by DL White
By instinct, I lay one arm across his shoulder and a hand against his chest. His heart beats a steady thump under my palm. We begin to move in time to music. I remember the last time I danced a slow dance with Preston, and then try to forget it, because what I felt him then rolls back to my memory, too.
His movements are fluid, rocking with the gentle lull of a wave tossing a boat from side to side, slowly turning us in a tight circle. It's easy to close your eyes and get lost in the rhythm of dancing with him. It’s hypnotic. And so… so erotic.
"In the spirit of us getting along," he says quietly. "I apologize for last week, at the trail. I was out of line." His gaze gives a note of sincerity. His whole face, his countenance is sullen. I'm not used to seeing that in Preston.
"Thank you. I appreciate your apology. I’m sorry, too.”
“And I’m sorry that I made you uncomfortable with the kiss.”
“You're sorry you kissed me?"
"Didn't say that."
A petulant, frustrated huff escapes. "Then what–"
"I should have asked. I shouldn’t have forced it on you."
I hadn't thought of it that way. I was too busy reliving it over and over.
"I didn't mean it. What I said, you know, about you not caring about me, back then."
"Yeah."
"I know you loved me."
"And you loved me. But the question is, Angie, do you still love me?"
I almost choke on the air, mostly because I don't know how to answer. I quietly laugh instead.
Preston smiles, but the undertone is sad. "Okay. I'm a glutton for punishment."
He's quiet for a few moments and then says, very softly near my ear, "The thing is, Angie? I think I still love you.”
I'm dumbfounded, not even all there at the moment. We're moving in time to the fading strains of one song into the swelling notes of another. I haven't made a move to be relieved of his arms or his scent, or these words that I must have known were coming, and yet I am surprised.
"You don't have anything to say? Nothing snide or sarcastic? No smart-ass commentary?"
"You seem to have my reaction covered. I don't need to say anything."
He chuckles. "There she is, my spitfire, Evangeline." I tense up; try to step out of his embrace. He tightens his hold on me. "Finish out this dance with me. There’s more that I need to say."
I relax, but promise myself that when this song is over, I will put an entire room of people between myself and Preston.
"This case we're supposed to argue next week—you're going to win."
Win? "What do you mean?”
"On Monday, you're going to get a motion to settle and dismiss the case. I'm making Bailey cut his losses. I know he's wrong, he knows he's wrong. He'll spend a hundred grand not to lose and I’m done playing the game. It’s over."
He swallows hard and exhales, which makes his shoulders drop. "And I'm leaving Perry.”
I almost trip over my own feet. Preston catches me and keeps moving.
"You're right. About my job.” His brow furrows. “Fuck the job, I hate the job. I hate how it makes you hate me, makes you disrespect me, makes you think I want to represent people like Bailey. Everybody has the right to representation." His bottom lip disappears between his teeth. He has the most wistful expression on his face. "That representation won’t be me. Not anymore."
"Preston, you could have just not followed me around Orange County District Court all of these years. You don’t have to quit Perry to make a point to me.”
“I’m not. Aside from all these years we’ve been at opposing ends in the courtroom, I truly don’t want to work for Perry anymore. And I truly don’t want to be your enemy anymore.”
Before I can respond, because I don’t want this man to quit his job over me, Preston barrels forward.
“I don't deserve the slightest consideration from you, Evangeline. But I’m hanging a lot on the hope that if that kiss awakened the thinnest thread of feeling for me, that you'll let yourself explore it. You kissed me back, and you wouldn’t have, if there wasn’t something there. You should think about giving me another chance."
It is the first time in decades that Preston has asked for another chance. I have dreamt about this moment, so I could break his heart when I told him no. And get great joy from doing so.
But those words don't come. The need for vengeance, the desire to destroy him… it isn't there. I don't have it in me to look at this man and tear him down.
"Don't say anything right now. But think about it and be brutally honest with yourself. There’s so much riding on your answer."
As if I need anything else to confuse me, he dips his head to kiss me. It's nothing more than a soft, sweet press of his lips that lingers for a few seconds, but it has the same effect as the kiss from weeks ago. Butterflies take flight throughout my body; goosebumps break out in waves, despite the flush that crawls along my skin.
The song ends, and he steps back, freeing me from his grasp. "By the way…you look amazing tonight."
He gives me a single nod, then steps around me, leaving me on the dance floor by myself, looking and feeling confused.
16
The evening passes in a shimmery fugue. I chat with Nate's dad and Morgan's grandfather. I remember the champagne toast and Preston’s speech, something about knowing both Nate and Morgan their whole lives, so he couldn't imagine anyone better for either of them.
I leave the way I came in and drive home in the same fog, slowly becoming aware that the words that fell from Preston's mouth were real. And while I have hoped for this moment for so long, the emotions I expected as a reaction are a no show.
Without the self-righteous anger and hurt, I am disarmed and unprepared.
You should think about giving me another chance.
I pull into my parking spot and climb the steps to my apartment. As I close the door, My phone chimes from inside the sparkling clutch. I grope for the hallway light and flip the switch, then zip open the purse and dig out my phone.
