As much as I had moved on with my life, I hadn’t been able to get rid of my memories of her. Nor had I wanted to at first. Call me a glutton for pain, but memories of her had kept me awake for years after she had run away. Memories and regret.
I ran my hand through my hair, trying to pull myself from such dark thoughts. Instead of dwelling on how far apart we had drifted, I forced myself to choke out, “I remember. I was going to win the Wimbledon while you became a world-famous artist, and we would live with our six kids and five rescue dogs.”
I expected her to laugh, as she had howled with laughter whenever we had joked about this as kids. The dream was ludicrous—my mom couldn’t have afforded tennis lessons for me, and Tia had never graduated beyond drawing stick figures.
Instead, a flash of pain crossed her expressive face, and her eyes squeezed shut for a moment. I forced myself to stand still, to not rush to wrap her into my arms. When she finally looked up at me, the depth of anguish in her eyes knocked the breath out of me. Had I ever seen her hurt this much before? The last time we were in front of each other, she had been accusing, confused … but not sad.
Screw it.
I pulled Tia into my arms. She smelled the same—fruity, like her silly Lip Smackers. She felt amazing. There were curves that I couldn’t help react to. More than that, there was also a sense of relief in holding her again. It was as if my body had been on alert for years, but now felt safe enough to finally let out that deep breath it had been holding for so long. The unexpected peace made no sense, because part of me was not relaxed.
By instinct, because it couldn’t be by her choice, Tia’s arms came up to wrap themselves around my neck. Just like before, she stood on tiptoes to get closer, her cheek resting on my chest. I didn’t know how much time passed, as we stood there, in my bright bare kitchen, and held on.
In my tumultuous past, Tia had offered herself as a safe place for me. I had craved her warmth, optimism, and acceptance of me, even as I had acted like a selfish bastard in holding back. That craving roared back. I acknowledged the truth—I missed her.
She’s here. Show her you’ve changed. This was our second chance. We were still married for now. This time, I would be worthy of her.
Chapter Three
Tia
November 26, 2009 (never sent)
Andrew,
It’s Thanksgiving. I can’t find anything this year to be thankful about.
My mom made duck and stuffed it with rice and chestnuts. After ten years in the US, she’s still not sold on turkey. I wonder if my parents regret uprooting their lives to come to America for me to have a better life? I doubt she expected me to fail so spectacularly.
Ting
I snuggled into the unique warmth of Andrew. He might have changed. I might have changed. However, this hug took me back to feelings that I had shoved away into the dark corners of my brain. The weekends that I snuck out to visit him in college, while telling my parents that I was at friends’ houses—to just see him, to touch him—he had hugged me just like this, as if we hadn’t seen each other in months instead of days.
I had missed him, I realized. Not his body, though that was magnificent. I had missed the essence of Andrew. The way that he had held me as if I were fragile. The way he hesitated before letting me go after each embrace as if he wasn’t sure if that would be our last. The solace he gave me throughout our childhood when things didn’t go my way, the sense of peace that he provided by letting me be myself. I almost cried with relief at the familiarity and intensity of being in his arms again.
It had been too long since I felt this needed and appreciated for myself.
Just like that, I snapped out of it. As in the past, I misconstrued gestures for more. The hug meant nothing to him. I needed to remember that. Why care about someone who didn’t believe in love? Who closed himself to the possibility of happiness?
Sensing the change, Andrew’s arms fell to his sides, a defiant glint in his eyes, as if daring me to deny the electrifying spark between us.
More than anything, I was furious with myself. I felt as if I had betrayed my younger self who had shed all of those tears. No, wasted all those tears on someone who never wanted them.
Yanking back, I scrambled for the papers Andrew had laid on the kitchen table and shoved them against his chest. I didn’t get out of my comfy bed while it was still dark outside, to fly halfway around the country just to fall into a puddle at his feet. No, I had a mission, and I wasn’t leaving until he signed. I glared at him impatiently, until he sat down with a shrug at his kitchen table, head bent over the papers, a pen twirling in his fingers.
