T.J. turned his head and kissed my temple. "Morning. Want me to run to the corner and get breakfast?" he said.
"That sounds amazing, actually," I said, kissing his bare chest.
T.J. gently pulled his arm out from underneath me and sat up, stretching for a few moments before standing up and giving me the view I'd been fantasizing about for over three months.
He slipped on the jeans that were folded over the chair, and pulled a T-shirt from the closet. "Everything bagel and cream cheese?"
"And orange juice. Please."
He slipped his sneakers on and grabbed his keys. "Yes, ma'am. Be right back," he called out before closing the front door behind him.
Obviously, I didn't feel undeserving of him because T.J. was an asshole. It was the reverse. When someone this amazing walks into your bar and asks for your number before he's had a single drink, you work your tail off to keep him. Somewhere along the way, I'd forgotten that I'd managed to snag him in the first place. And then I'd forgotten about him altogether.
But the moment T.J. wrapped his arms around me in baggage claim, I immediately compared the way he held me with the way Trenton had. When T.J. put his lips on mine, his mouth was just as amazing as I remembered, but it didn't feel like he needed me the way Trenton did. I was glaringly aware that I was making unfair and unnecessary comparisons, and tried not to the moment it happened, but I failed--every time, on every level. Whether it was fair or not, Trenton was what I knew, and T.J. had become unfamiliar.
Ten minutes later, T.J. jogged back in, placed the bagel on my lap, and the orange juice on the nightstand. He kissed me quickly.
"They called you?"
"Yeah, early meeting. I'm not sure what's going on, so I'm not sure when I'm coming home."
I shrugged. "It's okay. I'll see you when I see you."
He kissed me again, quickly undressed, put on a pressed white shirt and a dark gray suit, and slipped on his shoes before jogging out the door with a tie in his hand.
The door slammed.
"Bye," I said, sitting alone.
I lay back down, looking up at the ceiling and picking my nails. His town house was quiet. No roommate, no pet. Not even a goldfish. I thought about the fact that Trenton would probably be sitting next to me on the love seat at home, watching anything with me while I prattled on about work, or school, or both. How nice it was just to have someone that wanted to be around me, in any capacity. Instead, I was staring up at a white ceiling, noticing how nicely it stood out against the clay beige walls.
Beige was so T.J. He was safe. He was stable. But anything could look good from a few thousand miles away. We never fought, but you don't have anything to fight about if you're never around one another. T.J. knew what kind of bagel I liked, but did he know that I hate commercials, or what radio station I listen to, or that the first thing I do when I get home from work is take off my bra? Did he know that my dad is a grade-A asshole, or my brothers were both endearing and intolerable? Did he know that I never make my bed? Because Trenton did. He knew all of that, and he wanted me anyway.
I reached over and checked my phone. An email from Single in Your Area Now, but that was it. Trenton hated me, and that was about right, because he asked me to choose, and I didn't choose him. Now I was lying naked in another man's bed, thinking about Trenton.
I covered my face, and cussed the hot tears as they ran down my temples and into my ears. I wanted to be here. But I wanted to be there. Raegan had asked me if I'd ever been in love with two men. I didn't know at the time that I already was. Two men who couldn't be more different, and yet were so alike. Both lovable, and insufferable, but for completely different reasons.
Dragging the sheet along with me, I climbed from the bed and walked around T.J.'s tidy town house. It looked staged, as if no one really lived there. I suppose for the most part, no one did. A few silver square frames sat atop a narrow table that stood against the living room wall. They contained black-and-white photos of T.J. as a child, with his siblings, his parents, and one of him and me on the pier during my first visit.
The television was black, the remote control sat perfectly straight on an end table. I wondered if he even had cable. He'd rarely have enough downtime to watch it. Men's Health magazine and Rolling Stone sat on top of the glass coffee table, spread apart like a hand of cards. I picked one up and flipped through it, suddenly feeling restless and bored. Why had I come? To prove to myself that I loved T.J.? Or that I didn't?
