by Roya Carmen
I can’t tear myself away. And I know I should.
I sit still, waiting for him to kiss me. I can see he wants to, but he doesn’t.
And I think about the tears I’ve shed. I think about Gabe. I think about my girls.
“I…I…” I stammer. “I…I have to go,” I say with what little leftover willpower I have. “I’ve been out here for a while. And the receptionist is looking after my kids right now,” I add, reaching for the car door. “I’m sorry.”
The disappointment on his face is unmistakable. “Please consider what I’ve said, Mirella,” he pleads as I close the door.
There’s no way I can focus on anything for the rest of the day. I’m essentially a zombie all afternoon. The kids pull at my pajama pants, yell out my name, and try to get my attention, but I’m completely useless. All I can think about is him…his words, his touch.
I know it’s probably the worst idea in the entire existence of humanity, but I want to go there again. I want things to be exactly like they were a few months ago, before I told him I loved him. We were all having so much fun. We were living life. We were happy.
Is it so horrible to want that again?
I know he has the power to hurt me deeply, but knowing that now, I can put up defenses. I can be in control of the situation. I know how to handle him now. If anything, it’s Weston I have to worry about. He seems to have fallen off the deep end.
But I can handle him.
I know I can.
I drive the girls home in a hurry after school, whizzing through all the yellow lights. I drop them off at their friend’s place, a sweet girl who lives near our house. Her mother loves having Chloe and Claire over.
I rush to Gabe’s office. He usually gets home at just around six or so, just in time for dinner. Today I can’t wait over two hours to speak to him. I feel like I might combust.
I always love the smell of the showroom. Pure solid wood—there’s no homier smell in the world. For some reason, it makes me think of a hot cup of cocoa in front of a fire—the real kind, with logs and crackling—in a log cabin up on some mountain. I suspect it stems from childhood memories. A very subtle hint of this aroma always lingers on Gabe and every time he holds me in his arms, I feel like I’m home.
Kirk gives me a big bear hug. “Well, what a nice surprise to see you here, Mirella.” I’m not sure what Kirk does. I think he’s in charge of the show floor.
“Hi. How are you, Kirk?”
“Great. Better for seeing you,” he says with a friendly grin.
“Is Gabe around?” I ask, knowing he could very well be on the road, visiting with suppliers, dealing with clients.
He looks up toward the offices. “Yep. I saw him upstairs about an hour ago. He could be anywhere. You’re welcome to go look for him.”
After about five minutes searching for him, I finally spot him at the back of the inventory room, speaking to a delivery guy.
The young guy notices me first and his brow perks up, prompting Gabe to turn around.
He smiles when he sees me. “What are you doing here?” he asks, surprised.
I really should have called. It’s not like me to just show up unannounced. “I thought I’d surprise you.”
He smiles as he dismisses the young guy with a wave of his hand.
Gabe grabs my face and kisses my cheek. “Here for a quickie?” he whispers with that slightly off-kilter devilish smile of his. It almost makes me want to have a quickie.
But I know he’s kidding. I laugh. He always makes me laugh. “Actually,” I tell him, starting off slowly. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”
“What’s up?” he asks, curious.
Oh God. I don’t know how to go about this. I have no clue how Gabe will react. I lean against the steel beam to steady myself, and draw in a long breath. My heart is racing. I close my eyes and will myself to settle down. I stare off in the distance at the stacked furniture wrapped in cellophane. I don’t want to see his reaction when I tell him. I know he’ll be thoroughly pissed off when he hears what I have to say.
I clear my throat awkwardly. “Weston came to see me at school today,” I finally sputter, the words coming out in a quick rush.
“He what? What the fuck did he want?”
A wave of nausea hits me and I close my eyes again. I’m not sure how to present it. I don’t want Gabe to fly off the handle. I want him to consider this carefully, but I also don’t want to appear as if I want to jump right back into Weston’s arms. The last thing I want to do is hurt Gabe.
“He…he,” I falter. “He wants to open a dialogue. With all of us. He’s spoken to Bridget already.” I don’t dare mention the whole “I’m in love with you, splattered on the pavement” thing. I’m sure Gabe doesn’t want to hear it.
I know this is wrong. I can’t be doing this whole open casual sex thing when I know Weston’s in love with me, or thinks he is. Yet, I can’t seem to pull myself away from this. From craving this with every inch of my being.
He shakes his head. “The arrogant asshole.” His words are slow, drenched with disgust. “He really thinks you want to fuck him again after the way they ended things?”
He was just trying to do the right thing.
