by S. M. West
“You were dealing with a lot and like you said, you didn’t do it deliberately. Hell, you didn’t exactly put a gun to my head and force me to break up with Pippa, that was my fucking brilliant idea.”
He chuckles at my sarcasm, and I follow suit, looking for an exit from the emotional territory we’ve wandered into. I knew I should have fled before the damn garter throwing.
“Yeah, but I used my guilt and my fears against you. And it hurt you and Pippa.”
Itching to move past the touchy-feely stuff, I nod and search for something to say.
“Ah, I hate to ask but…” His gaze holds mine uncomfortably.
“What?”
“My therapy. Do you—” Grabbing his neck, I pull him in for a hug, understanding what he’s getting at and not wanting to prolong his misery.
“Finn, I forgive you.” We separate and he’s smiling. “For what it’s worth, I don’t blame you. Someone was bound to get hurt and I fucked up because I didn’t want to lose your friendship. And as hard as it may be to believe, I didn’t get that choosing you meant losing the love of my life.”
Now it’s my turn to get choked up. Dammit.
“What are you guys doing out here?” Paige pushes through the doors with Cass behind her, breaking our moment, and I’m partly grateful and partly annoyed.
Now it’s three against one. So long, getaway.
“I’m leaving.”
“What? No,” Paige says.
“Yeah,” I say, even though it’s futile.
“Why?” My sister studies me and no matter how hard I try to gloss over my disappointment, she sees through me. “Hey, I get it. I wish she was here too.”
Finn and Cass share a sullen look before casting their gazes at me. All three stare at me like I’m a lost cause, and perhaps I am.
“We were just talking about that.” Finn’s fingers cut roughly through his blond hair, so much like his sister’s, before hanging his head.
Well done, asshole. I’ve managed to bring down my best friend too, on his wedding day, no less. How do I make this better? Short of making Pippa magically appear, I don’t know what else to do.
“She should be here.” I grind my teeth, trying to tamp down my vitriol.
“She wanted to be,” Paige says, jumping to her best friend’s defense even if she was also surprised that Pippa didn’t come. “The NFL season’s started, and Brock has a game tomorrow. She couldn’t be in two places at once.”
“I know,” I mutter, clenching my fists.
I understand it but don’t have to like it. Declining her brother’s wedding invitation only drives home the fact that she’s happy with her life and her marriage… and I’m firmly in her past.
“It’s her life.” Finn’s conflicted, wanting his sister to be happy, but also wanting her here, in his life.
Often with family when luck, loss or misfortune hit, it bleeds into everything and affects everyone. The ripple effect is felt far and wide with aftershocks you never see coming. I can’t say if it was Pippa and me getting together or breaking up that caused the havoc, but either way, things have been hard and different ever since.
“If you’re not going to stay, let me come with you?” Paige wraps her arms around me, more supportive than chastising of my desire to bail.
“Stay and watch me smash cake in this guy’s face.” Cass hooks her thumb at Finn.
We laugh, including Finn, who welcomes the levity, and would let Cass do just about anything to him.
“As much as I’d love to see that, I’m going to pass. Take pics,” I say to Paige.
“Stay.” Cass’s plea tugs at my heart.
A small melancholy smile pushes past the constant aching loss, incessant and growing, within me.
On the outside, my life looks pretty good. I’m a successful attorney with the world at my fingertips. But in truth, I fucked up royally. I not only hurt the woman I love, I lost her.
“Stay, goofball. I’ll even let you smash cake in my face,” Finn says.
Foolishly, it never occurred to me that breaking up with Pippa could lead to her vanishing from my life completely. We’re family. But I couldn’t have been more wrong. Like a thief, she stole the best part of us all—her—and disappeared in the middle of the night. My hand rubs at the center of my chest, but it doesn’t lessen the fact that her glaring absence is a gaping hole in my heart.
“I’d be a fool to pass up that invitation. It better be a big piece of cake.” I hold my hands out about a foot and force my foul mood away with a big, wicked grin.