The couch barely gave when I sat down. It was light gray, tweed, with brown leather piping. The fabric felt itchy against my back. The space had a completely different feel to it compared to the last time I was there. The musky yet clean smell wasn't as appealing. The view from the large windows, with a glimpse of the bay, wasn't as magical; T.J.'s brand of perfection wasn't as mesmerizing anymore. Just a few weeks with Trenton had changed all of that. Suddenly it was okay to want messy, and flaws, and uncertainty, so much of what Trenton embodied . . . everything I saw in myself that I thought I didn't like. Because even if we were struggling, we had goals. It didn't matter that we weren't there yet. What mattered is that we both experienced setbacks, and full-blown failures, but we got up, brushed ourselves off, and kept going--and were making the best of it. Trenton didn't just make all of those things acceptable; he made getting there fun. Instead of feeling ashamed of where we weren't, we could be proud of where we were going, and what we would overcome to get there.
I stood and walked over to the long windows, looking down at the street below. Trenton had found out what I was up to, raced to the airport, and begged me to stay. If I was the one on the other side of the security ropes, would I forgive him? Thinking about him feeling rejected and alone on his drive home made tears sting my eyes. As I stood in the perfect place owned by the perfect man, I wrapped his sheets tighter around me and let the tears fall, wishing for the struggling tattoo artist I'd left behind.
I had spent my childhood craving my first day of freedom. Almost every day for the better part of eighteen years, wishes were spent on tomorrow. But for the first time in my life, I wished that I could go back in time.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I said I was sorry," T.J. said, staring at me from under his brow.
"I'm not upset."
"You're a little upset."
"No. I'm really not," I said, rolling a piece of my Marinated Steak Salad around on my plate.
"You don't like the salad?"
"No, I do," I said, acutely aware of my facial expressions and every movement I made. It was exhausting trying to prove I wasn't pouting. T.J. didn't get home until after eight thirty, and he didn't text or call the entire time. Not even when he was on his way home.
"Want to try some of my fish?" He was within two bites of finishing his Alaskan Sea Bass, but pushed his plate forward. I shook my head. Everything smelled wonderful, but I just didn't feel like eating, and it had nothing to do with T.J.
We were at a corner table, against the far wall of T.J.'s favorite neighborhood restaurant, Brooklyn Girl. The gray walls and simple but modern decor looked a lot like his apartment. Clean, everything in its place, and yet inviting.
T.J. sighed and sat back against his chair. "This isn't going how I wanted at all." He leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table. "I work fifty hours a week, Camille. I just don't have time for . . ."
"Me," I said finishing the cringeworthy sentence for him.
"Anything. I barely see my family. I talk to you more than I do them."
"Thanksgiving?"
"It's looking more likely as this assignment moves forward."
I offered a small smile. "I don't mind that you were late. I know you work long hours. I knew I wouldn't see you much when I got here."
"But you came," he said, reaching across the table for my hand.
I sat back, putting my hands in my lap. "But I can't drop everything every time you decide you want to see me."
His shoulders fell, but he was still s
miling. For whatever reason, he was amused. "I know. And that's fair."
I leaned forward again to poke at my salad with the fork. "He came to the airport."
"Trenton?"
I nodded.
T.J. was quiet for a long time, and then he finally spoke. "What's going on with you two?"
I squirmed in my seat. "I told you. We've been spending a lot of time together."
"What kind of time together?"
I frowned. "We watch TV. We sit around and talk. We go out to eat. We work together."
"Work together?"
"At Skin Deep."
"You quit the Red? Why didn't you tell me?"
"I didn't quit. Coby had some trouble paying bills. I took a second job until he got back on his feet."
"I'm sorry. About Coby."
I nodded, not really wanting to get too far into that subject.
"Did Trenton do that?" he asked, lowering his chin and looking at my fingers.
I nodded.
He took in a deep breath, just as he was taking in the reality of the situation. "So you mean you spend a lot of time together."
I winced. "Yes."
"Has he spent the night?"
I shook my head. "No. But we . . . he . . ."
