Not My Match

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  Take my heart, Devon. Take it, even if you aren’t there with me yet; use it and hold it and nurture it, and always, always wait for me.

  Devon stirs next to me in the bed, tightening his arm around me, as if he senses my turmoil. I can’t sleep. I can’t tell him.

  Moving as stealthily as possible, inching away, I ease his arm off of me, slip out of bed, grab my phone on the nightstand, and tiptoe out into the kitchen, my fingers dialing.

  “Giselle?” comes my sister’s sleepy voice. “Honey . . . it’s midnight.”

  I walk farther, putting as much distance between me and the man I love as I can. “Elena . . .” Tears fall, and I swipe them away. “Something terrible is going to happen,” I choke out.

  Rustling sounds come over the phone, and I picture her sitting up and getting out of bed. “What’s going to happen?”

  I shake my head, as if she can see me, and cling to the phone. “Susan . . . Dr. Benson—I got the fellowship, and I can’t tell Devon.”

  “Oh, sweetie.”

  I put my hand on the window in the den and gaze out at the city lights of Nashville. “I’m going to leave, and he’s going to break up with me. Everyone leaves him, Elena. His dad just left. His mama abandoned him years ago. Hannah . . . I . . . she left him for someone else. What am I going to do?” A fresh wave of remorse washes over me, and I sink to the floor. “Am I doing the right thing? Do I go?”

  There’s a long silence on the phone as I hear her breathing and picture her thinking. “How long have you wanted to go to CERN?”

  “Since I was ten years old . . .” My voice cracks.

  “How long have you been dating Devon?”

  My spine straightens. “That’s not fair—it feels like more, like he’s always been mine. I’ve known him for months.”

  “A few weeks versus years, sweetie; don’t you think the answer is obvious?” She sounds confident, and I want to bang the phone on the floor to shake some sense into her.

  “No, it isn’t,” I cry out. “I’m in love with him, Elena, so deep that I won’t ever forget him, but he’ll forget me—he will; he’ll push me away like he used to. He’ll go on with his life as if I never existed.”

  “Shh, it’s okay, it’s okay,” she croons. “Preston hurt you just a few months ago, and maybe things are moving too fast with Devon for you to really consider what your true feelings are—”

  “No, this is nothing like Preston,” I grind out, falling into more regret for the sweet relationship with my sister. “Elena, God, forgive me for thinking I wanted him, please. I didn’t know what I was doing then; I let myself get sucked into his vortex, and I didn’t love him, not like this—”

  “Shh, Giselle, please . . .” I hear her breath hitching. “I have forgiven you. You can’t forgive yourself. He manipulated both of us, used you to get to me, and when it didn’t go like he wanted, he took advantage of you, and none of it is your fault—”

  “We lost part of what we have,” I cry into the phone. “And I missed you so much those months; I couldn’t focus, and it bled out into everything I touched: my grades, my life.” My chest crumples, and I lie on the floor, staring up at the ceiling.

  “And we got us back, baby sister; we got us back,” she murmurs. “I can’t be without you, okay, and you can’t be without me, and he tried to rip it apart, but it didn’t work. You’re my friend, my mirror opposite, my confidante, my smart little sister who gives and gives. Sweetie, I should have talked to you and made things right with us from the beginning of that bastard. You’re part of the fabric of my life, Giselle, and our quilt is stronger now. You have to see that. Forgive yourself, and things will be clearer, your heart open, major decisions easier.”

  My free hand balls at her words as I rub my eyes, surrendering to the thought, letting myself finally release those leftover feelings of regret that have hovered over me like a storm cloud. I made bad decisions that cost me, but I’m only human and fallible—and so is she. “I love you,” I whisper. “Daisy Lady Gang forever.”

  “Ditto,” she replies.

  A half-garbled huff comes from my throat. “I called you for advice, and we ended up talking about us.”

  I can hear the smile in her voice. “We’ve been fine for months; you’ve just needed to find who you are and what you want. You have wonderful options: teaching, researching, writing novels . . . Devon.”

  “I just want to make the right choice this time.” Panic washes over me. What if I choose him, and he breaks my heart? He said he wouldn’t walk away, but what does that really mean?

  “Talk to Devon. Lay out your cards.”

  “If we’d just had more time together.” Turmoil swirls as a hollow feeling fills up my chest. “He suspects something . . .” I close my lids, picturing the probing looks when he carried me to bed, as if he were searching for my soul . . . “He’s afraid to ask, because he knows I can’t not tell him the truth.”

  We talk a little longer; then I get off the phone and sit in front of the window as I search the skyline for answers. Four thousand five hundred ninety-eight miles away, there’s CERN.

  When the first rays of light peek over the horizon, I pull myself together, tired and broken, my chest aching. I tiptoe back to Devon and run my eyes over his face, hypnotized by him, the high forehead, the stark cheekbones, the taut forearms with butterflies. I’m flying away from him, and no matter how many times I keep trying to convince myself our thread won’t break, my heart knows the truth.

  Lay your cards out.

