Been There Done That

by Smartypants Romance

  I looked into the evergreen eyes that I’d once known as well as my own, feeling an unexpected twinge, a dull throb of shared misery.

  “Me either,” I admitted.

  A waiter delivered a basket of bread, providing merciful respite to yet another painful round of silence. I ordered soup, Nick ordered an appetizer, and we both promised to review the dinner offerings before the waiter’s departure.

  “I want to be clear,” I said, drawing myself up to my full height. “Only straightforward, honest communication going forward. No matter how hard it might be for either of us. I can’t be an effective consultant if I’m always looking around the corner for the next surprise.” Or back, I acknowledged to myself. I can’t keep going back to live in the desolation of the past. Like my mother always said, all anyone has is the current day. I could only make the best of where we were now, going forward.

  He nodded, acknowledging my statement.

  “And,” I continued, “it’s clear you’ve done well for yourself. I imagine there’s a host of people that work for you who are trained to jump at your command.” I met his gaze. “I’m not one of those people.”

  He swallowed. “I understand. Completely. I agree. I—”

  “And,” I continued, “I’m here because my university wants to see this collaboration with you work. That’s the only reason. I don’t care who has me in a hold—if I decide I don’t want to be here, I won’t be. If there are any more surprises, I’m leaving.”

  He nodded again, lips pressed together.

  “I will leave,” I repeated.

  “Got that. Loud and clear.”

  We both looked elsewhere as silence resettled over the table. A muscle ticked at his temple. I picked at my cuticles.

  “I really am grateful,” he said finally. “I want this collaboration to work too. It’s our first launch of this particular program, and we’re committed to ensuring it goes well. They set the condition of training our docs before closing, and I’m happy to comply. It certainly goes a long way to improving the service we’re selling and providing on our end. I just regret that you got caught up in this.”

  I stopped myself from saying, It’s okay.

  Because it wasn’t.

  “So,” Nick said, gaze on his menu, “how have you been?”

  “God.” I laughed. “This is really awful. It’s like the world’s worst date. Only in reverse. Here, let me raise the stakes, let’s see how much more uncomfortable I can make this. How many sexual partners have you had?”

  He coughed, color blooming in his cheeks. “Uh, yep. That definitely made it worse.” The tension around his eyes relaxed. “Thanks for that.” His thumb stroked the base of his water glass, smearing the gathering drops of condensation. My attention was automatically riveted to the slow, methodical movement. “You always could do that, you know? Make things better. I was always grateful for that.”

  I opened my menu, resisted the words begging to leap from tongue: I was grateful for you too, and I miss you, and I hate that I miss you. I wish you’d never left. I wish we were sitting on the same side of the table, under far more friendly circumstances.

  “In a way, you’re right.” He lifted a shoulder. “We are starting over in a lot of ways and getting to know each other again.”

  I nodded, my gaze moving down the list of entrees in the menu. Was lasagna a good antidote to heartache? Or was that fettucine alfredo? I couldn’t remember what my mother had told me all those years ago.

  “Although not, I mean, I didn’t intend to insinuate it was in any romantic context, at all. Not that . . . I mean, I’m just . . . Jackson—” He cut himself off just as my eyes lifted to his. He swallowed, looking like he wanted to say more.

  Interesting.

  I hadn’t thought he’d made that insinuation at all. What was wrong with him? He’d never been this off-balance, even in the worst of times.

  I threw him a rope. “Yes, Jackson. My—uh—partner.”

  His jaw went taut. “I’m sure he’s changed a lot since high school. I just—old habits die hard, I guess. All that matters is your happiness.”

  Thank God for Jackson and our arrangement. I knew better than to define myself by the presence or absence of a romantic partner. But having a boyfriend prop took some of the sting out of the situation. Having to sit across from Playboy Nick and admit my real relationship partners were my work laptop, index finger, and Harry Potter Nimbus 2000 vibrator . . . well, that would have been in the neighborhood of humiliating.

