And that, incredibly, takes up the rest of the drive. It doesn’t seem possible an hour has flown by, but here I am, pulling up in front of Theo’s apartment building, and she’s reaching for the door.
“Hey, wait.” I rest a hand on her knee before she can go. “Am I going to see you later? You never gave me an answer.”
“I think I should get some sleep tonight. But I would love to walk around the new restaurant space later this afternoon. Do you mind if I go without you?”
“No, not at all. That’s why I gave you the key.” I frown. “But you can have orgasms and sleep, you know. I promise to let you sleep as late as you want tomorrow and fetch you breakfast in bed.”
“Tempting,” she says with a smile, “but I sleep better alone. It’s what I’m used to.” She opens the door and steps out, leaning down to add, “Goodbye. Thanks for last night, for the song and…everything else. And good luck with Megan. I hope it all works out for you two.”
“Thanks,” I say, that tight feeling snatching at the back of my throat again.
Theo slams the door, and I pull away from the curb, but the uncomfortable wrongness doesn’t fade. I just feel worse— tighter and more fucked-up—the farther I get from Theo.
Something isn’t right with her. She’s hiding something from me, and as soon as I get things with Megan sorted out, I’m going to figure out what. If Theo’s feeling guilty about having sex without feelings involved, she needs to snap out of that crazy real quick. There are feelings involved with us, just not the kind of feelings that end in a messy breakup or teeth-gnashing regret.
And there’s no reason Theo and I shouldn’t enjoy each other for the rest of our pretend relationship, or until one of us wants to commit to someone else. After food and shelter, sex is way up there on there on the list of “Things Adult Humans Need to be Happy.” It’s silly to deprive yourself of the fun and comfort of naked coed orgasms just because you don’t happen to be in a serious relationship at the moment.
These are all things I truly believe.
Things I’ve believed for a long time.
But for some reason, my business-as-usual thoughts leave a sour taste in my mouth.
“I need more fucking sleep,” I mutter as I pull into a parking space a few doors down from the donut shop and scan the lot around me.
There are only a few cars on this side of the mini mall. Most of the traffic this time of day is for the health food store, where the hippies of Hidden Kill Bay drift inside with empty cloth bags and drift out with bulk nuts and herbal teas and tofu shaped like pot roast.
Megan was always a tofu fan, but she must shop at the swanky new all-organic store by my dad’s place since she said her ex won’t expect her on this side of town.
Megan. That’s where my head has to be right now. She needs me. If her ex is as crazy as he seems, it might literally be a matter of life and death.
There will be time to sort out the weirdness with Theo later, hopefully over Thai takeout at her place tonight. If I show up with all her favorites, there’s no way she’ll kick me to the curb. And once her belly is full of curry and I’ve given her a foot rub she’ll never forget, she’ll be begging me to spend the night.
A tiny, stupid part of my brain gets excited about the idea of Theo on her knees, begging me to take her to bed, but the rest of me shuts that shit down real quick. My logical mind knows it isn’t going to be that easy, and that there’s a decent chance last night was the only night I’ll ever spend with Theo.
The thought makes me physically ill.
Or maybe I just need something to eat other than a fucking pastry.
That’s it. I’ll get a bagel sandwich at the donut shop, and everything will be fine. Just fine.
I try my best to believe it, but the tight, ugly, no-good feeling in my stomach warns of trouble on the horizon.
Chapter Twenty
Theodora
I almost call Bridget back and confess everything—the fake relationship with Cutter and the real agony squirming through my heart and the certainty that I’ve made a horrible, irreversible mistake—but instead, I force myself to jump into the shower.
I don’t want to ruin her honeymoon, and the shower is the best place for me right now. The hot water will wash Cutter’s scent from my skin, and I’ve always done my best crying in the bathroom with the water running and the steam soothing away the ache in my chest.
I don’t want to cry.
I want to be a chill, sex-positive grown-up who can handle waking to hear the man I’m falling in love with call another woman “sweetheart” and be okay with it, but I’m not. At all.