  I will, I will, just not today. I slip into his arms, my cheek to his chest, listening to the steady beats as I drift off to sleep in his arms.

  Chapter 27

  DEVON

  “Numbers spiked this week. Ten percent profit, probably fall semester starting at local colleges,” Selena tells me, shuffling papers around on her desk inside her office on Thursday.

  “Hmm, right.” I frown as I glance down at the spreadsheet she put in my hands. I pace around the small space. “You need a bigger office,” I tell her, my tone distracted.

  Giselle.

  I rub my forehead, scraping down my face to my jaw. She’s up and down, one minute reaching for me with greedy hands, the next hiding her face in her laptop, barely noticing when I say something. This morning I made us breakfast, and she didn’t even complain when I ate most of the bacon.

  “Did you get me tickets to the pregame Saturday?” Selena asks.

  “Hmm, yeah.”

  “Did you get me the seats I wanted?”

  “Fifty-yard line with Elena and Giselle.”

  “Postgame room entry, so I can see all your bumps and bruises?”

  “Sure, whatever you want.”

  “Can I bring ten friends?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What about Evan, the superasshole? The one I met online who stalked me. Can he come?”

  “Fine.”

  “You don’t say. Fascinating. How about comps for that brisket vendor who puts waffle fries on the top? Plus all the drink tickets?”

  “Okay.”

  There’s silence, and I’m vaguely aware of Selena tapping her pen as I pull out my phone to see if Giselle’s texted me. I told her I’d be late for dinner, and she hasn’t replied. She had a meeting with Robert about a publisher, but that was earlier. She said something about Hobby Lobby and shadow boxes, then taking Myrtle to the doctor, but she’d still have her phone—

  “What’s up with you?” she asks on a laugh, interrupting my thoughts, as she walks over to me. “I told you you’re making bank this month, and you acted like it’s chump change. If I asked for a company car to drive the one mile from my place to here, you’d probably give it to me right now. I’d like an old-school Trans Am, white with a blue stripe down the hood—I know, redneck, but there it is.”

  “Yeah, not redneck. Sounds good. Giselle . . . something’s not right with us.” I rake my hand through my hair, unease crawling over me as I plop down on a chair. On the surfa
ce, things look fine, she and I consuming each other in heady doses, neither of us able to get enough of touching and kissing and fucking. Maybe I’m crazy to worry; maybe it’s just her mama’s prayer messing with me, about Giselle being chaste on her wedding day, and knowing I’ve pretty much shot the hell out of that pipe dream. I’m in with Giselle, and I want her, and there’s more, so much more eating at me, itching to make us permanent—wait, no, that’s crazy; it’s too fast. I’m just reaching, reeling in the off-the-charts sex and intensity of my heart wanting to cleave to hers, wanting to bind us, to kiss her every day, to make her need me like air. My thoughts shift direction, fear pricking as I replay Sunday. Was it Dr. Benson, something she said . . . ?

  But why wouldn’t Giselle tell me?

  My fingers trace one of the butterflies on my arm. Is she tired of me already? My head recalls some of the revealing shit I’ve said during sex. Am I too intense? Too needy?

  “Ah, dude, you’re crazy about her,” Selena murmurs as I look up to meet her soft gaze.

  My shoulders heave out a long exhalation, and I bend over and just . . . breathe. “Yeah. I’m fucking terrified.”

  My phone pings, and I grapple to get it back out of my pocket, to get it back in my hands and see if it’s her. Just Aiden. I sigh.

  Yo. Saw you come in. Where you at? There’s a chick out here asking for you.

  On my way, I send and stand up, relief washing over me.

  “Giselle’s here; I need to go,” I tell Selena, and she nods and follows me.

  “Cool. I need to get to know her better. I get the feeling she’s going to be around awhile.”

  I hope so.

  “You think she likes Trans Ams?”

  “Red is hers, so probably,” I say, my steps lighter, the tension loosening the closer I get to Giselle as we weave through the hallway and head out to the club. My eyes search the bar for her blue hair, not finding her but seeing Aiden at the end. I stalk his way, shifting past patrons with eager steps. My baby, my girl, my sweet, sexy scientist. I’m going to kiss the fuck out of her.

  “Where is she?” I ask Aiden, who turns to face me from his stool, a water in his hand.

  He nudges his head at the girl next to him. “Right here.” He waggles his eyebrows and leans in. “Says you guys talked about getting married. Came in to say hi. Didn’t recognize her, but she said she went to Ohio State—”

  “You’re a moron, Alabama,” Selena breathes from behind me. I’m aware of her popping Aiden on the arm and his exclamation and curse, muttering something along the lines of “What is her problem? I didn’t know it was that big of a deal.”

  The girl turns on her stool, and my chest seizes, the same hazel eyes behind thick lashes, the round face, and the straight black hair.

  “Hannah?” I say, not believing my eyes. “What are you doing here?”

  She stands in a graceful motion, petite and as curvy as she used to be, dressed in a black dress, pumps on her dainty feet. Her hair is shorter now, around her shoulders instead of down her back.