T.J. nodded. "Kissed you. You mentioned that. Is he seeing anyone?"
"Just me, mostly."
T.J. raised an eyebrow. "Has he been to the Red?"
"Yes. But no more than usual. Maybe even less."
"Still taking girls home?" he said, half joking.
"No."
"No?" he asked, surprised.
"Not at all. Not since . . ."
"He started pursuing you." I shook my head again. T.J. looked down. "Wow." He laughed once in disbelief. "Trenton's in love." He looked up at me. "With you."
"You act surprised. You loved me once, you know."
"I still do."
I closed my eyes tight. "How? How could you possibly feel that way after everything I've just told you?"
He kept his voice low. "I know I'm not good for you right now, Camille. I can't be there for you like you need me to be, and probably can't for a long time. It's hard to blame you when I know that our relationship is based on sporadic phone calls and texts."
"But you told me that when we met. You said it would be this way, and I told you that it was okay. That I was willing to make it work."
"Is that what you're doing? Sticking to your word?" T.J. searched my eyes for a moment, and then sighed. He drank the last bit of his white wine, and then set the empty glass down on the side of his plate.
"Do you love him?"
I froze for a moment, feeling like a cornered animal. He'd been giving me the third degree since the server set our dinner on the table, and I was becoming emotionally exhausted. Seeing him for the first time, and then being alone with my thoughts all day . . . it was too much. I was a runner without anywhere to go. My flight didn't leave until the next morning. Finally, I covered my face with my hands. Once I closed my eyes, the tears were pushed over my lower lids and down my cheeks.
T.J. sighed. "I'm going to say that's a yes."
"You know how you know you love someone? You get that feeling that doesn't go away. I still feel that for you."
"I feel the same way. But I always knew this would be too hard on you."
"People do it all the time."
"Yes, but they talk more than eight or nine times a month."
"So you knew it was over? Why bring me out here, then? To tell me it was okay that I couldn't make it work?"
"I thought maybe if you were here, with me, we could both get a sense of what was really going on with you--if it was just too hard because we hadn't seen each other in a while, or if you really had feelings for Trenton."
I began to cry into my napkin again. I suspected people were surely staring, but I didn't dare look up to check. "This is so humiliating," I said, trying not to sob.
"It's okay, honey. It's just us."
I lowered my hands just enough to look around. He was right. We were the last two customers in the restaurant. I was so preoccupied, I hadn't even noticed.
"Can I get anything else for you, sir?" the server said. I didn't have to see her face to know she was curious about what was going on at our table.
"Bring us the bottle," T.J. said.
"Of the white?"
"Of the white," T.J. said in his confident, smooth voice.
"Y-yes, sir," she said. I could hear her shoes tap the floor as she walked away.
"Aren't they closing soon?"
"Not for twenty minutes. We can kill a bottle by then, right?"
"Not a problem," I said, faking amusement. At the moment, all I felt was sad, guilty, and ashamed.
His small, contrived smile faded. "You're leaving tomorrow. We don't need to make any decisions tonight. Or even tomorrow. Let's just enjoy our time together." He reached across the table, and intertwined his fingers in mine.
After a moment's pause, I pulled away. "I think we both already know what's happened."
With sadness in his eyes, T.J. nodded.
*
My eyes popped open when the airplane wheels touched down, and I looked around, seeing everyone around me pulling out their cell phones and texting friends, family, or colleagues about their arrival. I didn't bother turning my phone back on. Raegan would be at her parents', and my family didn't even know I'd been gone.
T.J. and I went to bed as soon as we got back to the town house the night before, knowing we both had to be up before sunrise to get me to the airport on time. He held me in his arms all night like he didn't want to let me go, but the next morning at the airport, he hugged and kissed me good-bye like he meant it. It was forced, and sad, and distant.
I pushed the Smurf's gearshift into Park, and stepped out onto the asphalt. Part of me hoped Trenton would be sitting on the cement in front of my door, but he wasn't.
San Diego had been nearly balmy, and now I was back where my breath was visible. The air actually hurt my face. How does air hurt your face?
