Tessa Ever After

by Brighton Walsh

  “Nice to see you, too, Dad,” I say as I shut the door behind me, then sprawl out in the chair in front of his desk.

  “What can I do for you?” he asks. “I have a meeting in ten minutes.”

  “Well, then, I’ll cut right to it. We both know working here isn’t my first choice, but you’ve given me little other options.”

  He bristles, his spine straightening as he looks at me with hard eyes. “I think we’ve done a hell of a lot more than give you little other options. We let you go to that damn arts college, despite all the trouble we knew it would cause down the line—down the line being now, when I had to persuade the admissions department to let you into the master of architecture program without so much as a single piece in a portfolio.”

  I blow out a humorless laugh at how he’s rewritten history. “You didn’t let me go. Grandpa paid for it, and after he died, you only went with it so you could save face in front of your friends. What kind of student transfers schools three times, right? Certainly not a Montgomery.” I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to get my temper under control. I can’t ever have a normal conversation with him. “That’s not why I came to see you. I’m here about what I want to do once I start working here.”

  “You’ll be doing what I’m doing. I’ve already laid the groundwork. If you keep on, you won’t have anything to worry about.”

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  “Well get to the point already. Seven minutes,” he says as he taps the face of his Rolex.

  I swallow, stare right at him, though his attention is focused on the papers in front of him rather than me. “I want to start up the Elise Montgomery Foundation again.”

  His pen freezes above the paper he was jotting notes down on, the only outward appearance he gives that he heard me.

  Continuing, I say, “I’ll still take my place in your shoes, I’ll do what you want me to do here, run it however, but I want the foundation up and running again. And I want to head it.”

  Carefully, calmly, he sets his pen down, then he leans back in his chair, both arms braced on the armrests as he smooths his tie down the front of his shirt while he’s appraising me. “You want to resuscitate a nonprofit company I shut down no more than three years ago.”

  “Yes.”

  He laughs then, a sound I can’t remember hearing in a long while, and shakes his head. “No.”

  Just like that. No. He doesn’t ask me why I want to start it back up, doesn’t let me tell him that doing so would give me a purpose, allow me to swallow all the shit he’s done to this company because it would mean that I’m able to give back in some way. It’d mean that I’d be able to give life to the legacy my grandfather left. The legacy my father shit all over.

  He leans forward and rests his forearms on his desk, clasping his hands together as he stares at me. “I know you and your grandfather had grand plans for that. Ever since he started it, that’s all you two would talk about, all you’d spend your time on, even when you were younger. Used to go with him to those build sites and get your hands dirty, doing work we hire people for. You both were weak when it came to doing what needed to be done to get ahead.” Which, to him, means never spending time, much less money, helping those less fortunate than he is. “Unfortunately, you’re the only one bearing the Montgomery name who can step up to lead this firm once I retire. I’m not going to let you come in here and take this company your grandfather built but all but pissed away because of that fucking foundation sucking all the profits, and run it into the ground after I’ve finally made something of it. After it’s finally started to see generous revenue. And the group of partners will see to that. They’d never approve it.” He says it with such a smug satisfaction that I have to clench my hands around the arms of the chair so I don’t do something I’m not sure I’d regret. Like wipe that smug satisfaction off his face. With my fists.

  He glances at his watch. “Time’s up. If that’s all . . . ?” He doesn’t wait for me to say anything before he stands and walks over to the door, twisting the handle and pulling it open for me. Body language relaxed, cool smile in place. Showing everyone beyond the closed door just how perfect everything is in our little family of three.

  “Thanks for stopping by. See you for dinner next week,” he says loudly enough for the few other employees in the hall to hear. They offer me the same stiff smiles they did before as I make my exit. I give the receptionist a tight smile and nod when she waves and says good-bye, then I’m down the hall and jamming my finger in the button for the elevator, anxious to get the hell out of here.