  A blush rushes up her face. “I would have called, but I don’t have your number. I messaged your IG profile, but I’m not sure you even see those.” A half grimace crosses her face. “I probably shouldn’t have done that—a bit forward of me, I suppose, but . . .” She trails off. Her voice is small and lyrical, pulling me further down into the past, into when I hung on her every word. I see her in my dorm room, telling me she’s breaking up with me. I found someone else. You have football. I have medical school. He knows me better than you do. He’s the one for me. I’m sorry, so sorry . . .

  She walked out and never looked back. I didn’t breathe right for a year, always looking for her face in crowds, wondering if she was happy, if she thought about us, if she’d really loved me at all.

  “Because you’re married,” Selena mutters, easing next to me and crossing her arms and glaring at Hannah. “You dumped my cousin, married some guy, messed with Devon’s head, and I’ve never forgotten it.”

  I hear Aiden sucking in a breath. “My man getting the shaft from a girl? No fucking way.” He scowls, darting his eyes from Hannah to me. “Nope, can’t see it. You two don’t go together. As Giselle says, no zing.”

  Hannah sighs, her eyes on me, looking for something. “Right. It’s been a long time—seven years. I’m in town with some friends and read somewhere that you owned this place. Thought I’d just take a chance and pop in and see you. You look different.” She looks at the floor, then back up to me, holding my gaze.

  And by different, she means the hair and earrings.

  “I’m living in Cleveland and started a dermatology clinic with some colleagues.”

  “Congrats,” I say, not sure why she wants me to know the details of her life. After that first year, I placed her on the shelf of people who deserted me, and I’ve never once reached to find her pages and read more. The pain of what she did lingered—not denying that—but she’s been written off, finished, closed, over. Once you hurt me like she did, once you leave me broken with scars that fester, I will rally and erase you.

  Selena looms closer to her. “Well, Devon is famous and rich. Not that you ever cared about football, but he’s the best wide receiver in the country.” She pauses. “His girlfriend is younger, prettier, and a physicist.” She lets out a derisive laugh. “She doesn’t pop zits.”

  “Selena, ease up,” I murmur. “She’s just passing through, right?” I glance at Hannah.

  “I was hoping you were free for dinner, actually?” she asks in a hopeful tone.

  Aiden’s eyes are wide, and I figure he’s still trying to understand how a girl could have dumped me. Poor guy. His heart has never been broken.

  Hannah takes my hand, her gaze soft and inviting as she takes me in, and I let her, curious and bemused about where this is going.

  “I’m in town for the weekend,” she says, an obvious meaning in her tone.

  She wants to play on the wild side while hubby stays at home.

  Have I thought about her showing up someday? Maybe.

  Did I think I’d feel this disconnected from her, even with the rawness of her betrayal? No.

  I feel nothing . . . except . . . regret that I’ve let my scars hold me back from Giselle.

  She won’t leave. She’s the real deal.

  “Sorry,” I drawl, disentangling her grasp and putting some space between us. “Don’t think it’s right to have dinner with you when there’s a beautiful girl waiting on me at home.” I stick my hands in the pockets of my slacks. “It was interesting to see you. Enjoy your visit, and tell your husband . . .” I hold a finger up. “What’s his name?”

  “Edward.”

  “Yeah. Tell him hello.” I turn, then pivot back. “Drinks are on the house, appetizers, whatever you’d like.” I give a wave and walk away.

  Glancing in the mirror behind the bar, I see Selena doing a fist pump. Aiden still looks confused, while Hannah frowns.

  She isn’t anything to me.

  No zing.

  Not even a little.

  There’s only one person in this world who holds my heart.

  I walk into the penthouse and call out Giselle’s name. With no reply, I check the place, but it’s empty. In the den, I bend down to a glass box with pics of me from high school pinned to cutesy football paper, my name in gold stickers on a goal post next to it. Grinning, I find another box, mementoes from the national championship game, the one she watched when I didn’t even know she existed. Old photos of me and Jack and Lawrence dangle from little ribbons. In the kitchen, I find one in progress, her name and mine written in script on a pink heart, a photo of us at Elena’s wedding, a plastic spider, a silver shark charm, a pic of Red, and blue butterflies laid out on the counter.

  I grin like a lunatic. “Ah, baby, you make me so happy . . .”

  After changing into joggers and a T-shirt, I text her again and hear her phone ping next to her laptop. Huh. I pick it up, my arm accidentally brushing the spa
ce bar on her computer, and her Gmail pops open. The first email has the subject line of Expedited Passports. I frown as a dark premonition crawls over me. Why would she need a fast passport?

  Oh, what if . . . no way. Giselle wouldn’t be going somewhere. Not without telling me first.

  Still, doubt slips in, hanging on to the threads of just seeing Hannah, and my mind jumbles.

  Giselle’s been strange.

  Fear wraps around my gut and sticks like cement. Heart hammering, I flinch back from her computer, shoving my hands in my hair. I hear a pounding in my ears, the echo of a drumbeat, blood rushing in my veins.

  Oh, fuck . . . nah, nah . . .