“Okay, okay, let me take a closer look first before I sign anything.” Andrew’s voice drifted over.
Standing awkwardly in his kitchen, I looked around surreptitiously. It was clean and uncluttered, as expected. Having grown up with a single mother who worked two jobs, Andrew had never understood why I liked buying things that had no practical purpose. What was the point of candles that smelled like cucumber melon? Why did I have cheesy holiday mugs when regular mugs could be used the entire year? No matter how many times I explained that drinking tea from a giant Santa mug in December was better, he would laugh and shake his head.
His kitchen and townhouse definitely reflected that minimalist streak. There was nothing on the counter except for a simple coffee pot and … huh … a candle? A soy, apple-pie-scented candle that clearly wasn’t meant to be used as a backup in case of electric outages.
I looked over at Andrew, fully expecting him to have sprouted a narwhal tusk. Nope, he was still concentrating on the papers, a frown marring his tusk-free forehead, as he made notes in the margins.
“Are you done? I haven’t got all day,” I asked.
“I’m thorough. It’s my own divorce contract.”
I left him to the contract and instead glanced around more carefully. I had so many questions about his current life, but I also didn’t want him to know that I was curious. He was a potent mix of familiarity and mystery, and I had no desire to be caught.
On second glance around his home, I saw more out-of-place touches: the small magnets from foreign cities on his fridge, the crotchet throw on the couch in the living room, a couple of framed photos scattered around. The one nearest to me, I was pretty sure was of him and his mom. The one on the bookcase was too small for me to see clearly.
I squinted. Definitely him with a female—I could just make out the long hair. Definitely not Andrew’s mom. This woman’s hair was blonde.
Bitterness washed over me. I had no right to feel anything about who he was taking pictures with or who decorated his home. I was the last person to judge him for having someone in his life. I was just surprised, that’s all. Not jealous. Not at all.
“You could get closer.”
Startled, I responded so very elegantly with, “Huh?” Very smooth. I mentally smacked my forehead.
Andrew stood up and walked toward me. His walk was no longer gangly and full of restless energy. It was confident, and it suited this grown-up version of Andrew too well.
He nodded to the living room. “Whatever you’re squinting at, you could move closer. Technically, since we’re still married, it is our house.”
I ignored the flutter at hearing him say “our” and blurted out, “Does your girlfriend know you are married?”
Confusion crossed his features for a moment, before his eyes landed on the bookcase. A smile broke out, making him look almost boyish. “Jealous, Ting Ting?”
“No! And don’t call me that. It’s a childish nickname.”
His smile widened.
“Whatever, I don’t care. I just want to make sure this”—I pointed to the papers that he was still holding on to—“isn’t an issue for whoever she is.”
Andrew sobered at the mention of the divorce papers. He nodded toward the picture frame. “She’s a friend.”
“A friend you have a framed photo of?”
“Just a friend—
nothing more,” he repeated, not quite holding my eyes.
“Where are the pictures of your other friends?”
“I don’t go around taking pictures of my friends when we’re hanging out.”
I knew I sounded like a jealous wife. I couldn’t help it. I had to know what she was to him. “Yet, there’s a picture of this friend.”
Andrew ran a hand through his hair. “Charlie thought my house was too bare. She took a selfie of us, printed it out, and put it there. That’s it. She’s a friend who thought I sucked at decorating.”
Ouch. She had a name. This Charlie was clearly important to Andrew, no matter how hard he was protesting. I wished that I hadn’t asked. I wished that I didn’t know that there was someone in Andrew’s life who bought decorations for him. Did she make the throw on the couch? For them to snuggle in? Though I had no right, I felt queasy and it had nothing to do with drinking too much tea and skipping lunch.
What had I expected when I saw Andrew again? It had been ten years, and the man was single. If I had fallen for the awkward, chip-on-his-shoulder boy, why wouldn’t there be a line out the door of women attracted to this confident, extremely easy-on-the-eyes man?