  I don’t know why I put myself through this. Why I don’t just tell them to fuck off and do what I want to do. Yeah, I’d be out the money they’re shelling out every month for me to live comfortably. I’d have to move somewhere else, figure out a job really damn quick, but I could. If I had to, I could. I’ve interned every summer for the same graphic and web design company, and I have little doubt they’d hire me on. Probably as something lowly, but at least I’d be able to use my web design and interactive media degree. At least I’d be in the field I want to be in. At least I wouldn’t be working for a shady asshole who cares more about money than anything else in the world.

  I glance over at the wall next to the elevator, an outdated picture of my grandfather hanging there, his kind eyes seeming to stare right at me. And I know why I don’t just tell them to fuck off and go on with my life. Because despite all the shit they’ve put me through, all the hoops I have to jump through to get even an ounce of approval from them, they’re my family—the only one I’ve got, unfortunately. Grandpa’s words—the ones he’d say frequently—ring in my ears as I step into the elevator and push the button for the lobby. Family is everything. Don’t ever turn your back on it.

  It’s those words that follow me out to my car, those words that have stayed with me as long as I can remember. And it’s those words that have me deciding to give it another shot. Maybe I can talk my father into resurrecting the foundation. Maybe he’ll come around and see it from my side. Maybe.

  EIGHT

  jason

  This girl’s laugh is too loud, her voice too high-pitched, her entire demeanor just . . . off. Not long after my friends and I got here, she pushed her way through the crowd and somehow infiltrated herself into the middle of the group I’m here with, casual as all shit. Except she can’t exactly pass as one of the guys, just hanging out to watch the game. Not with her skintight dress and boots that go up to her knees with heels that look dangerous as hell. Not with her bright red lips or dark, overdone eyes. She nods along with the trash-talking about who’s going to beat whom in the game on Sunday, but she has no input, and her eyes keep coming back to me, lingering along my chest or lower. She’s certainly not shy about what she’s after.

  I should be eating it up. I should be trying to figure out how I’m going to get her back to my place, especially after the talk I had with my father earlier today that put me in a shit mood. Especially after the talk with Cade about Tessa. But all I can think about is the couple sitting at one of the low tables on the outskirts of the place. I glance over at them, and this odd feeling creeps into my gut, twisting and making me uncomfortable. It takes me a minute to realize it’s jealousy—something I can honestly say I’ve never felt regarding a girl before. The feeling is unwanted and completely unwelcome. And I don’t know what the fuck to do about it.

  I noticed Tessa right away—how could I not? Unlike the blonde next to me, Tessa’s put together and sexy as hell without looking like she’s trying too hard. She’s got a fake smile plastered on her face as she sits across from a guy who looks too old for her. Something bright red and groan-inducing is covering all the good parts of her body—the parts I got an unintentional front-row viewing of the night the pipe burst—and I sort of want to punch her date for getting to stare at her all night . . . for getting to feel it on her later.

  And then I sort of want to punch myself for thinking that. Tessa isn’t
mine—not by any stretch of the imagination. She’s never been and is never going to be—especially if her brother has anything to say about it—so what do I care that she’s out on a date with a nice—albeit seemingly boring-as-hell—guy?

  Even knowing this, I can’t stop my gaze from returning to them, over and over again. She looks bored out of her mind, her eyes continually darting around or staring longingly at the dance floor. She loves to dance—always has—and she’d obviously like to get out there tonight, but this dipshit doesn’t even notice. He’s got this hot-as-hell woman across from him—a woman so far out of his league, he shouldn’t even be able to breathe the same air as her—and he can’t even pay attention to the signals she’s giving off.

  When the waitress places a third glass of wine in front of Tessa, I can’t stay hidden any longer. I need to make sure she’s okay, that he’ll get her home safe, if for no other reason than I promised Cade I’d watch out for her. It has absolutely nothing to do with the unwanted feeling spreading through me like cancer.

  I slap Justin on the back, telling him I see someone I know and that I’ll be right back, and head toward the not-so-happy couple. I don’t miss the way the blonde pouts a little as I leave, but it still doesn’t stop me.

  Tessa’s eyes widen when she notices me approaching, and she glances at her date before shifting in her seat.

  “Hey,” I say when I get to the table.

