken during our chili-dog eating competition—apparently our dates haven’t been newsworthy. A visit to a tattoo parlor (for him), a bookstore trip (for me), and the newest action flick have rounded out our charade. They’ve also had the unexpected side effect of cementing our friendship.
Matt’s good company. I kind of want to keep him. A joint custody sort of thing—Julian can be the primary friend and I’d get him every other weekend. When I told Matt my idea, he laughed so hard he almost drove us off the road.
Unfortunately, the public’s memory is longer than the medias’. Every few days people (young women, mostly) wander into Tullamore and ask indiscreet questions about me, Matt, or Julian. What these occasions have taught me is that not only is my staff protective, but our regular customers are, as well. No one’s been asked to leave, but each time it happens someone makes it clear that my private life is private and questions aren’t welcome.
I love my job.
Breaking Giants’ new single came out Friday. Greta, a vinyl-junkie, bought it and says its amazing. I don’t ask about the B-Side. Even though I want to. Really, really want to.
“Hey, Rose, can you watch the front for a minute?” asks Allison. “I’m going to run to the little girl’s room.”
“No problem.”
I give the glass inside the cabinet one more wipe, then straighten and wander over to the registers with my rag. The counter is already clean, but I wipe it anyway because The National is singing about heartbreak and I feel heartbroken. Over someone I don’t really know, not sure I want to know, but can’t stop thinking about.
Ugh.
“Can I order something?” asks an amused voice.
I realize I’m frantically scrubbing a spot on the counter that’s been there more than a year. Flushing, I look up at the man standing opposite me. He’s trying hard not to laugh, but his dark eyes are twinkling.
“Yes, sorry, I was…uh…”
“I get it. That damned spot just won’t come out.”
Surprised laughter bursts out of me. “I didn’t kill the king, I swear.”
He chuckles. “Lucky me. Usually that joke falls flat.”
I shrug. “I majored in English Lit a million years ago. Lady Macbeth is a pretty memorable type of crazy.” I pause in mock solemnity. “Wait, are you calling me crazy?”
“Nope,” he replies with an easy grin. “Just a college professor making bad jokes.”
I assess him and decide he can’t be more than mid-thirties. “At U-Dub?”
His brows lift. “Should I be insulted or flattered by your skepticism?”
“Flattered,” I say lightly. “All my professors were old and stodgy.” Seeing a couple coming up to the register behind him, I get back to business. “What would you like, professor?”
He winces. “Elijah, please. How about a large drip with room, and…” he glances at the empty bakery case.
“Sorry, they’re in the kitchen right now. What are you feeling? Cake? Cookie?”
“Surprise me,” he says, and I look at him quickly, something in his tone tickling my female intuition. He’s fiddling with the cup of table markers, and pulls out one of the tarot cards. Surprise lights his features. “Prince of Swords.”
I laugh to hide my immediate disquiet. “Yeah, that’s a popular one.”
For attractive men to pick out in front of me.
Elijah grins. “You know, I went to a fortune teller one time when I was in college. She said this was my card—it was some weird deck she was using. I’ve never seen it since.”
“Thoth Tarot,” I say weakly.
“Ah, that’s it! Anyway, don’t judge me, but I might have been drunk at the time. Not sure what the card signifies, but this guy looks impressive, right?”
I try to come up with something to say, but end up staring blankly at him until his brows pinch with concern.
“Are you all right? You’re white as a sheet.”
“Y-yes,” I stammer, then give him an order total. “Let me get your coffee.”
By the time I pour his coffee and return, Allison’s back and taking care of the couple.
Elijah hands me cash and asks softly, “Did I say something to offend you?”
“Not at all,” I say quickly. I give him his change and smile brightly. “I’ll be out in a minute with your surprise pastry.”
“Thanks.” He glances down, then looks up with another smile. “Rose.”
When he’s gone, Allison gives me the side-eye. “He was flirting. Obviously he doesn’t know you’re dating a world-famous musician.”
I mumble something inarticulate that I hope sounds like, “No, he wasn’t,” before heading into the kitchen to pick a pastry.
As I peer into various bakery boxes, I think about surprise treats, which is kind of a fun idea. I wonder if it would be marketable to have wrapped pastries on the counter, maybe at a special price, to move more bakery items during evening hours. I make a mental note to talk to Owen about it, then pull out one of my favorite muffins for Elijah—Blackberry, Lemon, and Thyme—heat it a little, then plate it.
I know—know—that Aunt Katherine and her mystical mumbo jumbo must, for sanity’s sake, be taken with a grain of salt.
Yours will come, Rose.
Maybe not this Prince of Swords, hmm?