Finn is totally game and chuckles as we head back into the banquet hall. “Fuck, this is going to get messy.”
2
Pippa
“Dorothy?” The sight of my phone screensaver — a picture of Brock and me smiling on our wedding day — causes my lips to twist sourly. More and more, thoughts of my husband leave a bad taste in my mouth, and only hitting the sleep button to blacken the screen lessens my scowl.
Flickering flames cast an intimate glow over the fine china and sterling silver flatware on the dining table. If I didn’t know otherwise, my heart would pitter-patter at the romantic setting.
“Yes, Mrs. Sullivan?” I turn on my heel to find Dorothy Clyde, a stout, older woman, in the doorway.
Our housekeeper’s warm smile tempers the desire to grimace at hearing my husband’s name. Dorothy has been with us since we got married, nearly eighteen months, and no matter how many times I’ve asked her to drop the Mr. and Mrs., she refuses, insisting it’s a sign of respect.
“Brock isn’t coming home.” I steel my spine. “He’s getting dinner with a friend.” Or so he says.
She nods, pursing her lips disapprovingly. I used to think her stern shifts in demeanor were directed at me, but I’m starting to sense that’s not the case. She’s an observant woman who I think sees every dark and ugly crack in my marriage. A shiver of shame skitters down my spine and my gaze falls to the floor.
“Very well.” She removes a place setting, quickly and efficiently. “I’ll serve the soup.”
I fold my arms, chilled, and say, “I’m not hungry. Thank you.”
“It’s butternut squash. Your favorite.” A twinkle lights her eyes.
“I don’t want your effort to go to waste. I’ll take some up to my room.”
“Mrs. Sullivan—”
I cut her off, harsher than I intend. “Pippa.”
“Pippa.” She’s tentative as if my name is foreign on her tongue. “You go ahead, and I’ll bring it up with some of that garlic bread you love so much.”
I don’t have the heart to tell her it’ll go untouched. Her warm, wrinkly hand rests on my forearm and a wave of loss rushes over me. I miss my mother. If she were here, she’d do something similar. A touch to comfort me.
“Thank you, Mrs. Clyde.” I gift her the decorum she craves.
“Wonderful.” She pats my arm.
“Why don’t you take the rest of the food and head home?” I won’t eat it and Brock leaves tomorrow for an away game.
Curiosity darkens her hazel eyes as she examines me for confirmation or rejection of her suspicions. Thank god she holds her tongue. The woman is no fool and she wants nothing more than to help me fix things. If only it were that easy.
“Thank you, you’re too kind.”
“Good night, Mrs. Clyde, and say hello to Hubert.”
“Good night, dear.” She lights up like a Christmas tree at the mention of her ailing husband. “I certainly will. Your messages make his day.”
She dotes on him as if he is her sun—all the light she needs—and my chest aches. I had a love that brought light into my life like that. Once. So in love I thought for sure nothing would drown out our light. So in love I thought for sure we’d grow old together.
Pushing past my pathetic thoughts, I wander room to room turning off the lights before pausing at the foot of the stairs to check that the outside light is shining bright through the stained glass window.
> That light is always on because late one night, months ago, Brock fumbled, drunk as a sailor, for twenty minutes to get the key in the lock, and somehow that had been my fault. He made sure I paid for it and now I’m sure to never leave it off again.
The doorbell rings, and it takes me a few seconds to gather my senses and open the door. I sigh at the friendly face that greets me.
“Hey, Matt.”
Matthew Carruthers is not only the star quarterback for the Los Angeles Rockets, he’s also my husband’s teammate and best friend. But most important, he’s an all-around good guy, or at least, I think he is.
I’m no longer the best judge of character. I used to pride myself on being able to read someone, but now I’m not so sure. I was wrong about Drew. I was wrong about Brock. I could be wrong about Matt too.
He beams down at me. “Hey, darling.” Like always, his hand wraps around my neck and he bends to lightly kiss the crown of my head. “Where’s Ugly?” He chuckles, and I press my lips together to hold back a groan.
