“Why do you have that?” she asked, her voice getting stronger and filled with anger and accusation. Spencer ignored her and bent to pick up the ring and gently place it back into the box. “You shouldn’t have that. I don’t want this.”
“I know,” he said placidly, trying not to show how much her words hurt him.
“So why do you have it?” she practically screeched. He lifted his face to the ceiling, fighting for control, trying to keep it together. “Why would you ignore my wishes like that? When you know this isn’t what I want.”
Always about her.
Finally, reaching the end of his tether, Spencer met her angry and confused eyes.
“Because I fucking love you, Daff!” He fought for control, but the words still flew out of his mouth at a louder volume than he intended. He brought it down to an angry whisper. “Because I want to marry you and spend the rest of my sorry life with you. Because this”—he waved the box angrily in her face—“this is what I want! It’s what I need.”
Finally running out of steam, he blinked rapidly, forcing the blurriness from his eyes.
“But I know it’s not what you want,” he continued, his voice softening and his heart breaking. “And that’s why it’s been lying at the bottom of my fucking sock drawer for weeks.”
“Spencer—”
“It’s okay. I’m not proposing, Daff,” he reassured quietly. “But I can’t do this anymore.”
“Wh-what do you mean?” Her eyes were bright with tears, and it killed him to see them. He had never meant to make her cry.
“I’ve known, since I bought this ring, that I can’t do this. I love you, Daff. With everything in me. But you don’t want that love, and it’s breaking my heart—” His voice cracked on the last word and he cleared his throat, trying to maintain his composure and do this right. “It’s breaking my heart to be in this nonrelationship with you. I’ve tried to be what you want, do this your way . . . but that’s not the kind of man I am. I’m an all or nothing guy, Daff. I want the world to know that we belong to each other. I want to be able to show you how I feel, tell you how I feel. I want us to . . .” He shook his head and simply said, “I want us.”
“Spencer.”
“You’re wonderful,” he told her. “You’re beautiful, kind, sweet, amazing, smart, funny. You’re everything. Don’t forget that, Daff. Never let anyone make you feel like you’re less. Because you’re not. You’re everything.”
“Spencer, please, don’t.” She was sobbing now, doubled over, her arms folded protectively over her stomach.
“After the wedding—”
“No, Spencer,” she begged, but he had to remain resolute.
“After the wedding, I think it would be better if we saw each other only when absolutely necessary. For family events.”
She keened softly at his words, and Spencer found himself unable to resist dragging her into his arms and comforting her, despite what it cost him to touch her. He felt the dampness seep down his cheeks, and he choked back his own sobs.
“I love you so damned much,” he told her before kissing her one last time. He stepped back, looked into her beautiful, tear-drenched face for a long moment.
And let her go.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Daff and Spencer still spoke over the next day and a half—they had to—stilted conversations about party plans, travel arrangements, and accommodation. Last-minute snags and fixes.
Daff felt far removed from everyone and everything. She made the right noises, smiled when she had to, and even cracked a few jokes. And never once looked like her heart was dying in her chest. But it was, she could feel it. It hurt at first, sharp and intense and overwhelming, but soon a welcome numbness set in and she was able to function with relative normalcy.
She had no other choice; her sister was getting married and she had promised that her thing with Spencer wouldn’t affect the wedding or their family dynamic. It had been an easy promise to make, because never in her wildest imaginings had she understood how very much the reality of being excluded from Spencer’s life would hurt.
Two days later, they set off for Plettenberg Bay. Daff and Spencer had rented a couple of minibuses, deciding that it was the most convenient transportation option. Daff was in one van with the women, and Spencer in the other with the men.