  “Hi.” Her eyes flit to her date again, but mine stay glued to hers. “Um, Jason, this is Greg.”

  Finally, I look over at her date, sizing him up and wondering if that’s really the kind of guy Tessa’s attracted to. If he is, I’m totally fucked. He’s scrawny, his arms lost somewhere in the sleeves of his dress shirt. Wire-rimmed glasses sit perched on a perfectly straight nose—no fights for this guy. His hair is combed neatly, and I notice he’s drinking a glass of wine. Fucking wine.

  He stands halfway and extends his hand to me. “Ah, the infamous Jason.” The fact that Tessa’s talked about me to him comes as a surprise. I look over at her and raise an eyebrow. She glances back at me, and if I hadn’t known her for so long, I would miss the way she bites on her nail and can’t maintain eye contact. But I notice both, and I know she’s uncomfortable. Unaware, or just uncaring, of our exchange, Greg continues, “Nice to meet you.” He sounds genuine, his smile sincere, and it hits me that he doesn’t see me as a threat. Not even a little.

  Just for that, I grip his hand harder than necessary and offer a tight smile. I sort of want to give him a reason to see me as a threat. “Yeah, you, too.”

  Once Greg sits back down, Tessa asks, “Did you come out with the guys?”

  “Yeah.” I look over my shoulder to where they are, and see the blonde hanging all over Justin in my absence. Rolling my eyes, I turn back to find Tessa’s gaze focused where mine just was.

  “Looks like your date for the night has moved on.”

  Raising both eyebrows, I stare at her. “Been watchin’ me, Tess?” I get a smug satisfaction at that, that even if she is here with another guy, she’s obviously been keeping her eye on me. And it sends a thrill through me that she was aware I was here even before I came over.

  My question makes her nervous, and she shifts in her seat, taking a sip of her wine as she shakes her head. She doesn’t say anything more, and her date keeps clearing his throat, like he wants me to get the hell out of here, but he’s too polite to ask.

  Well, if he wants me gone, he needs to grow some fucking balls and ask. Instead of being a gentleman about it and leaving, I ask, “Why don’t you go out and dance?”

  Her head snaps to mine, her cheeks flushed. “What? Oh no . . . I don’t—”

  “Did you want to?” Greg asks, glancing between her and the people out on the dance floor. People who are nearly a decade younger than him, I’d imagine. “We can . . .” He doesn’t finish his thought, and it’s clear the very idea of it turns him off.

  She shakes her head, waving her hand at him even as she tosses me a glare. “No. Thank you, though. I don’t know how much dancing I could do in these shoes, anyway.”

  I look down, over the curves of her shapely calves, down to her feet, and see the shoes she’s talking about. The kind of shoes a girl wears if she’s hoping to be wearing only them by the end of the night. Clenching my jaw at the thought, I decide maybe it’s time to give this guy a reason to see me as a threat. “One dance won’t kill you. Come on.” I glance at her date. “You don’t mind, do you?” Except I don’t wait for an answer before I set my beer bottle on the table and grab Tessa’s hand, tugging her to stand.

  “No, really, I don’t want—”

  “In fifteen years, I’ve never once seen you pass up the chance to dance.” And, yeah, I threw that in just to remind Greg what kind of history we have, because I’m a dick. “Now come on. He doesn’t mind.” I tip my head in her date’s direction, not taking my eyes off her.

  “No, no, of course not. Go have fun.” His words sound sincere, and I realize I have some work to do because he’s still not at all bothered by this.

  I keep hold of Tessa’s hand as I pull her out to where the mass of bodies is moving to the beat of the music shaking the speakers. It’s packed tonight, like it usually is on a Friday, and I use it to my advantage. She squeaks as I pull her closer to me, wrapping an arm around her back and holding her to me. I shouldn’t be doing this. I should be the best friend I am and listen to Cade’s warning. I should respect the fact that Tessa’s here, out on a date—no matter how mind-numbingly boring that guy seems to be. But I can’t help myself. And definitely not when I get a feel of her body pressed against mine from legs to chest and every inch in between.