Preston Reid wants to begin a FaceTime session with you. Click yes to participate.
With my heart slamming around in my chest, I press yes. The screen is dark, but I make out Preston's face and shoulders. His jacket is off, his tie loosened, and his shirt lays open. He looks tired, but not in a bad way. His eyelids are drooping, halfway closed.
"You made it home?"
"Just now. Yes."
I walk to the living room and sit on the couch, holding the phone aloft, so the screen stays on my face. Then I realize he's not at home. He's in his car.
"You already knew that, didn't you?"
His smile is faint, a hint on his lips. "Maybe," he says.
"So, you're going to sit outside my apartment all the time now?"
He exhales a long, slow breath. “I wanted to make sure you got home."
"I'm home, Preston.”
"So you are." He stares at me via the screen. I stare back. "So, tonight..."
Here we go; the part where he takes back everything he said because it was a mistake. And we move on with our lives because that's the way it should be.
"I don't want you to… well, don’t freak out about what I said."
"About how you think you still love me?" He nods briefly. A short bob of the head up and down. "What makes you think that, after all this time?"
"That night at my house, and that moment that you say didn’t happen, that totally happened?”
I avert my gaze, knowing full well what he means.
“That night was a dream. You were beautiful, and the table looked great, and I was excited to be sharing the same air with you. The whole scene was… for a split second, I let myself think, what if this was us, for real?”
He licks his lips. I watch his Adam's apple bob as he swallows a few times. "I was a little sad when I realized it wasn’t real. You don’t want that with me. But right then, I knew that… that that's all I've ever wanted. You're all I've ever wanted, Evangelin
e. I can’t pretend that's not true anymore."
I feel the need to swallow a few times myself.
"You’re still angry. I get that. I haven't helped that situation. I egg you on because even if you hate me, it’s something. It would be worse if you didn't care."
A key into a lock. Everything clicks into place. My throat seems dry, suddenly.
"I haven't been on my best behavior either. I've been pretty bad, especially recently."
His low laughter crackles over the phone line. "Weddings bring out the worst in people."
"Especially when your best friends are unintentionally flaunting what you should have had."
“We were never going to be like Nate and Morgan. They have an uncommon connection. We can't duplicate them. Maybe I'm wrong, but you were mad that I took away the possibility that we could be like them."
My eyes drop to my lap. I can't look at Preston, at his face, and admit that all of this strife has been because I was jealous of Nate and Morgan.
"I had a long conversation with Nate the other night."
My eyes rise to the screen again. "Yeah?"
"Mmmhmm. About why they're getting married finally. I think you should ask Morgan about it."
"She never answers me when I ask. She dances around the question and then gives me some non-answer."
"Ask her again. You're clinging to something that doesn't exist. Basing something you wanted for us on a myth. And you've been angry at me about it for the last two decades.”
Why is my world turning upside down right now?
"Just wanted to give you some things to think about."
“Okay. I… will think about it.”
Preston gives me a solitary nod. He seems ready to hang up, but I’m not ready yet. "Well, so…what are you going to do about your job? Go to another firm? Do you have an offer?"
"The situation is spotty. I'm not ready to talk about it yet, but I'll fill you in soon."
This new information has me reeling; my head is spinning, twirling in time to my world flying entirely off its axis. I cannot take this night anymore.
As if he can sense my near panic attack, he says, "You're home, so I can go home. But…please think seriously about what I told you tonight."
I nod. Preston brushes two fingers across pursed lips and touches them to the screen. And then he is gone.
Preston Reid has ended this FaceTime session. To reconnect, press OK.
I remove my jewelry, peel off my dress, kick off my shoes and crawl into bed in my underwear, face full of makeup and all. I pull the covers up over me. And lay there.
On my mind? In every thought? Lurking around every corner?
Those whiskey brown eyes, those lush twist curls, those full, soft lips. The sound of his voice. The warmth of his skin. The weight of him on me, around me. His hands, large and manly and possessive. The thought of being with him sends my brain into a tailspin.
My life is, yet again, all Preston, all the time.
I don't mind.
17
A half-written document taunts me, the cursor blinking in rhythm to the tapping of my pen against the hard plastic frame of my laptop. I’m thinking. Daydreaming.
About the kiss at Preston’s house. The kiss at the engagement party. The call that night. The scratch of stubble against my cheek. His lips, his tongue, his mouth. He always did kiss well. He still knows which buttons to push.
True to his word, a courier showed up Monday morning with Perry's motion to settle the case of Bailey v. Sanchez. In return, my clients would drop their claim against Bailey and pay the insurance deductible, which they've already agreed to do.
I feel guilty about the flowers and the cake and the celebration. I didn't win. Preston gave up. But at F&R, it doesn’t matter how you win.
The week is whizzing past me. I had planned to take some well-earned and much needed vacation days before flying to St. Lucia. I had three days in the office to get the open cases to a point where I could pick them up when I came back.
Troy finds me in my office. He’s been in court all day, so he’s dressed to impress in tan Calvin Klein, a colorful tie and chocolate brown shoes. I give him an obvious once over and smile my approval. His brother must have taken him shopping. Not only is he looking great lately, but I see the Preston influence in the cut and the style.