“So here’s the deal, ladies,” she called to the group as they set off. “My baby sister’s getting married next week—” She paused and allowed a few moments of rowdy catcalling and howls from the peanut gallery. “We’re having a full-on hen at a separate venue from the guys, but we’re meeting up with the sausage party later at a nightclub for some dancing and partying deep into the night. Transportation back to the hotel has been arranged, and there are rooms reserved for all your drunken asses. So there’s no need to worry about anything. Just make sure you have an awesome time. And remember to take a shot when somebody says ‘wedding,’ ‘bride,’ ‘bridesmaid,’ ‘groom,’ ‘hung like a horse,’ ‘crazy married sex,’ or ‘Mason loves Daisy.’ Oops, that’s seven shots to start you off!”
More crazy cheers, and Daff passed shot glasses around but warned them, “Don’t give any to Daisy, not until later! We want her to be conscious for most of the evening!”
“Hey!” Daisy protested good-naturedly but happily passed on the first shots of the evening.
Daff sent a tacky veil and silk sash that read “Mason’s Bride” to the back of the bus, and a couple of the ladies decked Daisy out in her hen finery. She also handed out other specially commissioned party favors—hats, glasses, and T-shirts, all pink and sparkly, with “Daisy’s Hens” printed somewhere on them.
She smiled while everybody giggled and oohed and ahhed over the selection, but her eyes drifted to the minibus behind theirs. She hadn’t seen Spencer that day, but she knew he was back there. She wondered how he was doing. He wasn’t great at public speaking, and she knew hosting something like this was going to be hard for him. She was tempted to text him to find out how it was going. But she knew better.
She wanted to curl up into a ball and cry every time she thought about his words to her that last time. He loved her and she’d broken his heart, and it killed her to know that. He didn’t deserve to have his heart broken—he deserved to be loved back, completely and without reservation. But Daff didn’t know how to do that. All she knew was that not having him around, never having him around again, hurt more than anything she’d ever experienced before. She didn’t want to lose him, but she didn’t know how to give him what he wanted.
Everybody was starting to get into the swing of things and, job done for now, Daff sat down and faced forward, taking out her phone and blindly staring at the bright screen. Hoping everybody would think she was making last-minute arrangements. Someone sat down next to her, and she plastered a bright smile on her face and looked up to see Lia. Her sister was staring at her with grave eyes, so Daff widened her smile, even though her cheeks were aching.
“Hey, Lia, everything okay?”
“You tell me,” Lia said under her breath, her words barely audible above the rowdy group in the back.
“Everything is going according to plan and—”
“Daff,” her sister interrupted sharply, and Daff’s smile wavered. “Tell me what’s going on. You look so sad.”
“I do?”
“Sissy, you’re crying,” Lia said quietly and handed her a tissue. Daff lifted a hand to her cheek, horrified to find it wet.
“I’m going to ruin the party,” she lamented, and Lia shook her head.
“Nobody noticed, just keep your eyes front and pretend that we’re talking.”
“We are talking,” Daff pointed out, discreetly swiping at her face.
“What happened?”
“This isn’t the time or place.”
“Is it Spencer? Did you guys have a fight?”
“He bought a ring,” Daff said, more tears slipping down her cheek.
“But that’s wonderful, D
aff.”
“Of course you would think that, it’s your ultimate goal in life,” Daff said bitterly, then immediately felt like a bitch when Lia looked like she’d been slapped.
“Hey, at least I have goals,” Lia pointed out scathingly, recovering quickly. And it was almost enough to make Daff smile.
Way to go, Lia!
“So . . . you’re not happy about the ring?” Lia clarified, and Daff shook her head.
“Why would he do that? When I specifically told him that I wasn’t into traditional relationships and that I was happy with what we had.”
“Because he loves you and wants more?”
“So he says. But if he loves me, why can’t he accept me as I am? Wouldn’t he be happy to just be in my life?”
“And if you love him, why can’t you accept that he wants what he’s never had? He wants someone to love, someone to make a family with. I think he wants to belong, because he never has before.”
Daff stared at Lia, the words echoing in her mind. She felt like someone had ripped a veil from her eyes and she was only now seeing things clearly.
