by Penny Reid
His jaw tightened as he ground his teeth and he focused his attention on the untouched cookies. There was a long pause, during which Martin looked like he wanted to say something but was remaining admirably quiet.
“I’m sorry, that was a stupid thing to say. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
I tried to smile and make up for my regrettable sarcasm by adding earnestly, “Why don’t you try asking her if she’s busy over the weekend? Just ask, Do you have any plans this weekend? And if she says no, then ask her out for a movie or dinner. Not everything has to be flying to private islands for a week of dating boot camp.”
“With us, it was too much too fast. I pushed you,” he said with equal sincerity, his eyes ensnaring mine.
“Yes…and no. I mean, I doubt I would have given you much of a chance unless we’d been stranded on that island. But you’re different now. You’ve changed.” My words were honest because I was growing increasingly uncomfortable. I needed him to leave so I could process the end, our true end, without his tremendously brilliant eyes watching and assessing me.
“What do you mean?” He leaned and reached forward, pressed his palm to the surface of the table just two inches from where my hand rested next to my cup, but he didn’t touch me.
“Well, you haven’t yelled at me once since we’ve been friends. You’ve cussed, but you haven’t yelled. You’re…different. More mature, respectful. You seem calmer. Content.”
“And that’s good? You like the changes?”
“Yes, of course.” I smiled because I couldn’t help it, and even now, even when I knew our ship had sailed, I wanted to reassure him, because I cared about him. “Yes, I do. Contentment and self-control look good on you.”
“Happiness and passion look good on you.” Martin’s hand inched closer to me, his knuckles brushing mine—like he was testing how receptive I’d be to his touch—before he captured my hand in his and entwined our fingers on the table.
I let him, because HOLY CRAP it felt so good, like hot cocoa on a snowy day…with lots of Baileys. During Christmas we’d been in a bubble; hugging, lying together, and holding hands had felt natural. I’d missed his touch over the last week. I’d missed it so much. I hungered for it. And now, knowing this might be the last time we touched like this, the connection felt startling, necessary, and oddly provocative.
Maybe my body craved his body because I’d never been with anyone else. Maybe his touch intoxicated me and set my heart racing because he knew me so intimately. He touched me with an understanding of my strengths and weaknesses, of my desires, of who I became when I lost control.
I stared at our combined hands, pressed my lips together and rolled them between my teeth, because I thought I might whimper. This was bad. Very, very bad. We were just holding hands. How was I going to move on like he had if I couldn’t even hold his hand?
And now he wanted to be with someone else.
He wanted me to help him, give him advice on how to woo another girl. If I continued to be his friend, this time I would be solely responsible for breaking my own heart, no assistance from Martin required.
I could feel myself starting to crack. My blood roared between my ears. Unable to maintain my calm under all the swirling and torrid emotions, I yanked my hand away and stood abruptly, my chair scraping against the wooden floor as I backed up two steps.
“I have to get back to work.” I whispered this to the cookies because…self-preservation.
“What time do you get off?”
“Work?” I questioned dumbly, my eyes darting to his then away when they connected with his steady gaze.
But I did catch his smirk before he clarified, “Yes. Work.”
“Not ’til late.” I stepped forward to stack our cups and clear our dishes.
“What are your plans for the weekend?” he asked.
I shrugged, careful to not pick up the dishes from the table until they were pre-bussed so he wouldn’t see my hands shake. “Um, I have shows Friday and Sunday at night. Mostly I just need to get stuff together for classes.” I tucked the plates close to my chest and turned for the kitchen.
“Do you want to hang out on Saturday? Celebrate your change in major?” He stood as well, grabbing the last of the dishes and following me.
“Where? In the city?”
“No, I’ll be here. We’ll have dinner.”
I thought about this for a split second, but then realized I needed more time to decide whether I could truly be friends—just friends—with Martin. I had no idea. Therefore, I decided that one dinner wouldn’t hurt. At the very least it might give me an opportunity to truly say goodbye.
