by DL White
"I wasn't the only one caught up in the moment, was I?”
"When someone kisses you, do you stand there? Or is it second nature to kiss them back? It didn't mean anything, Preston."
"Bullshit."
"It isn’t bullshit. You said yourself, you know I don't think about you like that."
He paces slowly, with that smile, the one I hate. The one that says he knows everything. "I don't think that's the case anymore, Angie. I think you're scared that you feel something for me."
I suppress a bout of laughter. The thought that I'd have any feelings for Preston is cute. "Where'd you get your degree in psychology, Preston? A cereal box?"
"You can't win this with insults. I saw something in your eyes that night that I haven’t seen in a long time, Angie. And I’m not talking about the kiss. We had a moment. I know you felt it.”
“You imagine the craziest shit, Preston. There was no moment.”
“You kissed me back. Pretty passionately. That wasn't an automatic reaction. You wanted to kiss me."
"I didn't."
"You did. And now you don't want to admit it because it means you might have to swallow your pride and do away with those feelings you wear on your sleeve."
"I don't want to talk about it because it meant nothing. You would assume that I’d get over whatever it is between us because you kissed me.”
“Angie–"
"No, Preston. You thought I would swoon over your heartfelt confession because you decided to grace my mouth with your tongue. I'm supposed to pine for you and wish for you to stick your dick in me because you had some grand realization that you miss me?”
"That's not—”
“Am I supposed to feel lucky to come after Stripper Name Girl? Once again, I should be happy to come after someone you fucked? I get to be your sloppy seconds again?”
Preston glares at me, nostrils flared, arms crossed over his chest and feet apart in an ominous stance. If I didn't know him so well, I'd be afraid he might hit me.
“I never slept with Jade.”
A cynical, haughty laugh falls out of my mouth. “I do not believe you.”
“That day you came by was the first day we hung out. You laid that whole Morgan's Dream Wedding guilt trip on me, and I wasn't in the mood. I sent her home an hour after you left. I haven't seen her since. I heard she quit Prime and got another job."
"Well, lah-dee-fuckin' dah! Good for her."
Preston laughs and unfolds his arms, pacing the area. The grass is flat from many, many feet doing the same. He stops and turns toward me.
"What the fuck is your problem?"
"You are my problem!"
"Okay, we're getting somewhere. How am I your problem? How can you find so much to be angry about? This can't be about a kiss."
"It's the audacity of the what now question. It's the incredulous reaction you have when I say there's nothing now. You expect us to pick up where we left off. Erase the years of hell I have been through with you–"
“Because you haven’t been a bitch since the day we broke up."
"You know why you kissed me the other night? Because you were lonely, I was breathing, I have two legs and a pussy.”
Preston huffs a laugh. "That–"
“You took advantage of my feelings for you back in high school. You knew I was naïve and you knew that I liked you. Was Stacey too much woman for you? Did you need someone you could manipulate, and I was more than willing to be that person?”
He is still now. His eyes bore into mine with such intensity I want to step back, but I won't give him the satisfaction of knowing he's made me uncomfortable. I stand my ground and glare back.
"You are certifiable, Angie. Something inside you lights up when we fight. You love to be angry. You've taken our past and twisted it around in your brain, so that you’re justified to treat me the way you do.”
Preston closes his eyes, takes a few steps back. As if he doesn't trust himself.
“I manipulated you? Please. You’ve erased all that time, those years we spent together before I ever even kissed you. You don't remember going against each other on Donkey Kong at the arcade? Or giving you all my quarters so you could play longer and beat my score? Or saving my allowance so we could go to that pizza place on Saturdays? You don't remember me making you Valentines every year? You put them up in your locker."
"I remember all of that kid stuff. So?"
“So, it wasn't all kid stuff, Angie. It’s our history. You know it, and I know it, so don't tell me I didn't care about you. Don't tell me what I didn't feel. I know I was in love with you. Whatever you tell yourself that lets you wake up every day and hate me more, that's cool. But don't wrap me and what you think you know about me up in it."
