Not for Sale

by Eden Rayna

  The farther into the room she gets, the greater my worry about failing becomes. About getting rejected in public.

  What was I thinking, asking Kelsey to arrange this at the pub?

  I push off my stool, rocking the beers, and aim for the men’s room. Scott grabs my upper arm and pulls me to a stop with his intense grip and a stare.

  “That house might have been your goal, but the girl is your dream. Don’t give up on yourself because you’re scared of what happened to your dad.” Scott gives a sorrowful head shake. “If he could tell you, he’d let you know he doesn’t regret falling in love with your mom. Not for a minute.”

  I rip my arm from his fingers. “Don’t speak for me and do not speak for him. He has enough people doing that already.” I storm away from the table.

  Locked in the bathroom, I lean against the pedestal sink, gripping the sides hard enough that my knuckles match the white porcelain. What was I thinking? I wasn’t. I let things get personal and now this entire year has been a waste. I’m sitting on a house that will never sell for what I put into it, effectively wiping out an entire year’s effort and profit.

  I knew Princess would be trouble. From the moment I saw her sitting in that moving truck with her painted nails and no-help-required attitude, I should have stepped away. My pride got the better of me, and I wouldn’t back off. Then she got under my skin and, worse, into my heart.

  Someone tries to push through the locked door. “Open up, Owen.” It’s Greg, the motivational speaker in our group. “You’re making yourself look like a whiny pussy.” I check my reflection. I don’t look like a pussy. I look surly and angry as hell.

  I spin the deadbolt and retreat to the far side of the bathroom. Crossing my arms over my chest, I stare Greg down with a what do you want glare.

  “I’m sorry, man.” He leans against the opposite wall, clasping his fingers in front of himself in a relaxed way like he’s sorry, but not really. I hate fake apologies. Plus, I have no idea why he’s doing it. “I started this.”

  I shake my head, uncomprehending of how he could have known years ago when Black Ladder moved on to Iris’ street that we would end up here today.

  “That night when Izzy challenged you to a game of pool?”

  Oh, I remember that night. I’ve never seen a woman run a table that way and do it with such quiet confidence. If she were a guy, she would have boasted about each shot before and after she took it and still be talking about it to this day.

  “There was something about how she stood up to you and challenged you that told me she was perfect. And by perfect, I mean personally and professionally,” he says.

  He’s got my attention, but it would bring him too much satisfaction to verbalise that.

  “You were stalling. You were falling into a cycle of living in the past that revolved mostly on gathering stories from your dad.”

  “Those memories are important.”

  He nods. “I know. But all you did was work and visit Pops. Even your time with Tommy was spent working. We were all worried that you were going to be lost when . . .” He doesn’t need to finish that sentence. I’m not a fool. I understand Pops is dying.

  “So, you threw a woman at my feet to distract me?” And I fell for it?

  He disagrees with small head shakes. “We figured you could use someone in your life who’d be there when the time came. From the grief side of things, the business side and,” he tries to appear serious but he can’t keep the smile from his face, “from the stubborn side.” The smirk shifts into a laugh. “Izzy’s you, with tits and feelings.”

  I have feelings, I just don’t spray paint them on the walls for everyone to see.

  “‘We’, as in the other guys, are in on this too?”

  Greg nods. “We thought you’d require a team effort, but it turns out, you did most of the work on your own. The house is amazing. All you need is for her to see it. She’ll understand you then.”

  I take a moment to think about it because I’m not sure anymore. What if she doesn’t understand me? What if she never accepts me?

  “You were wrong about her,” I finally say. We were both wrong. Greg thought right away that we’d be a match, and later, I hoped I could convince her of it. Yet here we are, still on opposite sides of the fence. With a lot more at stake.

  I’m petrified that she’ll say she doesn’t want me, and my greatest build will go to someone else. Worse, I’m terrified that she’ll say she wants me, then something horrific will happen to her, and she’ll leave me like Mum left Pops. Alone, haunted, and waiting to die.