“Sure. Pizza?” My voice cracked.
“No. Something more formal. Wear a dress.”
I dumped our empties into the sink, still feeling flustered and distracted.
“A dress?”
“Yeah, if you don’t mind. I want to try something.”
I turned and faced him, my hands on my hips, and gave him a questioning frown; I was a little breathless as I was trying to keep pace with our conversation and the dizzying thoughts in my head. “Like an experiment?”
He nodded, his eyes trapping mine, pulling me further under his Martin Sandeke magic. “Yes. Exactly like an experiment. I’ll even help you tabulate the findings after.”
I exhaled a laugh that sounded more nervous than genuine. He needed to leave so I could figure out what to do without the dazzling interference of his presence.
I hurriedly agreed, “Sure. Fine. Saturday. I’ll wear a dress. We’ll experiment.”
“Good. I’ll pick you up at seven.”
Before I comprehended his intent, he grabbed my upper arm to hold me in place, bent forward, and kissed me on the corner of my mouth. I was still paralyzed by shock—wondering if he’d meant for a cheek-kiss and had misaimed—when I caught his scent.
He smelled good. Really good.
Like a guy who showers with expensive, French-milled soap scented with sandalwood as well as something so completely him. It was the him part that hijacked my brain, because it took me back to a boat in the Caribbean where we’d laughed and fought and spooned…and forked.
It took me back to snuggling with him on the couch in his apartment, hugging him, and waking up with him Christmas morning. Liquid emotion stung my eyes and I felt overwhelmed by the fact he was unquestionably no longer mine. He wanted someone else.
Meanwhile Martin was in motion. He’d crossed to his chair, grabbed his coat, tossed a fifty on the table, and left without another word. The door chime alerted me to his exit. It broke me from my trance just in time to see him turn to the left and disappear from view.
He didn’t look back.
CHAPTER 13
Thermodynamic Quantities for Selected Substances at 298.15 K
“Explain to me what’s happening with you and Martin, because…I don’t understand.”
“I told you, we’re going out to dinner as friends.” I mentally gave myself a high five because I sounded convincing and not at all brittle. And that was a miracle.
Despite the fact Martin had moved on, I had not. I could not be friends with Martin Sandeke.
I couldn’t.
I wouldn’t.
I wanted more, and I would likely always want more.
After a great deal of thinking since seeing him earlier in the week, I’d decided to go with my original plan of confronting him. I was going to adult like an adult and tell him I was still in love with him. Then I was going to ask Martin if, despite his interest in someone else, whether or not he still had feelings for me he wished to explore via a relationship.
After that, I had no concrete plan.
“As friends?” Sam sounded and appeared skeptical.
“Yes. As friends.”
“Riiiight.”
“It’s true. In fact, right before we made dinner plans, he asked me to give him advice about another girl.” I shrugged. I was getting good at this, at rising above.
“Oh�
�” Sam’s face fell, then to herself she said, “Well, that’s kind of a shitty thing for him to do.”
“It’s fine. I’m fine.”
I wasn’t fine.
I was the opposite of fine.
But I would be fine…eventually.
Either he said yes, he still had feelings for me. In which case we would hammer out the details of our reconciliation and move forward.
Or he said no, that he’d moved on. In which case I would tell him I could not continue to be friends with him, but would wish him well.
At least I would know for certain. At least I would be moving forward one way or the other.
“I’m not fine, in case you were wondering,” Sam announced, pulling me from my thoughts. “I’m not fine at all. Who is she? Is she smart? Pretty?”
“If the girl is who I think she is, his business partner Emma, then yes. She is very smart and pretty.” I’d decided the hypothetical girl was either Emma or Rose, both of whom were most definitely beautiful.
And that was fine.
That was actually truthfully fine, not fake fine. I was completely at peace with being beautiful to myself rather than being pretty in comparison to someone else.