  “I am happy.” I smiled widely, taking dark pleasure in the sudden hard glint in his eyes, while also feeling strangely remorseful. “He’s a wonderful man.” It was the truth. “He’s doing a great job as deputy sheriff, and he’s a great leader in the community.”

  “Good parents, right kind of family, good match. Right?”

  I frowned. Nick gripped his water glass as he studied its contents. His mouth twisted in a bitter line, jaw working. I reflected that I’d never seen this expression on his face before, not when I’d known him. That was one of the most frustrating things about all of this. How some parts of him, even the smallest gestures, were still familiar. But moments like this reminded me there was a dark side to the moon now, new identities and selves that Nick had cultivated over all these years. I wasn’t privy to them.

  “I guess,” I hazarded, hating to confirm his guess, even if it was a fake relationship.

  Watching him during the brittle silence, I hated how that part of our past, how the town’s old, stupid talk had so easily tripped the wire to this hidden undercurrent of emotion.

  “Sounds like he’s a perfect fit.” His gaze, full of fire now, met mine. “Someone the town, and certainly your parents, like seeing you with.”

  “I guess my parents get along with Sheriff James, and Janet has always been very nice,” I said lamely. “But I don’t give a rat’s ass about what the town thinks. Didn’t back then and I don’t now.”

  “I’m just glad you’ve gotten your happily ever.” His tight smile did nothing to smooth the jagged edges of his tone.

  I stared at him, feeling lost in the conflict and unsure of how to reassure him.

  “How is your family, by the way?” He’d apparently decided to change the topic and I was more than a little relieved. We both sat back as the waiter set my requested bowl of soup in front of me and placed a platter of stuffed mushrooms in the center of the table.

  “They’re fine,” I said, feeling my way around the suddenly unstable, marshy territory.

  He nodded, as if inviting more.

  “My parents are . . . fine. The same. Tavia finished graduate school at Wharton and actually spent some time here in New York doing financial things I never quite understand. Something with hedge funds.”

  Nick bit back a smile.

  “She’s back in Green Valley now, working at the bank with Walker.”

  “The two of them—they’re still oil and water?”

  I shook my head and let out a slight huff. “Yep. She’s currently thwarting all of Walker’s attempts to manage the bank and its expansion. Explosions and fireworks every day. All very exciting, from what I hear of it.”

  “And you’re, what, still contributing in an ‘as needed’ capacity? I noticed you’ve been representing the bank at fundraisers and events. Couldn’t quite break away from the family business, I see.”

  He raised a brow and I suddenly felt naked, vulnerable, as I remembered all the times I’d bitched to him about getting away. The promises I’d made to us both about overthrowing the expectations, the pressure. The weight.

  This dinner was starting to feel like a depressing, subversive version of This is Your Life.

  This is Your Fucked-Up Life.

  “Actually, I just officially resigned last week.”

  His eyebrows went up and he raised his water glass. “Cheers.”

  “Yeah, thanks.” I wriggled uncomfortably in my chair, more than ready to turn the bright light of scrutiny b
ack on him.

  “And, how about you? How’s your mom?”

  His entire demeanor changed. His throat worked for a moment before his gaze landed on the opposite corner of the room.

  And then I realized my mistake.

  I should have proceeded much more carefully, in retrospect. After all, I’d never heard anything more from Nick or his mother after they disappeared. I’d had no way of knowing about their welfare. But I realized now that I’d simply assumed all was well since I hadn’t heard otherwise. I hadn’t been thinking. And now we were in quicksand.

  “She died.”

  His response, delivered in a near-whisper, seemed to clot any additional words from him. He took a deep breath, then subsided into silence.

  I struggled upward through layers of shock and disbelief. I realized I’d always assumed his mother had gotten better, likely because I’d known her for many years before she’d developed a problem. And she’d hidden it so well, for so long. Had her addiction been the cause of her death? Or something else?

  Giving into impulse, I leaned forward and captured Nick’s hand in mine. The skin of his palms was rough and calloused, as if he did manual labor for a living instead of working behind a desk. His oversized hand remained slack and passive for a moment, then tightened around mine.

  “I’m sorry, Nick.”