It was just unexpected, I told myself. Except it shouldn’t have been.
In the three days since my lawyer had shocked me with the news that I was still married, I had thrown myself into tracking Andrew down and working with my lawyer to get new divorce papers drafted. The longer that I was still married, the easier it would be for someone to find out. I hadn’t had any time to think about what I might find when I actually saw Andrew. After all, I had spent much of the past ten years actively not thinking about him.
“Sorry, Andrew, I didn’t mean to pry,” I said, trying to get us back on stable footing. “I was just curious. It’s none of my business. You can do whatever you want. It’s not like we were married.”
He chuckled at my lame attempt at a joke. “If you wanted to pry, I would have told you that I am single—no girlfriend, no wife.” He held up his left hand, wriggling his bare ring finger.
On instinct, I touched my own left hand. Except for a scar from a bike fall when I was a kid, my hand was smooth, unadorned. I sidestepped Andrew’s searching look. “Does everything look all right to you? I’m told they are pretty standard divorce papers.”
“Except the part where I have to also sign an NDA not to talk about the marriage or divorce,” he pointed out.
Nervousness bubbled inside of me. What if Andrew talked about this? My life was perfect. I couldn’t have gossip about the past break that image.
I tried for casual, hiding my panic. “It’s the past. I just want to make sure that it stays in the past. So, can you sign them?”
“No,” Andrew said, walking over to his fridge. “Are you hungry?”
I stared at him in confusion, before running to grab his sleeve. “Wait, what?”
One hand on the fridge door, Andrew looked down at where I was gripping his shirt. As if his eyes were glued to that point of contact. He didn’t look up as he shook his head slowly.
What the—? “Explain yourself. Why won’t you sign? You signed ten years ago. What’s different now?”
“I’m not a teenager anymore that can be forced to sign—”
“Forced?” I was livid now. Willing myself to lower my hands to my side, I clenched them until I could feel my nails digging into my palms. “Who forced you? Was it the same person who forced you to bring a random chick to our home?”
“I told you then, and I’m telling you now—she was a friend. She was having some issues at home, and she didn’t know anyone else who could help,” Andrew said evenly.
“Right, and you let her sleep in our bed. Our bed, Andrew!” I shouted. I hoped his walls were thick. Actually, I couldn’t have cared less if his neighbors heard. Let them find out how shitty of a husband he’d been. Couldn’t even last a few months, before he got bored.
“But I wasn’t in the bed with her, was I? I was on the couch, waiting for you to come home,” Andrew said. His voice was calm, but I could hear the frustration mounting.
“So you said.” I mirrored his frustration. This was the same strain of argument that we had years ago. I would accuse him of not letting me in. He would clam up. I would yell that he wasn’t trying. He would pull back even further.
“Who was she? If you weren’t so secretive—”
He shut down, just like he had years ago. “She’s just a friend, Ting Ting.”
That sentence triggered a memory that I had tried to keep buried. Ten years ago, it had been weird to find a strange person in our bedroom. I hadn’t been suspicious at first. After all, as Andrew said, he was dressed and in the living room. I would have believed him if he hadn’t been so defensive. If he hadn’t dismissed my questions with, “She’s just a friend, Ting Ting.”
No other explanations of who she was or where she had come from, just that she was a friend. He expected me to believe him blindly when he had so little faith in us, in my ability to handle the truth. The lack of further explanation drew unnecessary walls between us, and in that moment, I had finally realized that our marriage was over. If he couldn’t or wouldn’t tell me what was happening in this situation, where was the hope for us?
Just a friend. Just a friend.
I gasped in realization and marched over to his bookcase. Charlie. She looked a little older in the picture, but it was definitely the same girl. She was still stunning: long blonde hair, large blue eyes. She looked happy in the photo. Bitterly, I noted the wide smile on Andrew’s face as he stood next to her in the photo.