Of course he wanted a family. She just had to look at his house to see that. Of course he wanted to belong. No matter how awkward he seemed around her family or how he kept himself apart from them, he always looked at them with something close to yearning in his eyes. It was entirely possible that he wasn’t deliberately keeping himself separate, he just didn’t know how to fit in. Or where he fit in.
“I’m very fond of him, but I don’t love him,” she finally protested weakly as the rest of Lia’s words sank in. Her sister rolled her eyes exaggeratedly.
“Please. You look at the guy like he hung the sun,” Lia dismissed.
“That’s just lust,” Daff said, sounding completely unconvincing even to herself.
“I’ve never seen you look happier or more content than you are around Spencer. You adore him.”
Yes, she did. There really was no point in denying that fact.
“I’m not cut out for marriage, Lia.”
“Why not?”
Daff thought about it and shook her head in bewilderment. “Reasons.” And yet she couldn’t think of a single reason right at that moment.
“Do you think he’ll treat you badly?” She didn’t even bother answering that stupid question. Spencer was quite incapable of harming even a fly.
“Do you think he won’t support your decisions?”
Daff thought about his gentle, nonjudgmental encouragement when she’d quit her job and shook her head helplessly.
“Okay. Let me ask you this . . . do you want to be with other men?”
The thought was so repulsive that Daff was quite unable to hide her reaction from Lia.
“Is he boring? A bad conversationalist? I mean, I know he’s quiet, but you guys always seem to have something to talk about.”
“He’s not boring,” Daff defended with a glare. “Look, I just don’t like labels, Lia. Why do we have to give what we have a name?”
“Okay, so you’d be fine with nobody knowing the true nature of your relationship and chicks always hitting on him because you didn’t put a ring on that?”
“That’s such archaic thinking,” Daff protested, while at the same time feeling nauseated at the thought of Spencer with some other woman. A woman who wouldn’t understand him. Who wouldn’t appreciate his occasional lapses into silence. And who definitely wouldn’t know that there were about fifty possible interpretations for one mild “hmm.”
“How long would you expect this tenuous sexual thing without labels to last? A few months? A couple of years? How do you introduce him to people? As your friend with benefits? Your casual lover?”
“I don’t know, okay? I just don’t think marriage is the right fit for me!”
“Why not?”
“Because I—” Don’t deserve it!
I don’t deserve . . . him.
Daff stopped herself before she completed the sentence. Horrified to hear the silent words screaming loudly in her mind. Why would she think that? Why would she feel so inadequate?
She thought about Spencer’s words to her: Never let anyone make you feel like you’re less. Because you’re not. You’re everything.
And Daff finally recognized that she was her own worst enemy. She was the one who thought she was less. Who thought she didn’t deserve good things and happiness. She had allowed complete assholes to grind her self-worth to dust, and once they were out of her life, she’d taken over the job herself. And Spencer, unfailingly kind and loving Spencer, who had made her feel cherished and important, had been the one she’d inadvertently been punishing for everyone else’s sins.
She gulped down a sob, and Lia put an arm around her shoulder and squeezed her close.
“You’re okay, Sissy. You’ll be fine.”
Daff nodded and plastered another smile on her face, trying to keep the cheerful façade in place for Daisy’s sake. But she wasn’t sure if she’d ever be fine again.
The hen party was a smashing success, and by the time they hooked up with the guys, everybody was well and truly sauced. Daisy was just loud and drunk enough to be hilarious. She launched herself at Mason when she saw him, for all the world like someone who hadn’t seen her man in months. Mason wasn’t much better; he wouldn’t stop snogging her.
The guys were all wearing “Mason’s Stag Bros” T-shirts, and Mason himself was topless. Someone had crudely painted “Daisy’s Man” on his back and “This belongs to Daisy” on his truly magnificent chest, with an arrow pointing down to his crotch. He had lipstick kisses all over his neck and shoulders, which would have been dodgy if not for the fact that all the guys had lipstick smeared over their mouths and halfway down their chins.