And I can’t help wonder—is Elijah the English Lit professor the right Prince of Swords? Milliseconds later I give myself a metal slap and head out to deliver the muffin. And maybe I’ll talk to Elijah for a few minutes just to… see where it leads. Not because of any Prince of Swords hoodoo, but because he’s attractive, and nice, and obviously intelligent.
Plus, I’ve never tried out the theory that the easiest way to get over a man is to get under a new one.
As I reach the main café, I pass Allison, who’s chatting with a customer near the empty stage. Seeing me, she veers in my direction, pausing long enough to murmur, “Sorry, Rose. I was waaay off about that guy.” Giggling, she continues past me to the registers.
I look across the café and see professor Elijah seated near the windows, holding hands with his boyfriend.
♫
“You really need to get laid,” says Greta, earning a raised eyebrow from the seamstress crouched before her in a cloud of white tulle.
I don’t look up from my phone. “How long should I wait before reactivating my Facebook account? Another week? Three years?”
“Are you even listening to me?” demands Bridezilla.
I give her my full attention. “Yes. I need to get laid. Blah blah. This isn’t news to me. I almost asked a gay man on a date today.”
She and the seamstress giggle, despite this being the third time they’ve made me repeat what happened.
At length, Greta composes herself. “When are you and Matt, um, you know…”
“Not for another couple of months, I think,” I grumble.
“You can be discreet,” she offers.
“Find me a hottie to be discreet with and I’m all over it. Him. Whatever.”
“Stop making the bride laugh,” says the seamstress, smiling around the pins in her mouth.
“Yes, ma’am.”
For the next thirty minutes, I shelve my personal drama and focus on the bride. The wedding is three and a half months away, and most of our conversations are beginning to revolve around the Big Day. I don’t mind. Seeing Greta happy makes me happy, and I want to do everything possible to make sure things run smoothly for her. Even it if means wearing a lilac bridesmaid dress.
After the fitting, we head downtown to our favorite sushi restaurant and stuff our faces with rolls. Greta gets buzzed on Saki and rambles unendingly about a variety of wedding topics like RSVPs, catering, decorations, and the difficulty they’re having deciding on a DJ or live band.
Halfway into a one-sided discussion on the merits of guestbooks, I feel a hesitant tap on my shoulder. Turning, I look up at a girl in her late teens or early twenties, trendy and pretty, with hair alternating between lavender and blonde.
She blushes, and stammers out, “R-Rose?”
Here we go.
“Yes,” I say stiffly. “But—”
A CD case is thrust toward me. “Will you sign this?”
I stare blankly at my CD until Greta elbows me in the ribs. “Sure, yes,” I blurt, “but I don’t have a pen.”
Lavender-Blonde hands me a black sharpie. Feeling like I’m in the Twilight Zone, I scrawl my name on the CD and hand it back to her.
Beaming, she clutches it to her chest. “I can’t tell you how much your music has helped me. Do you think you’ll make another album anytime soon?”
My mouth opens and closes soundlessly.
Casting me a knowing smile, Greta answers, “She’s always writing music, so I’d say you can look for a new one by the end of the year.”
“Awesome,” the girl gushes, and gives me a shy wave. “See you at open mic on Friday!”
Then she’s gone, and Greta’s gleeful cackle results in several dubious glances in our direction.
I shake my head in bafflement. “Oh my God, did that just happen?”
As Greta celebrates with another Saki, and our conversation returns to floral arrangements and potential reception dresses, I fight a growing urge to break the unspoken code of silence and tell a certain someone what just happened. Because I know he’ll be tickled. And proud.
But really I just want to hear his voice and see if maybe there’s a space inside him that still thinks about me. And wonders.
“You should call Greg!” says Greta.
A twist of self-loathing turns in my chest as I nod and promise to call him. Greg is who I should have thought of first. Not Julian.
Never Julian.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I shelve the question—and my unhealthy urges—as I drive Greta home. She invites me in for dessert, but I decline with excuses she doesn't buy, but knows me well enough not to question. Owen greets her warmly at the front door. As I back out of the driveway, they wave and disappear inside hand in hand.
When I get home, I head straight for a pint of chocolate fudge ice cream. Four bites in, though, the urge becomes an itch. A burn.
Fuck it.
I text him.
I was asked to autograph a CD today.
Twenty seconds later, his reply comes.
Rose? Your number is restricted. Send it to me.
I type the numbers and hit Send, my fingers shaking. I’d totally forgotten that I changed my phone number.
What if he’s tried to call me?
Don’t be an idiot, he hasn’t called.
The phone rings in my hand.
12
sweet undertow
The Caller ID says J. Asshole. My heart tries to crawl out my mouth and down my spine. I sit there, staring at name for at least four rings.