"Fine.” I throw up my hands and start to walk away from him. “Poor you, Preston. I’ve invented all of these reasons to hate you. I must have dreamt how you've treated me all these years. So cool, you’re absolved from all the hateful, ugly shit you've ever said to me. I still have crusty shit on the bottom of my shoe that is better than your client list."
"You had everything to do with turning me into the man that I am, so if you hate me, thank yourself. Am I a motherfucker? Your fault. Son of a bitch? Unscrupulous asshole? Congratulations, Angie. You made me that."
“It is not my fault that you couldn't get over me, so you're a piss poor excuse for a human being. I can’t wait until this fucking wedding is over and I never have to talk to you again."
“Same!” He hurls back. His eyes glow with fury. "Until then, I'm about to scrub the toilets at the courthouse with your law degree. Again."
He turns and begins a run back up the hill. I lean against the trunk of a tree and listen to his footsteps grow faint in the distance.
I have a knot in my neck that is the size of Preston's ego. I rub at it, kneading through the skin, but it's not going away. I am seething, shaking, but more upset at the thought of being in court with him in two weeks. Sanchez v. Bailey finally gets in front of a judge, and while I know I should win, Preston is too confident in his client and himself as an attorney. The onus is on our side to prove Phillip Bailey is a racist that violates housing laws. It should be easy.
But I’m afraid they have something up their sleeves, and I’d rather be paranoid than naïve.
I push myself off of the tree and trot back up the trail. I am exhausted, not only from a hard run, but the fight with Preston. I lobbed an ugly accusation that he didn't deserve. It hurt him. I saw that. I purposely hurt him. And although I’m confused about why, I am disappointed in myself.
When the parking lot is in sight, I slow to a walk and look toward the spot where I usually park. My car sits where I left it. Next to my car is Preston's Benz. Idling, lights on.
I head toward my car with no intention of speaking to him, unlock my door, climb inside, insert the key into ignition and start it up. I glance to the right, across the interior of my car to his. He's watching me.
I'm watching him watch me, somewhere between creeped out and pissed off. He pulls out his phone. I watch his fingers move across the keypad. My phone buzzes inside the pouch, still wrapped around my arm. I pull it out and read the text message.
Preston Reid: Waiting for you to leave so I can go home.
I toss the phone into the passenger seat, put the car in reverse and back out of the spot, roll to the entrance and pull out into traffic. In my rearview mirror, I watch Preston pull out of the lot and head in the opposite direction.
We had a vicious fight. He went back to his car. And waited for me to be done with my run so he could make sure I left before he did?
Why the fuck does he care?
15
The engagement party is a high-class affair if the line of limousines, town cars, and other luxury model vehicles lined up at the entrance gates of Vizcaya mean anything. I drive past the line to the resident entrance and use my code to open the gates, then travel the lonely, winding road to the house.
Spot
lights sweep the sky from right to left, the beams crossing at regular intervals. Beaded lights line the wooden walkway from the house down to the dock. The house is lit up as bright as Christmas. Every light in the house is on and there are people everywhere. I pull into my usual spot and press the four numbers on the security keypad that opens the door at the base of the house. I travel through the lower level and climb the steps.
I come up into the kitchen, which resembles a colony of ants if the ants were fully grown people dressed in white shirts, black ties, black slacks, and dress shoes. Matthew is in a black suit with a red tie, deftly calling out orders while plating the largest shrimp I have ever seen.
"Take that tray of champagne out. Rob, take this shrimp to Dana and then go out to the refrigerator and grab another bag. Let's keep it going. I don't want to see empty trays out there."
He lifts his head and smiles in my direction. “Hey,” he says, giving me a quick head to toe once-over, then grinning. "You look great."