  “Jason . . .” The music is louder out here, and I don’t hear what she says as much as the way my name forms on her lips. Her hands are braced on my chest, and though I’m moving to the rhythm of the song, Tessa is still standing still.

  I lean down, my lips next to her ear so she can hear me over the din. “Come on, Tess. I’ve never known you not to dance. Just one song. No big deal.”

  She stands still for another moment, and then, finally, she moves. Her hips start swaying under my hands, and I have to physically stop myself from gripping her tighter, from pulling her closer to me, from grinding her into my aching cock. It’s bad enough that I’m dancing with her like this at all, never mind the fact that her date is watching from fifty feet away.

  It doesn’t take long before she allows herself the freedom of getting lost in the music, her eyes closing and her movements more fluid. She rolls her hips, her body pressing into mine over and over and over again until I’m certain I’m going to go out of my fucking mind. And then she turns around, her back to my chest, and lifts her arms over her head, finally not caring about anything or anyone but the music playing around her.

  Tentatively, I settle my hands on her hips again, diligent in keeping space between us, because the last thing I need is her ass rubbing against my very obvious hard-on. But I can’t stop myself from picturing what she’d look like, doing this for me. For only me. Dancing in the privacy of her room, maybe doing a striptease or giving me a lap dance, and I curse myself and the path my mind always seems to take when she’s around.

  The more we dance, the longer she stays out here with me—one song turning into two, then three—the more irritated I become that she’s on a date with someone like that in the first place. She needs someone who’ll do this with her. Who’s not too buttoned up to get on the dance floor—because they can see the longing in her eyes, just because they know it’ll make her happy. Someone who’ll take her to places she likes, make her laugh with stupid jokes, who’ll order a dessert they don’t even want just so she can have some.

  That thought stops me cold, because I realize with a start that I just described myself. And while she most certainly doesn’t belong with someone like Greg, she also deserves someone a thousand times better than me.

  And the sooner I get that through my thi
ck fucking skull, the easier it’s going to be.

  tessa

  Guilt, heavy and solid, sits in my stomach. And I have no idea why it’s even there, why I’m feeling it at all. I shouldn’t be. I absolutely shouldn’t be, yet ever since those five uncomfortable minutes when Jason showed up at the table and the subsequent fifteen we spent on the dance floor, it’s been there, steady and unbreakable.

  And then on top of guilt, jealousy crept in as I watched him go back to his buddies, the blonde who’d been hanging all over his friend switching her sights back to Jason. Even though he didn’t seem to be welcoming her advances, never touched her, the fact that he could if he wanted to, that he should, sent a wave of unease through me.

  And it rocked my whole goddamn foundation.

  Jason is very nearly the exact opposite of the kind of man I’m looking for—the kind of man I want to have a future with. The kind of man who will fit perfectly into my and Haley’s lives. He’s irresponsible and wild and unsteady. He’s a bad boy, and I have no illusions of turning a bad boy good.

  I force my thoughts back to my date, to the perfect-on-paper man in front of me. It’s the second time we’ve gone out, and now I remember why it took me three weeks to get back to him about another date. He’s very nice, and he’s handsome—if you go for that classic, Ralph Lauren kind of look—but just like I told Paige, he doesn’t do anything for me. No butterflies. No breathless anticipation wondering if he’s going to kiss me. No flutters when his fingers brush the backs of my arms. Nothing.

  Nothing like what I had in spades during those few minutes I was on the dance floor with Jason.

  But Greg, unlike Jason, is the kind of man I’m looking for. He just turned thirty, is looking to settle down, and he seems to be smitten over the idea of Haley, though he hasn’t yet met her. He has a great job—an orthodontist. Except instead of thinking about how dedicated he must be, how intelligent, all I’ve thought about is what my teeth look like to him. Are they white enough? Are they straight enough? Can he tell I didn’t wear my retainer every night like I was supposed to after I got my braces off? Will this guy expect me to floss every night? And then I think about what Paige told me about her last guy, and I start picturing used floss on my bathroom counter, and I’m done.