AnswerthegoddamnphoneRose.
“Hello?”
“Hi,” he says, and when I don’t say anything else, he clears his throat. “Tell me about the autograph.”
“Oh, uh… Greta and I were eating downtown and someone tapped my shoulder. It doesn’t happen much anymore, but I thought it was going to be a ‘No Comment, leave me alone’ moment.” I take a breath. “But instead, this girl hands me my CD and asks me to sign it.”
“Did you stare at her with your mouth open?” he asks lightly. “I did, the first time.”
“Totally. Greta had to elbow me. Then I signed it, and she… she said my songs have helped her.”
“Best feeling ever, huh?”
I feel myself grinning, full of delayed excitement and energy. “Yes. It took a while to sink in.”
Julian laughs. “You’re climbing the walls right now, aren’t you?”
I pace from the living room to the kitchen, then down the hallway to my bedroom and back. “Yep. What the hell do you do when you feel like this?”
There’s a weighted pause. “Something physical.”
Air clogs my throat at the dark tone. Sensation rockets down, his voice sliding straight to my center.
Realizing I’m not saying anything, and he's not saying anything, I blurt, “Maybe I’ll work on some songs.”
“Good idea,” he says, dragging in an audible breath. “Don’t go yet, though. How are you?”
Before I can filter myself, I say, “I was flirting with and almost asked out a gay man today.”
There’s a small pause before Julian loses his shit, laughing hard and loud, complete with snorts and gasps for air.
“Are you serious?” he stops long enough to ask. Before I can reply, he falls into helpless laughter again.
“Glad I can provide comic relief,” I grumble, but I’m smiling. I can’t help it. The sound of his unreserved laughter, and the knowledge that I caused it, fills me with bubbly warmth.
“Okay, I’m calming down,” he vows, taking deep breaths. “Whew. Thanks for that, Rose.”
“Whatever,” I snark. “So, how are you?”
“I’m… good.”
Was that a hesitation? Did I imagine it?
If we were better friends—or friends at all—I would call him on it. But since I have no earthly clue where we stand, I say nothing.
In the following silence, my thoughts pingpong amidst Are we friends? and Can boys and girls who want to see each other naked be friends? and NakedmmmJulian.
Then the subject of my fantasy says, “Actually, I’m kinda fucked up.”
All thoughts vanish as my brain and body activate nuclear winter.
I must make a sound of dismay, because Julian immediately says, “No, no. Jesus, I’m sorry, Rose, I wasn’t thinking how that would sound. I’m not loaded. Just having some creative issues.”
A universe of tension and fear pours out of me with my sigh.
“Hey,” he says softly, “are you okay?”
My libido is now six feet underground; logic runs cold and clear in my veins.
“Yeah, sorry about the freak out.”
“It’s my fault.” He pauses. “If you ever want to talk about your mom, I’m here, okay?”
I laugh shakily. “I appreciate that Julian, but I really shouldn’t have texted you.”
“Don’t say that. I’m glad you did. After you slammed that door in my face I wasn’t sure I’d talk to you again. And I—” He swallows back the rest of the words.
My fingers spasm on my phone. “I think I should go.”
“Wait,” he says urgently. “Did you listen to it yet?”
The B-Side.
“No,” I whisper.
“Maybe you shouldn’t,” he murmurs, and the gravelly words instantly bring my libido roaring back from the dead. “I know what you’re going to say, but I need to ask. Do you think we can be friends, Rose Cunningham?”
“Do you?” I ask incredulously.
“I know I want to see you again.”
I slide down the hallway wall until my ass meets the floor. Closing my eyes, I wait for my heartbeat to get bored with my vagina and come back to my chest.
“Rose?”
“You’re engaged,” I whisper brokenly.
“Yes, but it’s not… it’s complicated. And I’m a deplorable human being, just like you said. I’d explain everything if I could, but I can’t. I don’t know how to stop thinking about you. Rose? I can’t stop thinking about you.”
Come over right now.
Nownownow.
With every scrap of willpower I possess, I tell him, “I can’t do this.”
“I know,” he murmurs after a moment, “you’re ten times the person I am.”
“I’m not a cheater,” I say, and it emerges sharp and bitter, tainted with childhood memories.
“I know,” he repeats. “And it probably won’t mean anything to you, but neither am I. This situation isn’t—”
My brain hits the red. “Then why are you marrying her, for Christ’s sake?”
“She’s two months pregnant.”
My head drops against the wall hard enough for stars to paint my vision. “Oh,” I say, then—because fuckthissucks—I start laughing. Then, because I’m easily overwhelmed by sorrow and conflict, my eyes fill with tears.