For as long as I’ve known Matt, he has always called Brock Ugly. It’s meant to be funny and ironic because Brock is the opposite—on the outside, anyway. But nowadays, it feels like the joke’s on me.
My husband is handsome and when on the field, larger than life—magical with a football—but it’s his outstanding talent that camouflages his mean and undesirable qualities. The ones I only discovered after we were married.
“What are you talking about?” I step back so he can enter.
Brock’s abilities and looks aside, it was his comradery with his team that attracted me. I mistook his easygoing and friendly nature for compassion and tenderness.
“You guys up for company?” His large hand runs through the mop of thick, black hair.
“Brock isn’t here. He said he was going out with you tonight.” My voice is flat.
My days of covering for him are long gone. It’s sad when his infidelity no longer fazes me.
Matt winces, resting his backside against the console with his hands clasping the beveled edge on either side of his large frame.
“Motherfucker.”
Before pity can seep into his voice, I say, “You can text him,” as if nothing is wrong.
“Pippa.” His tone is weighted with emotion and his body restrained in an attempt to control himself.
“Don’t sweat it. This isn’t new. Besides, you’ve done me a favor.” I inch to the door, hoping he takes the hint and leaves.
“What?” His brows twist.
“You’ve confirmed that he’s out with a woman.”
When Brock called tonight, I knew every word out of his mouth was a lie and the background music and female laughter were corroboration.
“He’s gonna get a beat-down when I get my hands on him.” He pushes angrily away from the table with enough force to topple the turquoise vase onto the unforgiving marble surface.
Glued to my spot, I gasp, watching the glass-blown treasure roll off the table to its demise. The one-of-a-kind gift from my ex, Drew, is seconds away from shattering and inexplicably, I don’t even try to stop the loss.
Years ago, we spent the weekend in Prince Edward County, wandering through shops, wineries, and galleries. In a glass blowing studio, Drew asked the artist to make something for me. We stared in awe as the man created a beautiful vase from breath, fire, and ice.
Fortunately, Matt is quick and stops the vase from smashing onto the floor. “Shit, I’m sorry.” He examines the broken rim and remorse frames his features.
“It’s okay.” I shrug, burying another memory of Drew. “It’s damaged, I’ll throw it away.”
“No, don’t do that.”
“It’s broken.” I take the vase from him and wistfully study the jagged edge.
“It can be fixed,” Matt insists, advancing.
“Forget about it.” I place the vase on an adjacent table and turn to face him. “Matt, thanks for stopping by but I’m tired.”
“I’m gonna kick his ass,” he drawls and his eyes blaze with fury.
“Don’t waste your energy.”
At one point, I would have welcomed his help, but my husband’s cheating is the least of our problems. When I found naked pictures on Brock’s phone many months ago, I wanted to believe an overzealous fan had somehow got a hold of his number, because it had happened to other players. But as I snooped further, I found texts that made my wishful thinking an impossible lie to swallow. Her messages and his replies confirmed they’d had sex. And she was one of many.
Still, I was in denial and swore to myself that I had it wrong. Brock wouldn’t cheat. It’s funny and somewhat twisted how marriage and the vows we promised each other made it hard for me to see what was so obvious.
Blind and foolish.
The proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back, forcing me to see the truth, was the used condom I found in his pocket. That day, I rushed to the bathroom and retched until there was nothing left but burning bile. Later, when he came home, I confronted him.
“Why are you still with him?” Matt is earnest, no malice or insult, but I still flinch, not anticipating the question nor having an answer.
It should be easy, right? Brock didn’t deny his infidelity; instead he turned the tables and made it about me. Shouting how my job as the team’s physical therapist was just an excuse to play with naked guys—that’s why he insisted I quit. His insane outburst should have made leaving him easy. Yet, I stayed.
My laugh is brittle. “I think you should go.”
“I could stay.” He sweeps his thumb along my cheek and I quiver involuntarily, which unfortunately encourages him. “We could watch a movie and...”