“I hate her.”
I laughed at my friend. “There’s no reason to hate her.”
“Why are you being so okay about this? Martin was your first love. You loved him. You were in love with him. You cried for months after it was over in an uncharacteristic display of emotion.”
“And why are you trying to make me not-okay with this?”
“I’m not. I’m just…” Her face scrunched up with pensive dissatisfaction. “I’m just worried about you.”
“Don’t be.”
“I can’t help it. I don’t want you hiding in closets again.”
I tried to give Sam a reassuring smile, noting that this—her worry—was precisely why I hadn’t shared my plan with her. As far as she knew, Martin and I were platonic friends and I was over (or almost over) him. After what I’d put her through during the summer there was no reason to give her cause for anxiety now.
I turned my attention back to the mirror and frowned at my reflection.
“I can’t wear this dress.”
I liked the dress a lot in the store. It was a complicated dress. A beige silk sheath was beneath. Layered above was black, open-work lace crochet. The dress clung to my body—over my breasts, torso, and thighs—highlighting the smallness of my waist in comparison to my generous hips and bustline.
At the time, I also liked that it had a square cut neckline, and the fact it ended just below my knees. In my opinion, there weren’t enough square cut necklines. Large boobs always looked nice in a square cut and it showed my collarbone and neck to best advantage.
In truth, I’d bought it just for this dinner with Martin. I felt good in it, confident. But now I was questioning the choice. I worried it was too sexy. I didn’t want to come across as desperate or manipulative, not when I was planning to have a serious conversation with him about whether or not our future relationship was in the cards.
“Why? You look hot. It’s sexy. I’d do you.”
“Because it might be too sexy. And it’s always catching on things.” I moved my arm back and forth over the openwork lace and my bracelet caught. I stilled my movements so I wouldn’t pull the thread and ruin the dress.
“See. My bracelet is caught.”
“Of course, when you try to get your bracelet caught it’s going to get caught.” Sam rolled her eyes then crossed to me, helped me disentangle my arm, and removed the bracelet. “Just wear a different bracelet. Or no bracelet at all…” Then she added under her breath, “Less for him to take off when you both succumb to passion.”
I flattened my lips into an unhappy line and affixed a scowl to my face. “I want him to be sensible, not succumb to passion.”
Sam glanced up at me, her face said, bitch, please.
Then she said, “Bitch, please.”
“It’s true. I…I need to talk to him, get some things straight. And besides, like I said, he wants someone else.”
“Wanted someone else, past tense, after he sees you in this dress.”
I grew frustrated because Sam’s sentiment was the opposite of what I wanted. I wanted Martin to want me, want me. Not want me because of the dress. I wanted him to think of me as The One because despite everything, he was still my One.
Gah! This is so confusing.
“That’s it, I’m changing.”
“No! There isn’t time. He’ll be here any minute. It’s almost seven.”
Oh. Shoot.
I stiffened, glanced at the clock next to my bed. “Oh shoot!”
“What?”
“I’ll be right back.” I scoured the room for my black shoes. “I’m going to run down to the cleaners and get my tuxedo before they close.”
“What? Why?”
“I have that show tomorrow and I forgot to pick it up today. Shoot! They close in ten minutes and they’re closed all day tomorrow.”
I slipped on one of my flats, deciding the dress was just going to have to be okay.
“No! You can’t wear those shoes!” Sam lunged for me, ripping the second shoe out of my hand. “It’s a crime against fashion. I won’t let you do it.”
“Sam, I don’t have time for this.”
She turned hastily and marched out of the room—holding my shoe hostage—and returned seconds later carrying sexy, black silk stilettos. I was stuffing my black clutch with my wallet, Chapstick, and cell phone.
“Here. Wear these.” She held them out to me.
“I can’t wear those. They’re too…too—”
“It’s fine.” She knelt down and picked up one foot, then the other, elevating me by three inches as she slipped the shoes on. “See, they fit. They’re perfect.”