  “It’s okay. There’s absolutely no reason to be sorry. You didn’t know.”

  “Still . . .” I was mortified to feel my nose stinging. Wetness sprang to my eyes. I swiped at a descending tear. “I apologize for this. I’m sorry.”

  His grip on mine tightened. His free hand covered mine, sandwiching it. “Why are you sorry?”

  I brushed another tear from my cheek. I hated displays of emotion, especially my own. “I just . . .”

  “You loved her.” His voice was rough. “I know you did. And she loved you, too.”

  I wanted to ask what happened, but was that appropriate? It would have been years ago, before all the time and distance set in, but now? Probably not.

  “It wasn’t the drugs. Well, it was and it wasn’t. We got her in rehab and it took two tries, but she kicked it. And for many years, I had my mother back again. But in the end, we couldn’t escape the consequences of years of drug use. And she died from hepatitis.”

  I squeezed his hand fiercely, devastated by the grief I saw in his eyes. “I’m so sorry, Nick.”

  “My entire world changed when she died,” he continued distractedly, his eyes growing unfocused. “The cruelest irony was that all I’d ever wanted was to be able to take care of her. To have the means to take away her worries and keep her safe. To be in control of whatever troubles came our way. And when I’d finally done it, when I’d finally made it, all that money, all that influence meant nothing. There was absolutely nothing I could do to save her.”

  I swiped at another tear.

  He released my hand to lean across the table. His features softened as his gaze moved over my face. The sandpaper surface of his thumb slowly wiped at the wetness under my eyes.

  “It’s okay, Zora,” he said, and again I had the feeling that he was answering a question I hadn’t asked. It felt as if we were having the same conversation, but on different channels with unresolved shades of meaning.

  The waiter returned.

  Nick leaned back, his eyes still intent on my face. I was loathe to release his hand. Too much time had passed for me to share with the same transparency that I had in the past. But I wanted him to feel how badly I hurt for him, for his loss, and for his mother and all that she had been.

  Even if all I could offer was a touch.

  “Zora,” Nick said quietly, his thumb brushing my knuckles as he studied the tablecloth. “I know what it must have looked like, how it must have seemed. That I just abandoned you out of the blue. But I promise, that wasn’t what happened. I want to tell you everything about my mother and me, and our leaving. Everything that happened.”

  I fought against the inclination to yank my hand away from his while he was obviously raw and hurting from disclosing the circumstances of his mother’s death. “It doesn’t have to be a mystery. You can say it. Right now. End the suspense for us both.”

  His mouth opened, closed as he let out a long breath. “I will. Soon. I promise. But . . . not right this moment. Not tonight. Z, it’s not just my story to tell, I have to—” He broke off, sounding frustrated. “It’s not just my story.”

  I studied his bent head and the frantic flush in this neck, fear accumulating in my gut. Who else could be involved besides his mother? And what did it matter if his mother had already died?

  Inwardly I winced at that uncharitable thought. Given the raw pain I saw on his face, I could wait, even if I desperately wanted answers more than ever. I could give him breathing room tonight as we remembered his mother.

  We ordered and ate dinner quietly, our discussion limited to the upcoming project. His disclosure about his mother left the air heavy and bruised, and neither of us attempted to disrupt that mood with levity or distractions. It was a shared communion of sorts, between two people who had loved the same women fiercely, albeit in very different ways.

  When we departed outside the restaurant, Nick handed me up into the fancy Uber while instructing the driver to be careful with me, and I’d felt a shift.

  Regardless of whatever had transpired between us all those years ago, there had been a part of me that always loved Nick very much. Though long dormant, it came alive briefly yet again to remind me who Nick had been and the struggles he’d endured. How he’d prospered in spite of it all. Looking into his handsome face, seeing the tired set of his shoulders before he closed the vehicle’s door, I’d reminded myself to be angry with him.

  I couldn’t trust him, not ever again.

  Even if I wanted to.