“And what?” I step from his grasp. He’s too close.
Matt has a savior complex. He wants to rescue me from the bully. His best friend. I’ve been Matt’s friend as long as I have been Brock’s, and the truth is, I could call on pretty much any guy on the team for help.
Brock Sullivan is a formidable tight end, all two hundred and thirty pounds of his six-five frame, but teammate or not, most of those guys wouldn’t tolerate what he’s done. And I’m not talking about the cheating; unfortunately, some wouldn’t even bat an eyelash at that. But I’d never ask for help. I married him so it’s my mess to clean up.
“Pippa, I don’t want to leave you like—”
“Thanks, but I’m okay. Really.” I swing the door open. “Goodnight, Matt.”
Releasing a defeated breath, he nods, kisses my cheek and turns, stopping abruptly in his tracks.
From my limited view, with Matt in the doorway, I watch Brock stride up the walkway, faltering and blanching when he sees Matt, his alibi. I can’t help but smile smugly.
Gotcha, asshole.
Matt doesn’t hesitate or miss a beat, lunging for Brock and pushing him against the side of the house.
“Motherfucker!” Matt shouts, grabbing Brock’s shirt in a tight fist and hitting his jaw so hard that Brock’s head jerks sideways with a cringeworthy crack. “That’s your goddamn wife.”
Matt gets in two more punches before Brock shakes off his daze, shoving his teammate off him. For a split second, I think about breaking them up but I wouldn’t stand a chance.
“What the fuck is your problem?” Blood trickles from the side of his mouth.
“You’re fucking around.” Matt’s southern drawl is thicker, more pronounced, now that he’s functioning on pure instinct.
“Matty,” Brock chuckles, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before spitting into a rose bush. “We were supposed to meet tonight.”
I’m astonished that he lies so easily even when caught red-handed. Matt’s back teeth grind together, making a sharp clacking sound, as his face contorts in disgust.
“You’re a fucking liar and not worthy of the good woman you have.” Matt points in my direction and for the first time, Brock glances lazily, almost bored, at me.
My throat suddenly constricts and fear prickles at the
base of my spine. I contemplate leaving with Matt and wonder if Brock would let me go, but the thought is insane. There’s no chance of Brock letting me go that easily.
“Go home, Matt. This is none of your business.” Brock turns his back on his friend, nudging me into the house and closing the door.
“We’re not done here,” Matt shouts from the outside.
With a deep breath for courage, I swivel on my heel and take the stairs two at a time without a backward glance.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Brock’s voice is low and deadly.
“To bed,” I confidently say, wrestling to keep my nerves in check.
“Like hell you are.” Heavy footfalls bound up the stairs to where I’m now on the landing. Gripping my wrist so tight that I swear I see stars, he pulls me within a breath from him. “What the fuck was Matt doing here?”
I blink back any fear and dig deep for some semblance of calm. “Looking for you.”
Now that he has his answer, maybe he’ll leave me alone. But even as I think it, or wish it, I want to scoff at my folly. It isn’t over.
He’s only just begun.
3
Pippa
I hurry down the concrete corridor and my blood pumps through my body at a deafening rate. It’s all I can hear, so much so that the walls seem to pulse with a thundering beat. Or is the pulsing from my aching body? Everything hurts and hustling intensifies the pain.
At the once-familiar T juncture, I swing right down the adjacent corridor, holding my breath as I pass the locker room and the laughter and profanity coming from behind the closed doors. If any of the guys were to see me, they’d make a big fuss and within seconds Brock would know I’m here. Then it would be game over.
This used to be my workplace, where I was most comfortable. Any of these doors could open right now and I’d be face to face with a past colleague. Excited and embarrassed, I stop at a closed door and turn the door handle before I lose my nerve.
Mason Riggs, physician and head of the league’s sport medicine team, angles his chin downward to peer at the doorway. His wise, honey-colored eyes pin me to the spot and a big toothy grin spreads like sunbeams. Every inch of his face shines, and the corners of my eyes sting.