Clearly they’d been up to some crazy shit. Daff knew that Mason had invited their dad along, but she was kind of relieved that the older man had politely declined the invitation. He’d said he’d be fine staying home to play a few rousing games of Scrabble with Charlie and their mother. She didn’t think the party would have been quite as crazy if their father had been present.
Her eyes scanned the crowd until she spotted Spencer’s huge shoulders on the other end of the dance floor. He had a drink in each hand and was about to make his way back to the party when a couple of nearly naked skanks rubbed themselves up against him. One of them ran her hand up his chest, and Daff felt her brows slam together. When the other woman curled her hand around his bicep, she clenched her teeth and heard herself growling.
One of the little slags put her hand on his cheek, and he tilted his head enough for her to go up onto her toes and say something directly into his ear.
“Uh-uh,” Daff snapped, and before she knew it she was halfway across the dance floor, pushing her way through throngs of writhing people. She wasn’t sure what her endgame was—her only objective was to get their hands off Spencer!
“Spencer,” she barked when she reached the threesome, raising her voice so that he could hear her above the music. He was smiling at them. Why was he smiling at them? His head jerked up when he heard her voice, and his eyebrows rose clear to his hairline when he saw her folded arms and her scowl.
“What’s up, Daff?” he asked warily.
“Thought you might need a hand carrying those drinks,” she offered. And he lifted a powerful shoulder nonchalantly.
“I’m fine.”
Daff’s eyes tracked to the two women, one of whom still had a hand on Spencer’s arm. Her eyes lingered on that hand as she entertained dark thoughts of ripping each scarlet acrylic nail off those slender fingers. That would teach her to lay hands on Daff’s man.
Only he wasn’t her man. Was he? Not according to her own rules, and especially not after Spencer had ended things between them. He was a free agent—he could flirt with whomever he wanted, date anybody, sleep with every woman under the sun. Daff had no claim on him. She had revoked that right.
She ran a hand over her throbbing forehead. The tension and s
tress of the last few days, combined with the music and alcohol, had given her the worst headache.
“You okay?” Spencer shouted, shrugging off the woman’s hand to move closer to Daff. He completely ignored the other women, his attention wholly focused on Daff, and she choked back a sob as she recognized the look in his eyes as concern . . . for her.
His reaction was utterly instinctive, the behavior of a man who wanted to protect someone he cared about. This was the man Spencer was, the man he couldn’t help being, and Daff loved him for it.
She loved him!
She took a moment to process that thought. She examined the emotion from every angle and felt . . . relieved. Not panicked or terrified, but relieved. Because of course she loved him. How had she not seen that sooner? And how could she have tried to curb the very thing about Spencer that made him special? She had attempted to stifle his protective instinct by minimizing their relationship. By lying to herself and him and referring to what they had as a thing. In refusing to give it a name or any importance, she had basically communicated to him that he didn’t have the right to care about her, to worry about her, or to love her.
And Spencer wasn’t wired like that.
And seeing him with these women, Daff finally began to understand that perhaps she wasn’t wired like that, either. She wanted everybody to know that he was off-limits and belonged exclusively to her. Suddenly Daff found herself wanting those strings. She wanted this man so thoroughly bound to her that he would never get away again.
She gaped at him in slack-jawed bewilderment—the epiphany, so long in coming, sent her reeling—and it took a moment to register the alarm on his face or hear his words.
“—going to be sick?” he yelled, the music all but drowning the words.
“Uh, I-I’m fine,” she said, and he gave her another long, searching look.
“Great,” he said dismissively. “I’ve got to get these drinks back. See you later.”
And with that, he walked away. Without so much as a backward glance. Leaving Daff to feel completely abandoned. Despite knowing that this sense of loss she felt was entirely her own doing.
The Best Man Page 29