My dress is a mid-thigh length, backless emerald green number. It was tight when I bought it, which is why I've been out running every day. Then Preston kissed me and I couldn't eat or sleep, so now it fits perfectly, hugging all the right curves and falling in all the right places. My stylist at Robyn Salon in Orlando refreshed my pixie cut, leaving me enough up top to have bouncy curls.
And to accessorize, glittering gold—on my strappy sandals, in my ears, around my neck, and my wrist. I borrowed a gold sequined clutch from my mother. She can't remember where she got it or why she still has it, so she'll probably never get it back.
Matthew is distracted by another member of his staff walking past him. “The stuffed mushrooms are done. Pull them out and get them on trays and out to Dana, please. And check on drinks at the bar." His employees nod and move quickly and quietly.
"I'll let you get to work. Have you seen Morgan?"
"Living room," he says, nodding to his left, already back at work arranging another tray of shrimp.
"Thanks. Make sure you celebrate with us a little, okay?" I feel bad that we've hired him for the night when he should be at Jackie's side, sucking down champagne and cramming shrimp into his mouth.
"Don't worry about me; I’m having a ball. I love this stuff." His fingers seem to know what to do to angle the bright pink tails. They're all lined up in a pretty row.
I move through the kitchen and dining room into the living room. Joe, I Wanna Know wafts from the surround-sound speakers. Tea light candles flicker through crystal holders, sending a fractured light show across the walls and the ceilings. Front and center is a larger-than-life replica of Nate and Morgan's engagement photo, a happy shot of them out on McCord family yacht at sunset. Morgan glows; Nate is beaming. They have their arms around each other and there's this... look between them.
Confidence, love, satisfaction.
If someone took a photo of me today, I don't think there would be any hint of that in my life.
The more I shove the feelings of envy and emptiness down, the more they seem to seep around the edges and ooze out. I don't know how to achieve what Nate and Morgan have. Though I went to college and law school and got a job, and I do good things, my life is off the rails.
The only way I know to get back on track is to leave.
That fight with Preston has niggled at me all week. His words echo in my ear.
I wake up every day thinking of a reason to keep hating him.
I wear my feelings for him on my sleeve; they are not good feelings.
I'm not happy unless I'm angry at him; unless he gives me fodder.
This week, he’s been quiet. No texts. No WhatsApp messages. No phone calls. He’s finally given me what I’ve been asking for, and I hate it. I've felt so lifeless without someone to make me roll my eyes and exhale exasperated breaths.
I've let Preston take up residence in my life while claiming I want him out of it. He's not going anywhere, so it's up to me. When the wedding is over and we're back from St. Lucia, I'll prepare to move on with my life.
"You’re beautiful in that green, Angie! It goes so well with your skin!”
A great skincare regimen and a little plastic surgery keep Morgan's mother, Katie, looking the same as she always has–smooth caramel toned skin, dewy and youthful, long blonde locs swept back from her face in an elegant chignon, bright whiskey-brown eyes. She and Morgan are practically twins, happy-go-lucky rays of sunshine among hardy, rough-and-tumble men. Morgan's father is a wide, burly man. His sons work for him as foremen, building commercial structures— parking decks and grocery stores and office buildings.
Katie and I share a hug and some small talk. I haven't seen her since the wedding process began, but she seems overjoyed that Morgan and Nate are moving forward. We chat for a few minutes until she drifts away for Mother of the Bride duties.
I grab a flute of champagne and take a sip, wandering the rest of the house.
Preston and Troy are grouped up in a corner, both wearing dark, well-tailored suits; Preston in black, Troy in grey. Otherwise, they look the same: white shirts open at the collar, dark shoes, and one hand shoved in a pocket, the other holding glasses brimming with liquid gold.
Preston though... the hair, the eyes, the width of his shoulders, the casual, quiet confidence of his stance. My mouth is dry, watching them across the room.
I should be happy about his sudden disappearance from my life. I'm puzzled that I'm not. I'm not out of the woods, though. Tonight is the engagement party. Then the pre-wedding festivities, and then I have to spend a week with him on an island.