My heart broke. I didn’t think it was possible for my heart to break twice. The first time, I had burst. The anger had been fiery hot, scalding me, leaving me covered in fog that I had almost lost myself in. This time, I felt cold. And fragile. As if any small movements or words could shatter me into pieces that could easily be crushed.
I couldn’t tell if the pain that was hovering was from ten years ago or this moment. I just knew that I needed to keep myself together in front of Andrew. He couldn’t see me fall apart.
“Charlie? I didn’t even know her name until today,” I whispered, looking back at Andrew.
He was closer than I had expected, as if he had tried to bridge the distance. Impossible, Andrew doesn’t compromise. I’m seeing things. He didn’t move. I didn’t move. We simply stared at each other.
I broke the silence first. “I wish you had fought for us, as much as you’re fighting to protect Charlie.”
“Have you forgotten?” His eyebrows shot up, incredulity on his face. “Charlie was just an excuse for you to leave. You had a foot out of the door as soon as we got married. You were too embarrassed to tell your friends or your parents that you had gotten married until your parents showed up at our door. I asked you to give us a real chance, and you served me with papers. You didn’t even tell me to my face. I had to hear the news from your dad.”
“I wasn’t in a, um, good place to face you. It seemed easier at the time. I’m sorry for not telling you in person.” I had known then that it was shitty to do, but I hadn’t been strong enough, emotionally or physically, to look him in the eyes directly. It was pure self-preservation that had made me accept my dad’s offer to make the whole mess go away.
He raised his eyebrow, mocking my words.
I continued, “You think I didn’t fight for you? I ran away with you to Vegas of all places. I deferred Harvard to be closer to you. I tried, as much as I could at eighteen. It was hard fighting with my family when I’d always been held up as an obedient daughter. And you were running hot and cold all the time. Half the time, you seemed to regret us. How could I make any inroads?”
“Tia … I didn’t … I don’t …” He opened his mouth a couple times to continue, and each time, stopped himself.
My voice so low it was almost a whisper, I pleaded for our younger selves. “Andrew, why didn’t you let me in?”
“I never wanted yo
u to give up your family or your dreams, especially not for me. I had nothing. No money. No family net to catch us. How could we have survived?” he said in a defeated tone. “What were we thinking?”
“Clearly, we weren’t. Teenage hormones and all,” I joked sadly.
He cracked a tiny smile, as he walked closer to me until he stood just inches in front of me. In a carefully modulated voice, he said, “I’ve thought about you. I’ve wondered what you were like now.”
“You thought about me?” I squeaked.
Nodding, he replied, “Haven’t you ever wondered about me? Maybe this non-divorce is a sign.” He looked confused at his own words.
“We were just fighting,” I said slowly, equally confused. “Plus, it’s not like we ended on roses and rainbows last time either.”
Leaning in closer until only a breath separated our faces, he said, his voice dropping, “It wasn’t always so bad. We were best friends for years, and I’ll tell you a secret.”
His voice was doing funny things to me. It weaved a net of tingly feelings all around me.
“I didn’t hate kissing you. Or touching you.”
My breath caught. We were so close now, sharing the heated air between us. I wanted to lean in to this web that we were drawing around each other. His hands came up to rest on my shoulders, gliding upward. One thumb stroked my cheek, as a part of me practically purred at his touch.
No, no, no. Big mistake.
His eyes, so dark they were like the sky during a thunderstorm and just as tumultuous, held me in place. It wasn’t necessary. I couldn’t have moved. I was caught.
My hands reached for his black hair, reveling in touching him, as he closed his eyes in pleasure.
What was wrong with my body? I was overly warm, despite it being the middle of October. And, what was wrong with my mind, that I was letting … maybe even wishing for something to happen? Hoping I wouldn’t regret this and knowing I probably would, I closed my eyes and leaned in slightly.
Give Love a Chai (Common Threads Book 2) Page 2