  “No, I wasn’t,” Greg says. “She agreed to beat you at the game to teach you a lesson, but I didn’t mention what the lesson was.”

  “What was I going to learn from losing a game of pool to her?”

  For all I remember, it made me dislike her more. At the moment, of course. From this side of the road, I miss having that fiery woman to quarrel with across the property line.

  “I set you up to lose that game so you would win at life.”

  I groan, rolling my head and my eyes at the same time. The philosophising is a little dramatic.

  “After all these years of keeping the story of your mom bottled up, why did you choose to tell her?”

  She was there. I was feeling bad for her about the house. Because Pops got in my head.

  “And then reveal it to a room full of colleagues and strangers?” Greg stays propped casually against the wall, waiting for my answer. “You don’t have to tell me, but you should at least be honest with yourself.”

  He pushes away and leaves the bathroom, letting the door close behind himself.

  I hang back in the washroom, gripping the sink once more, staring at the drops of water that cling to the basin.

  He’s right. I felt safe talking to Izzy because I thought she would understand me. It felt good to get it off my chest. I’ve always been a quiet guy, but I didn’t realise the effect that keeping my past locked down had on me. I was silent because I didn’t want anyone to get close. I didn’t want anyone’s pity. The less I spoke, the fewer people would ask.

  Pity wasn’t the sole thing stopping me. I was petrified of ending up like Pops. Mourning his love for a lifetime. Waiting to die to be reunited with his sweetheart.

  I think talking about Izzy brought Pops closer to Mum as much as it did me. The stories he shared about her had no present context until Izzy brought them back to life. Like Mum’s insatiable need to have a home and her urge to grow roots. Her style of looking at the world through multiple senses to give things that third dimension. That independence and ability to face situations and people perceived to be in the way. Those could describe Mum as much as Izzy.

  Fucking Pops and his prophecy. The lassie comes with the house.

  I realise what I want. Even if I only get to enjoy it for a short while.

  The guys stare in silence when I pass our table and head towards Izzy and Kelsey. Her posture stiffens as I approach her from behind, reading my arrival on Kelsey’s face.

  “Princess,” I say by way of greeting and rest my arms beside her on the hightop table.

  As soon as the nickname is out of my mouth, I regret it. It turns out that having to expand my emotional repertoire from neutrality and anger to include other options doesn’t come naturally.

  As it always has, that hated name makes her glance at me. “Owen.” She aims for ambivalence in her tone, but she’s unable to keep it out of her gaze. Her determination to be stronger than her emotions, to ignore the pull, to stare into my eyes, quickly fails.

  Kelsey kicks my leg under the table hard enough for Izzy to notice. Her eyes slide from mine to Kelsey’s with a jerk.

  I need to get Izzy alone before Kelsey fucks this up. Before I fuck this up.

  Reaching into my pocket, I grab a loonie and flip it towards her.

  “Game of pool?” I ask.

  She flashes me the same expression as when I had her against the wall at my house. The one rig
ht before she wrapped her legs around my waist, pressing her hot sex against my thick, hard cock. The one that says she’s a fighter and has something to prove. I have something to prove as well. It wasn’t enough to tell her I miss her and need her, like I did when I called all those times. I must show her how I feel.

  The pulse ticks in her neck, proving she’s tough but not invincible.

  “Name your terms,” she says.

  Greg might have been right; she is me with tits and feelings. Stubborn, confident, and never willing to back away.

  “If I win, you have to come for a walk with me. Alone,” I say that last word to everyone whose eyes are bouncing between us as we exchange quips.

  “And if I win?” she asks, wagging her head as if it’s an inevitability.

  “Then you get to choose if you want to come with me.”

  She puts her nail between her teeth, grinding against the pink polish while assessing me.

  “Deal.” She pushes off her stool and there’s a collective exhale from both our tables. “I’m breaking.”