I didn’t check in the mirror. If I didn’t hurry, the cleaners would be closed and I would have to wear my dirty tux instead. It smelled like sweat and barbeque sauce. I tucked my clutch under my arm and spun for the door.
“You want me to go? He’ll be here any minute,” she asked.
“No, it’s fine. I’ll just run across the street and do it really fast. I doubt he’s taking me someplace that requires reservations or anything.”
“I don’t mind,” she called after me as I sprinted down the hall to the front closet.
“I got it,” I called back.
“Okay, fine. I have to go drop a load anyway,” she announced, and I heard the bathroom door shut.
I smirked as I stepped into the closet and felt for my formal coat. Of course mine was at the back. The last time I saw it was when I unpacked it two days after we moved into the apartment. I wasn’t even sure it was in the closet.
I pulled the chord to turn on the hanging bulb above because the door had creaked shut behind me, cutting off my light source.
I shifted through the coats—all twenty plus of them—and reminded myself to ask Sam why she needed so many coats. There was one in each color of the rainbow plus four or five black ones that looked exactly the same.
“Weirdo,” I said to the coats, shaking my head.
Then a knock sounded at the door and I stiffened, my brain shouting, Oh barnacles! He’s here! I turned to abandon my coat search, my hands shaking a little, but found I couldn’t move. I twisted, frowning down at myself, searching for the source of my immobilization.
The crochet dress was caught in at least three places on three different coats, by the buttons at the cuffs.
Blast!
“Coming!” I heard Sam call, the bathroom door opening and the sound of flushing toilet following her.
“Wait, Sam!” I whispered, reaching for the door, then realized my mistake too late. She couldn’t hear me if I whispered behind a mostly closed door.
It was too late, because two seconds later I heard her open the front door and say, “Who the hell are you?”
I breathed a sigh of relief, glad it
wasn’t Martin after all, then turned to untangle myself from Sam’s army of coats.
My relief was short-lived because, after a beat, Martin’s voice responded, “I’m Martin. And you are?”
Ooooohhhh mmmmmyyyyy Ggggoooooodddd!!!!
I froze.
“Ha-ha, come in. Parker just left to run an errand, she’ll be right back.”
“An errand?”
“Yeah, she had to grab her dry cleaning from across the street. It should take her, like, literally less than ten minutes. They close in ten minutes, they’re closed all day tomorrow, and she has a gig tomorrow night, so…you see how it is,” Sam explained as she shut the door.
“Where’s she playing tomorrow?”
“I don’t know, some really fancy to-do. She has that tuxedo uniform for all the shows.”
“Does Kaitlyn work every day? Does she ever get a day off?”
“Starving artist has to make a living somehow, you know?”
“Hmm…” His answer sounded non-committal, but also rang with frustration, like he was irritated I had to work every day. But I wanted to work, to prove I could support myself as a musician. It was important to me.
And I didn’t know why I was obsessing about this since I was stuck in the closet and there was no way to exit gracefully. I glanced back at the coats holding me in place, deciding I was just going to call out and ask for help when Sam spoke again.
“Martin, are you still in love with Kaitlyn? Or are you just here to break her heart into a million tiny pieces again?”
I froze. My call for help stuck in my throat.
“Again?” His tone was dry. “I didn’t know that happened. When did that happen?”
“Don’t fuck around with me, hot stuff. I’m not impressed by your GQ good looks, your Scrooge McDuck money vault, or your genius brain.”
“Then what impresses you?” I knew he was smiling…with his sharp teeth.
“Honesty,” she said.
I could picture her face as she said it. Her eyebrows would be raised in challenge, like she didn’t expect him to be honest, like she was daring him.
I opened my mouth again, but then stopped, squeezed my eyes shut, then turned to the coats. I couldn’t call for help. It was too late. The only thing I could do was disentangle myself and try to sneak out undetected, praying Sam would lead him into the living room.