Hearing Cutter comforting Megan in that soft, heartfelt voice first thing this morning was like having open-heart surgery without anesthesia, so physically painful that for the first few moments I couldn’t breathe without sharp jabs of agony shooting through my ribs. But somehow, I managed to pull myself together and play it cool the entire way home.
Cutter doesn’t seem to suspect a thing. He thinks we’re going to be buddies with bennies and the world will keep spinning the way it has before.
But it won’t. Not for me.
I’m falling for him. I don’t want to share him with Megan or anyone else, and there’s no way in hell I’m going to be able to keep this fake relationship going much longer. I have to think of a way out, a solid lie that will set me free without Cutter figuring out that I’m a pathetic loser who actually thought that song he sang last night meant something.
But now I know it didn’t. He might like the reflection of himself he sees in me, but he loves Megan and wants to spend the rest of his life with her.
The thought of them living happily ever after with Megan’s sweet daughter and whatever beautiful, blond unicorn babies they’ll have together makes me sob even harder. By the time I step out of the shower, it feels like someone’s been using the backs of my eyes for punching bags, and I can’t breathe through my nose.
I shove my red dress to the bottom of my laundry bag—if it weren’t the one nice cocktail dress in my wardrobe of casual wear and kitchen clothes, I would throw the stupid thing away. Then I pull on leggings, a T-shirt, and my running jacket.
I already feel like shit, so I might as well get some exercise while I’m at it.
Even though my last foray into fitness ended badly, I promised myself I’d give running another try. I’ve always wanted to be a person who runs, one of those determined souls who can fit exercise into their day no matter where they happen to be in the world or what’s going on in their lives.
Runners are practical, disciplined people. Runners do not get swept away by stupid romantic feelings or confuse fantasy with reality.
And running boosts endorphins as much as sex. Probably. Or nearly as much. I’m not a scientist, but I’m sure I’ve read something about that.
I don’t need sex; I need a nine-minute mile.
Or maybe a ten-minute mile…with a couple of breaks for water.
Slipping the key to the new restaurant into my pocket along with my house key, my phone, and five dollars in case I need emergency coffee on the way home, I pound down the stairs and through the front door to my apartment building.
Outside, the air is warm, and the sea breeze smells fresh and clean. It’s an invitation to start anew, to leave yesterday’s mistakes behind and move into a better, brighter tomorrow.
I should feel inspired. Hopeful.
Instead, I barely make it three blocks before my eyes start to sting again, and my aching lungs stage a dramatic protest to jogging and fresh sea air.
I slow to a walk and pull out my phone, hitting Colette’s number. When she answers, I ask in a breathless rush, “I’m sorry, but are you busy? If you’re busy, I can call back later.”
“No, I’m not busy. I’m about to break for lunch in thirty minutes. You want to grab soup and salad with me at Hugo’s? I’ve been craving a cup of their clam chowder all morning.”
“Gross.” I wrinkle my nose. �
��They leave the corn out of their recipe.”
“Right. I hate corn.”
“How can you hate corn? Corn is nature’s veggie candy.”
“Gag. I’d rather eat a bucket full of slugs,” Colette says pleasantly. “So are you up for lunch or not? They do have things other than corn-free chowder, you know. Like chili and potato soup and that yummy grilled eggplant thing with the mint leaves.”
“Yes, I’d love to meet you for lunch,” I say, my bruised heart latching on to the offer like a life preserver in a frigid ocean. “I could use some girl talk.”
Colette makes a sympathetic noise. “Trouble in paradise?”
“How could you tell?”
“You sound like you’ve been crying or you have a head cold. But you never get sick, so…”
I sigh. “I have been crying. I’ve been so stupid, Colette. I never should have started something with Cutter. I knew he didn’t have feelings like normal people. At least not feelings for me.”
“I don’t think that’s true, honey.”