“Who’s a winner? You’re winner!”
I wave him off, but I’m giving a wide smile as I do so. "Aw, it's nothing. Only my first win against the infamous Preston Reid. A day for the record books. That's all."
He laughs while slipping off his jacket. There are sweat circles under his arms and droplets of moisture at his waistline. “It sucks that you had to beat my brother to get such a historic win, but I’m proud of you."
"Thanks." I glance back at my desk covered in folders, notepads, my laptop, my phone and pads of Post-It notes. "Now, if everything else goes smoothly, I won't feel guilty about taking time off. You're ready to go?"
He nods vigorously. "Getting excited about it. I can't wait to hit that beach. I might go nude out there."
"Remember we had that talk about things we don't need to know about each other?”
Troy bunches his jacket together in one fist and moves toward the door. "I'm in the office all week. Throw anything at me that you want me to watch or handle for you when you're out."
I give him an appreciative nod as he steps out. I function best with a lot to do and a variety of work. It keeps my mind busy, full of law and task lists. I don't have time for my brain to drift to thoughts of Preston, of the things he said to me while we danced. Of the confessions he made to me in the shadows. I don't have time to remember the grit in his voice, the pull of emotion at the edge of his words.
You're all I've ever wanted, Evangeline.
There are two sides to me in a bitter battle. One side is staunchly against believing anything Preston has to say. It can recall every hurtful word; the disgust at having to watch him parade new women in my face; the callous and careless way he's treated me for the last eighteen years.
The other side of me knows that I’m not seventeen anymore. That people change and evolve and maybe peace can be found in letting go of stupid shit from high school. I knew it was dumb to hang onto all that hurt and pain. It was that Preston was always there to remind me of it.
And instead of forgiving him and moving on with my life, I used it, as he put it, to stay angry. As long as I was angry, I couldn't forgive him.
Because if I forgave him and forgot about all that immature self-righteous anger, I might remember how deeply I felt for him. I might think about what he said out by the fire pit that night, how we had been best friends one day and nothing the next; attached at the hip, and then it was as if a body part was removed.
I might remember that I miss him, too.
Hours later, I give up and start to shut things down. At this point, it's paperwork. I pick up my bag, slipping the handles over my shoulder, push in my chair and take one last look at my desk. I close and lock my office door.
By the time I reach my car, there's a bounce to my step. Work is already the furthest thing from my mind.
"I want to thank the geniuses that planned this wedding in October, not next year when I can drink." Jackie sends me a playful glare before she takes another sip of her spritzer.
The wedding party girls gather for drinks at Prime. Jackie has to make do with ginger ale and juice. She asks the waitress to serve it in a martini glass.
We're a rowdy bunch, loud and cackling with laughter at everything, pulsing with the mounting, palpable excitement of a week on an island, far away from civilization.
“It’s okay," Morgan sings. She’s on her fourth or fifth drink. I’ve lost count. Her thin arms flail, giving away her excitement and alcohol-fueled emotion. "I'm ready to give up autonomy and chain myself to a man until I die.”
"Hey, Morgan. Let's go outside for a little bit. Get some fresh air."
I grab her arm and help he
r off of the barstool, then guide her toward the door. It's too early for Morgan to be incoherent and swaying in her seat. We walk a few steps down the sidewalk. Morgan takes long, deep breaths as if this will help her sober up. In between breaths, she's rambling about the wedding. She's always rambling about the wedding.
“While I have you out here, I need to ask you about something," I say, interrupting her stream of consciousness. "I've asked you about it before, but a little birdie told me to ask you again."
Morgan walks to the curb and plops herself down on the sidewalk, stretching out her legs in front of her. Her skinny jeans are painted on, her stiletto heels shiny and covered in gold sparkles. They match her blouse, which is red with gold glitter. Despite her drunken state, she is glowing. Despite her nervous mumblings, she looks happy.
"Shoot," she says, patting the concrete next to her. I sit, trying to think about how I'm going to bring this up.
“Preston said that…well, that I should ask you about—”
"You want to know about why Nate and I are finally getting married. After all this time, for no reason. Right?"
I wince but nod. "Yeah. Preston mentioned that he talked with Nate and-"
"And Nate spilled our secret." Morgan chews the bright red Fenty shade off of her bottom lip for a few seconds before tossing up her hands in surrender. “Welp. Storytime. Brace yourself."
"Okay. Braced."
“You remember when Nate did his residency in Atlanta?"
I nod. Morgan had completed her degree and took bit parts in city plays here and there while Nate was in med school. They prepared to move to Atlanta together, but she never made it. An opportunity to lead a production at Orlando Repertory Theatre delayed her by six months. Then she covered a short-term acting workshop for her favorite drama teacher during his paternity leave. A year later, she landed a job casting at Universal.
Three years of long-distance love with Nate and Morgan is not an experience that I want to repeat.
“He wanted to match anywhere outside Orlando, because he felt that he should get out from under his dad’s thumb, from this place he knows so well. The medical community around here has known him since he was a kid."