  Chapter Eleven

  Zora

  The training went off without a hitch. The supervising clinical directors for all of Rocket’s staff clinicians were eager to learn the skills they would in turn teach to others. I handled reviewing fundamental communication skills and related literature as appropriate. I’d left Adesola to take over after lunch, knowing our clients would most likely feel comfortable role-playing challenging scenarios with an audience limited to clinicians. My absence would give them room to share sensitivities and admissions they might not otherwise make with a non-clinician like me present.

  I hitched my work bag higher over my shoulder, closed the door to the conference room, and smiled at the peal of laughter I heard on the other side of the door. God only knew what practice scenarios Adesola had dreamed up.

  I’d only taken two steps out into the hallway when I heard Rocket’s receptionist’s strained voice. “Dr. Leffersbee! How can I help you? Do you need anything?”

  She’d already risen from her desk, looking pained as she began to approach me.

  I held up a hand to halt her progress. “No worries, thank you. I’m just taking a break. I thought I might give our group some privacy while they continue working through the material. Would you be fine with me sitting here?” I gestured to the plush waiting chairs arranged across from her. After three hours of standing in the punishing grip of uncomfortable shoes, I was more than ready to collapse into the depths of the overstuffed chairs.

  The office was impressive. Modern furniture and floor-to-ceiling windows conveyed a cutting-edge techie vibe, but the rich mahogany woods of the receptionist’s desk and floor contributed to a warmer, welcoming aesthetic. My gaze caught once again on the company’s name emblazoned over the receptionist’s head in oversized, metal letters: Rocket Enterprises.

  I felt a stirring of pride for Nick. I could only imagine how fulfilling the sight must be for him each time he walked in that door and saw the empire he’d built from nothing. He’d been a young man who’d experienced significant struggles in his young life and was now greeted by this sign upon entering this office on the top floor of one of Manhattan’s most prominent build
ings.

  Well, it had to leave him breathless; I certainly felt that way.

  “I can find another space for you,” she said, “if that would make you more comfortable.” The receptionist blended in perfectly with the surroundings. Her flaxen hair was secured in a low French knot at the nape of her neck. Her skirt and blouse were professional yet fashionable, and her makeup had been applied with an expert hand. Taking in her strained smile, I finally read between the lines. She didn’t want me lounging in the lobby, if it could be avoided.

  “If that’s easier . . .” I started to say. The door behind me opened.

  “Mr. Rossi.” Her posture stiffened. “How nice to see you today.”

  I turned to see Nick behind me, mouthwatering in a pair of dark jeans. His green polo shirt stretched across his wide shoulders. Abruptly, I found swallowing difficult, as if my tongue had suddenly grown three sizes in the space of that one moment.

  His gaze moved slowly over me, no doubt taking in my summery, knee-length dress and matching yellow cardigan. I could find nothing to say as his eyes returned to my face.

  “Hey, Samantha,” he said, finally moving the weight of his attention from my face to her.

  I took a deep, silent breath, as my heart hammered an erratic rhythm. What the hell was wrong with me? I’d been in the presence of truly delicious men before, and without all my body’s circuits misfiring. Maybe I needed to schedule some time with my Nimbus 2000 when I got home. It had to be my hormones making me crazy, right?

  Right?

  Samantha was explaining how she was in the process of directing me to another space when he glanced back at me, that half-smirk in place.

  “Bored already? Trying to break out?”

  “Adesola’s got it covered. They’re role-playing now.”

  One of his ink-black brows went up. “Role-playing?”

  I bit my lip. It wasn’t suggestion, exactly, that colored his voice. But there was a quality of teasing I hadn’t expected. Mere days ago, I’d wanted to rip his head off, skewer him, cauterize his empty words and apologizes. Now a shocking parade of mental images filled my mind’s eye as I surveyed his tall, solid frame. We’d never done any role-playing. Hell, we’d been eighteen when we’d parted and still so enthralled with the newness of everything that game-playing hadn’t even occurred to us yet. But my imagination was in perfect working order now, likely fueled by my own personal drought. What kind of role playing would we have done, if we’d had time? Nick in UPS shorts, those muscled quads on full display. Or—