“No, it is,” I say, kicking a rock along the sidewalk. “It’s all true.”
“I don’t know. I saw you two making goo-goo eyes at each other on the street corner yesterday on my way to pick up more thread at the fabric store. Cutter looked pretty smitten to me. Maybe he’s just having a hard time expressing his emotions. A lot of men do, especially guys who have managed to put off having feelings for so long.”
“That’s not the problem.” I shake my head and veer right to avoid a double stroller boasting adorable twin toddlers. Colette is right about there being babies everywhere around here. It must be so hard for her, but she keeps her chin up, and so can I. “But it’s okay. I have plenty of things on my plate right now. I don’t have time to be in love.”
“Aw. That’s not true. There’s always time to be in love.”
“I quit my job yesterday, and according to the calculations I just made in the shower, I have exactly four months to get my new restaurant off the ground before I’m flat broke.”
Colette gives a startled squawk that makes me even more fretful for the future. Colette isn’t usually a squawker—she’s way too glamorous for that. If she’s already at an animal-noise level of concern, I’m in deeper doo doo than I thought.
“Okay, forget half an hour,” she says. “Meet me at Hugo’s as soon as you can get there. We need girl talk. Now.”
“It’s all right, don’t worry. I’ve got a plan, and everything is going to be okay,” I tell her, hoping it’s the truth. “And I can’t get there until noon. I have to swing by the new restaurant space and take some measurements to send to my backup interior decorator. He doesn’t have the same street cred as my first choice, but he might be able to start sooner.”
“Or I could do it for you for free!” Colette says, excitement creeping into her voice. “You know I have a degree in interior design, right?”
I trot across the street, hurrying to avoid getting run over by a car careening around the corner to beat the yellow light. “No, I didn’t. I thought you majored in fashion design.”
“No, I stumbled into fashion design by accident while I was interviewing after college, but my first love is for making fantastic shared spaces. And I already know you so well that I’ll be ten steps ahead on creating something that will reflect your unique approach to cooking and your personal aesthetic!”
“That would actually be amazing,” I say, a genuine smile stretching my face for the first time today. “But I insist on paying you. I’ll pay you what I was quoted by my first choice.”
“Thank you, but I don’t want your money. I just want dinner once a week at your soon-to-be famous restaurant for the next ten or fifteen years.”
“How about both?” I ask, cutting her off when she starts to protest. “All right, all right, we can fight about it over lunch. But why don’t you come down and see the new space first? That way you can check out your blank canvas in person.”
Colette squeals softly. “Yes! This will be so much fun! I’ve been dying to design something bigger than a bikini bottom. I’ll be there in ten minutes. The old oyster factory, right? Cutter’s building?”
Sobering swiftly at the sound of Cutter’s name, I confirm, “That’s the one. Ground floor on the east side. I’ll leave the door open for you. I’m headed in now.”
“See you soon, and don’t you dare think about finding a different space because you and Cutter are going through a rough patch. That location is perfect.”
I stop in front of the darkened restaurant, huffing beneath my breath. In the glass, my reflection huffs back from the door to my future. “How did you know I was considering that?”
“I know a thing or two about you, Theodora. And I know this isn’t the time to pull away from the people who want to help you. And Cutter is one of those people. Whether you two end up together for the long haul or not, he wouldn’t have offered you that space if he didn’t believe in you and your ability to run a first-class restaurant. See you in a bit. I’m heading out the door now. Just have to swing by Mallory’s office first and tell her I’m leaving for the day. I have a feeling our lunch is going to run long.”
“Thanks, friend.” My throat is tight with emotion as I hang up and pull the restaurant key from my pocket. I might not have a ton of family or friends, but those I do have are top-notch.
And she’s right. Cutter is far more generous than I realized when we were younger, but he also wants his building to become an exclusive place to live. Having an amazing place to eat on the ground floor is part of that. He wouldn’t have trusted me with this kind of responsibility if he didn’t think I could hack it. Not even to win Megan back.