I unlocked the door, pushed through it, let it slam behind me, and then trudged to my bedroom, falling face-first into my wonderfully messy bed.
Raegan padded down the hall in her bare feet. "How was it?" she asked from the doorway.
"I don't know."
The floor creaked under her as she walked to my bed and sat next to me. "Are you still together?"
"No."
"Oh. Well . . . that's good, right? I mean, even though T.J. hadn't spoken to you until Trent kissed you, and suddenly he bought you a ticket to California . . ."
"Not tonight, Ray."
"Trenton came by the Red tonight. He looked pretty awful."
"Yeah? Did he leave with anyone?" I peeked out from the pillow.
Raegan hesitated. "Right before last call. He was sloppy drunk."
I nodded, and then buried my face in the pillow.
"Just . . . tell him," Raegan pleaded. "Tell him about T.J."
"I can't," I said. "And you can't, either. You promised."
"I still don't understand what all the secrecy is about."
"You don't have to," I said, looking up at her, straight into her eyes. "You just have to keep the secret."
Raegan nodded. "I will."
It seemed like I'd barely closed my eyes when Raegan was shaking me awake.
I groaned.
"You're going to be late for work, Cami! Get your ass up!"
I didn't budge.
"You just took off two days, last-minute. Cal is going to fire your ass! Get up!" She clasped her hands around my ankle and dragged me until I fell off the bed, hard.
"Ow! Damn it, Ray!"
She leaned down. "It's eleven thirty! Get up!"
I looked at the clock and then jumped up, racing around my bedroom and swearing repeatedly. Barely brushing my teeth, I resorted to a bun and glasses. The Smurf didn't want to wake up, either, and she whirred like a dying cat before finally star
ting up.
The clock on the wall at Skin Deep said 12:07 when I walked through the door. Hazel was already on the phone, and Calvin stood next to her, frowning.
"What the hell are you wearing?" he asked.
I looked down at my plum skinny jeans and black-and-white horizontal-striped long-sleeved shirt. "Clothes."
"I hired you to be the hot piece of ass at the counter, and you look like my cousin Annette. What is this look?" he asked Hazel.
"Hipster," she said briefly before returning to her conversation.
"Yeah. Like my hipster cousin Annette. Next time you come in, I want to see cleavage and sex hair!" he said, holding up one finger, and then two.
"What the hell is sex hair?" I asked.
Calvin shrugged. "You know. Messy, but sexy. Like you just had sex."
Hazel slammed the phone down. "Everything that comes out of your mouth is offensive. Hot piece of ass? Cleavage? You're a walking sexual harassment lawsuit!"
Calvin wasn't fazed.
"Is it the shoes?" I asked, looking down at my favorite black combat boots.
"The scarf!" he said, pointing all four fingers at me. "What is the point in having a nice rack if you're going to cover it up?"
Hazel smiled. "It's a cute scarf. I need a black one like yours."
Calvin frowned. "It's not cute! I don't want cute! I hired a sexy, edgy bartender, and I got a hipster in a bun with no tattoos! I can handle you taking off and coming in whenever the fuck you feel like it, but it's just wrong walking around here with a clean palette for skin. It looks bad if our own employees don't trust us enough to ink them!"
"Are you about finished?" Hazel deadpanned. She looked at me. "He started his period this morning."
"Fuck you, Hazel!" Calvin snapped, stomping down the hall to his office.
"Fuck you back!" she yelled.
Calvin poked his head around the corner. "Has Bishop been in?"
"Godammit, Cal, no! For the third time today, he hasn't been in!" Calvin nodded, and then disappeared again. Hazel frowned for half a second before turning to me with a smile.
"I think I'll show him my fingers today. Might take the edge off."
"No way," she said. "Let him stew." She was quiet for a minute, clearly working up to something, and then she elbowed me. "So. California."
"Yeah," I said, cocking my head while I pulled my purse over it. I tossed my bag on the counter and then logged onto the computer. "About that . . ."
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