  Greg laughs and Brett chimes in that we might as well call the game now. Sometimes I wonder why I call these guys my friends.

  Chapter 36

  Izzy

  I place my pool cue in the rack on the wall and swallow the last sip of my beer. Owen stands behind me, using his cue as a prop to hold himself up with left ankle crossed over the right. For a guy who lost, he’s awfully satisfied.

  He has good reason.

  I contemplated throwing the game so I wouldn’t face making this decision, but my pride got the better of me. It would’ve been obvious, and I’d end up doing what Owen wants, anyway. Owen didn’t leave me a choice in the challenge. Heads he wins, tails I lose. I have to go with him unless I want to look like a coward.

  “Let’s go,” I say, and give Kelsey a hug goodnight. “I won’t be long.”

  She snickers, and I clench my jaw at her. She can’t honestly think I’ll spend the night with him. I’ve put a lot of effort into avoiding him over the months. I’m not about to let it all fall apart the first chance we lay eyes on each other.

  The looks on our friends’ faces imply they think they understand Owen and me better than we know ourselves. That isn’t true. I may have allowed myself to dream about him a few too many times while listening to the messages he crafted specially for me, but that can’t be extrapolated into us being a match made in heaven. He’s calling me Princess again, for fuck’s sake.

  His hand settles on the small of my back while ushering me to towards the door. Heat fans out from his fingertips and wraps around my midsection. It’s nothing I haven’t felt before. Nothing I can’t handle.

  “Where are we going?”

  “It’s a surprise.”

  “What if I don’t like surprises?”

  When he doesn’t answer, I turn sideways to discover why. He’s got a sly grin on his face.

  We come to a traffic light and Owen reaches for my hand, holding me firm on the sidewalk. Safety first.

  “You’ll like this one.”

  Cocky much?

  My preferred response is to say that’s bullshit, but I don’t get a chance because the light turns green and he changes his grip to thread his fingers through mine, switching from holding me in place to moving us forward as a unit.

  For as much as I see a change in him, his fingers feel exactly the same. His rough, used, warm skin scratches against mine. His touch makes me nervous and calm at the same time.

  We walk a city block in silence until it seems like we’re continuing to my old street. I don’t want to be forced to learn what’s on Gran’s lot on a bet. I’d like to come to terms with it in my own time. With someone I trust by my side, who will hold me when I cry.

  Nice guy, my ass. I knew it all along. I knew I should trust my gut. I knew I should ignore Kelsey, who thinks that relationships are purely about sex.

  I remain silent, though, because I can’t let him see how scared I am. Emotional Izzy needs to stay on lockdown. I keep pace with him, fuelled by my racing heart, but when we get to the corner of 16a Street and Owen rounds the bend, I hit my mental limit.

  I yank him to a stop. “No.” I shake my head.

  He playfully pulls on my arm with a tilt of his head in the direction he wants me to keep moving. Like this is some game for him.

  “I’m not going there.” I attempt to walk backwards but don’t get far since he won’t let go of me. I wiggle my fingers trying to loosen his grip, but he grips harder.

  “Please?” he begs.

  When we were neighbours, he never would have used the word, let alone used it as a question.

  His face settles with determination, only it’s not his usual commanding or demanding look. It’s pleading, like his determination is coming from a place of burning internal need instead of perceived authority over me.

  Still, I refuse. Why would he be so cruel as to show off what he’s done to Gran’s house in the wake of leaving me all those messages about missing me?

  “I promise, I’m not being mean,” he says. Even he knows where my thoughts would wander.

  His free hand moves to my cheek and strokes away the trailing tear.

  “Why should I trust you?” My voice is shaky underneath the challenge.

  His eyes sadden and he sweeps my loose hairs behind my ear in a tender gesture. It reminds me of how he cradled my face when we were raking leaves. How protective he can be when I’m at my most fragile.

  “Have I ever lied to you?” The heavy exhale, the downturned brows, the tone, all denote the impact that question has on him.