At least, I don’t think he would go that far…
I step into the shadowed room Cutter and I toured together on Thursday, and the heaviness Colette had briefly lifted from my heart settles back into place. The lights are off and the windows covered with blackout paint, but enough light filters in to illuminate the large, roughed-in bar waiting at the center of the space and the pair of stools Cutter pulled out of the storage room for us to sit on while we chatted about what kind of vibe he’d like to see in the main dining room.
He wants cozy speakeasy, and I’m leaning toward dark Art Deco style wood with touches of brass, but our visions aren’t that far apart. I’ll have to run our ideas by Colette to know for sure, but I think it will be relatively easy to combine them into something really special.
We have more in common than I ever imagined, but in the end, we’re still too different to make it as anything more than friends.
You’re not too different. He just doesn’t love you, Theo, that’s the problem.
I flinch at the thought, but the inner voice is right. Cutter is capable of love, just not of loving me.
For the first time in ages, I feel like Teen Theo, that awkward kid who never knew the right thing to say and was invisible to the unicorns of the world. But this is so much worse—to have been seen, but only for a fleeting moment.
Last night I was the sole focus of Cutter’s radiant light. Last night we were as close as two people can get and fell asleep tangled in each other’s arms. And now I’m alone, and he’s with another woman, and the world is so much colder than it was before I knew what I was missing.
But I’m like this bar—a place Cutter will hang out while he’s waiting for a table, but nowhere he’s going to settle down and stay for any length of time. And I knew that from day one, and I did this to myself, anyway.
How fucking stupid am I?
Really fucking stupid.
I’m on the verge of tears again, swiping at my eyes and sniffing so loudly I don’t hear anything but my own misery. It’s only when I feel the cool rush of the sea breeze that I realize someone must have opened the door and come in.
“Sorry, Colette. I’m pulling myself together, I promise,” I say, spinning with a wobbly smile, only to freeze in startled fear.
Because that isn’t
Colette.
I have no idea who the man in the dark blue windbreaker is, but he doesn’t have good intentions. I know that the moment his flat gaze meets mine.
“I’m sorry, but we’re not open.” I try to project authority, but I sound about twelve years old…and scared. Standing straighter, I deepen my voice and insist, “You’ll have to leave.”
He doesn’t say a word, and he doesn’t turn to go. He starts toward me, stalking slowly across the open space with the confidence of a predator who knows his prey has nowhere to run.
“Seriously, you need to get out of here.” I back away, scrambling to remember how to get to the rear exit.
Is it through the kitchens or down the hall by the bathrooms? If I choose the wrong way, I could be trapped. I know there’s a door in the kitchen that opens into the back hallways that will eventually connect the employee entrances of all the ground floor shops and restaurants, but it was locked the last time we were here.
My best bet is to keep trying to get Windbreaker to leave me alone. “My interior designer is going to be here any minute.” The creep shows no sign of slowing—he acts like he can’t even hear me—so I reach for my phone. “And I’m calling 911 right now.”
He hears that, all right. The phone has barely cleared my pocket when he rushes me. Startled, I scream, dropping the phone as I turn to run, heading instinctively for the kitchen.
Wherever I am, the kitchen has always been my safe space. From the snug galley kitchen in my parents’ house, to the laughter-filled kitchen at Hurry Curry growing up, to the drama and high-powered dinner services at Claudio’s for the past years, kitchens are my territory.
But I don’t know my way around this particular one, and I race inside to find no back door leading to the street. There’s only the door in the corner by the eye-flush station, the one to the back hallway that had been locked last time.
Unfortunately, there’s no time to change course. I don’t look back, but I can hear Windbreaker crashing into the room behind me, so close his swiftly drawn breath feels like it’s rushing in my ears as I sprint through the shadowy space. I hit the bar in the center of the door at full speed, smashing it down with a soft cry of relief as it gives. I tumble through to the other side and keep running through the dark, my heart in my throat.
Bang on Loosely Page 17