Plenty of opportunities for him to get under my skin.
Troy laughs at the joke or story that Preston is telling, his cheeks full with his mirth. The hero worship between the Reid Brothers has always been apparent. I don't remember Troy ever saying anything disparaging about his brother, not even when I asked him why Preston didn't get him a job at Perry.
“He offered,” Troy said. “So did Wayne. I’m not a ball buster like him. I can’t do the shit he does, not how he does it. I wanted to chart my own course, you know? See how far I can get without asking for favors. Eventually, though? I’ll be asking.”
Preston must have hit his punch line because their laughter carries over the din of talking, romantic slow jams, dishes clacking together. Troy's gaze moves across the room as he lifts his glass. I fall right in the middle of his eye line and he freezes, lips pursed to sip. Noticing his intense stare, Preston follows Troy's gaze. Both Reid brothers are now ogling me.
The smile disappears from Preston's lips. Replacing his jovial expression is a hard stare, a crease across his forehead, a stiffening of his lips. He mutters something to Troy and turns to walk away. Troy watches him go, shaking his head.
I cross the room and clink my champagne glass with his glass. “Great party," he says, taking a few more sips. “Super classy.”
I have to agree, looking around. It looks very classy. "Preston did most of the work."
Troy chuckles. "You don't have to sell him to me, Angie."
I dip my head in gratitude and humility. “You're complimenting me on this party, and it wasn't my doing."
"Okay." He takes a few more sips of his drink and sighs. "You haven't talked to him lately, have you?"
I shake my head. "Busy week." And he hasn't been talking to me, which is all I've ever asked for, from him. And I don’t particularly like.
Troy nods and says, "Mmmhmm."
"Why?" Troy seems cagey. Is he trying to make me talk to Preston, or is something up?
"He's been a bear all week."
I wonder how much Troy knows. Does he know about The Kiss? Does he know about Preston admitting to me that he missed ‘us'? Does he know the real Stacey story?
"Anyway," he says with a sigh, pouring the last drop of alcohol into his mouth. "I'm going to refill. Need anything?"
I lift my still full glass of champagne as an answer. He ambles off in the direction of the bar across the room.
Throughout the night, while drinking, eating, talking, looking at pictures, laughing with my friends, I am conscious of Preston. He's always in the room, or in a spot where he can see me. He's always watching while pretending not to watch me. On occasion, someone will engage him in conversation, at which time I take the opportunity to move around, get out of his sight. But he always shows back up.
I don't know what it means. I don't know what to do about it, so I ignore him.
In each room is a round table laden with food, which Matthew has kept fresh and full. I grab a plate and pile on cheese and crackers. Jackie is next to me, filling up as well.
"Do you have something to share with me?”
I glance at her, hoping that my suspicion doesn’t show. Has she heard about The Kiss? “No. What?”
“Preston is lurking in the shadows of every room. What's up with him?"
“I don’t know. You know he’s weird.”
I bite into a cracker and walk away. Sure enough, a few minutes later, Preston appears. I laugh. I don't know what game this is, but he's playing it by himself.
The volume of the music rises in the next room. I recognize the jazzy sounds of Sade, By Your Side and smile. I stand in the doorway so I can watch people sway to the music, the lights low, the mood romantic and sultry.
I smell him before I hear him. Creed Aventus is a dead giveaway. "I need to talk to you."
I shake my head, vigorously, to the negative. "You've had all week... all night to talk to me. Instead, you've been following me around this house—"
"And you've been leading me." He grabs the plate from my hands, sets it on a nearby table, hooks a hand in the crook of my arm and pulls me into the next room. "Dance with me. You love this song."
"Preston…"
He turns and gives me a look. "This is a happy occasion. Please don't ruin it with a scene."
I relent and let him drag me to the dance floor. Preston pulls me into his arms, wrapping me up in high-end fabric and good smelling cologne. He places a warm hand on my back. The heat radiates through me. I feel my body flush.