  Excluding the incident in my backyard and the rooftop experience, wasn’t it all a lie? I think back to the major interactions we had, sure that I can recall a handful of examples in under a minute. I flip through my memories, like thumbing through a magazine in the waiting room of a doctor’s office. Then thumbing through another one. And another one.

  There were no lies. A few misleading and misinterpreted conversations, but no out-and-out lies. How is that possible with all the bad blood between us?

  Owen knows I can’t come up with an example. “You’ll like it. At least,” he stammers, and it’s the first time I’ve ever heard him be anything less than one hundred per cent cocky and sure of himself when it comes to his work. “I hope you do.”

  Why is he so concerned with how I’ll feel about the place? It’s his property and he can do whatever he wants with it. I get no say in the matter.

  Owen’s outstretched hand hangs between us, waiting for me to decide. I stare at it, contemplating the possibilities if I do and the consequences if I don’t.

  It used to be that I could count on calculated business decisions ruling his actions and conversations. This excursion isn’t a business meeting in any way. It’s emotional and, dare I say, it’s making him look vulnerable. The one other instance I’ve seen this on him was when he told me about his mom. When he was painfully honest with me.

  His voice is off too. I’ve listened to him hundreds of times. When he talks about Tommy, his expression is light. When he talks about Pops, it’s strained. Talking about Scott is always done with pride, Brett is always mentioned with caution, and Greg is spoken of with reverence and esteem.

  Tonight, each word shakes with trepidation. Like he’s worried that every syllable has to be perfect.

  Scaling back the judgement is hard. I need to remember that Owen doesn’t express himself the way I do.

  I cautiously take his hand and he weaves his fingers through mine again, leading me down the street once more. My legs feel like lead rods with cement bricks tied to the bottom and I rely on him to do most of the work getting us to our destination.

  Gran’s lot is halfway along the street and at my slow pace, it’s an eternity until it comes into view. At least it feels like an eternity because a long moment passes before I comprehend that the dwelling I’m staring at is on her lot. For all my lack of expectations, I at least assumed it
would be similar to Owen’s other homes. Rectangular, three stories, semi-detached.

  This mid-century modern house is nothing like his usual work. As stunning as his other projects are, this is spectacular.

  With a forceful pull, I yank his arm, pulling him to a stop. So many questions fill my mind that can’t fathom where to start. My mouth moves, but only air comes out.

  For lack of a better way of describing it, it’s a mid-century home on steroids. The fascia and roof are gunmetal grey providing a stark contrast with the low sheen, white stone exterior. The roof, which for this style usually peaks in the centre of the building, is modernised by being offset. The left slant offers generous overhangs above the right slant and the front of the portico. Large, floor-to-ceiling windows grace the centre of the house and follow the slant of the roofline on the right. To the left, the extra-wide custom front door slants in the opposite direction, offering mirror image in wood and providing symmetry. Both the door and windows are flanked by large, horizontal wood slats, making the door disappear into the façade of the house in a very swank, minimalist fashion.

  This is a perfect example of why I thought he’d lied to me in the past. He told me I’d like what he did with Gran’s house. He made it sound like it would satisfy or even pacify me to see what he created. I’ll admit, I like it, but I like it from a professional standpoint, not from a personal one. It feels like he lied to me, although he never promised what kind of “like” I would experience. I put my own interpretation on his veiled vulnerability. I’m a fool for hoping Owen could offer anything besides a business solution to a sentimental matter.

  The home is unreal and my body is vibrating because of it. I want to be so happy because Owen honoured my vision and then some, while at the same time, I can’t prevent the crushing feeling of my dream home belonging to someone else.

  After several hard swallows to release the lump in my throat, I finally say with a shake of my head, “Well done, Owen. It’s truly beautiful.” My speech is steely and I can’t look at him while I talk. I’d prefer not to look at the house either, but I can’t pull my eyes from it. The tears welling in my eyes obscure my vision and solve that problem.