I don’t say a thing. The truth is, I do. I do want to fuck him again.
I’m such a mess.
I finally venture a look up at Gabe. He doesn’t look like himself. His face is twisted into a scowl. He’s repulsed. “You told him to fuck off, I hope.”
“Well, not exactly. I just kind of walked away from him.”
He inches closer to me, and pulls me to him, a large proprietary hand around my waist. He fixes me with a blank stare. “I want you to tell him we’re not interested, and also tell him to leave you the fuck alone.”
My heart sinks. I know it’s what I need to do. It’s the right thing to do. But I also know it will kill me. “I will.”
Gabe’s right. I shouldn’t go down that road again…no matter how much I want to. He will only hurt me again. And he has no right to ask me.
I need to end this, once and for all.
I hug Gabe good-bye, knowing I have business to take care of. I need to do this now, before I lose my resolve.
As soon as I get to my car, I grab my phone.
I know I should really call him, but I can’t bring myself to. I am such a coward. So instead, I send him a text, because I know if I hear his beautiful voice, I’ll fall under his spell.
Gabe and I have spoken. It’s a no-go. I’m sorry.
Now please kindly leave me alone.
A little heartless, but I’m convinced being curt and impersonal will send the message loud and clear. I throw the phone back in my purse and turn on the ignition. The windows are foggy and I sit for a second waiting for the car to warm up. My hands are freezing and still shaking. I decide it’s safer to wait a minute or two before driving off. I can’t believe I find myself at the center of this drama again. I was doing so well…and now this.
My phone chirps. I know it’s him. I grab it so fast, it almost slips out of my grip. I press the envelope icon, anxious.
You said I was cold once.
That’s two callous texts now Mirella.
The pot certainly calls the kettle black.
What kind of damn cryptic message is that? Is he leaving me the hell alone or not?
And I am no pot!
He’s the pot, the pompous, incorrigible jerk.
Chapter Four
Strictly business.
IT’S BEEN DAYS…
He’s finally leaving me alone.
I squeeze out a dollop of shampoo on Claire’s wet head. I’m not sure if it’s what I want. It is. And it isn’t.
I know Gabe certainly doesn’t want me to see him again. And my head doesn’t either. But my heart…my stupid heart.
Claire’s sweet voice frees me from my completely wasteful thoughts. “You look so sad, Mommy.”
“I’m fine, Claire,” I lie. “Mom
my’s just tired.”
“I think somebody needs to go to bed early tonight,” she says, throwing my own words back at me. I laugh out loud. She’s so insanely adorable.
A huge smile stretches across my face. “You’re right. Early to bed for me tonight.”
I hear Gabe downstairs. He’s late. I’m not sure why—all I got was a text message saying:
Will b late tonight…will explain.
I pull Claire from the bath and wrap her up in a plush towel. “Be right back. I need to talk to Daddy.”
I bound down the stairs. “Have you had dinner?”
“Yup. Ate at a restaurant.”
This is an unusual occurrence. “Dinner with a client?”
“Not exactly,” he says, the two words dragging out slowly.
“Why are you late?” I desperately want to know.
“Let’s go to the bedroom.” I start to worry because when he says that, it usually ends up in sex…or a fight. And he doesn’t seem like he’s in the mood to play.
He closes the bedroom door behind us.
“What is it?” I ask, curiosity filling me. I hope Weston hasn’t gotten to him. That’s all I need right now, Gabe punching the life out of Weston.
He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t quite look at me.
“What? What is it?” Now I’m dying of curiosity.
He hesitates a second or two before finally confessing, “Bridget. She came to see me.”
I’m taken aback. I certainly didn’t expect this. “What did she want?”
He unbuttons his plaid shirt. “What she always wants,” he says with a sly smile.
“You didn’t!”
“Of course, I didn’t. I would never. Not without speaking to you first.”
What?
I’m floored. I plop my rear on the bed. I can no longer stand straight. “Without speaking to me first? Are you planning on sleeping with her again?”
“It was discussed.”
“It was discussed? You were dead-set against it when it involved me and Weston. But now that it involves you and Bridget, and her insanely long legs and Scarlett Johansson lips, now you’ve changed your mind?”
“Well…”
“You fucking horny bastard.”
His serious expression morphs into a twisted laugh. He seems to find this very amusing. I, myself, don’t find it funny at all. I can’t believe the words coming out of his mouth. Men, they’re always thinking with their dicks.
I cross my arms, readying for a fight. “But what about the whole ‘he’s an asshole, I never want you to see him again’ thing? Do you hear yourself?”
He kneels in front of me and wraps his strong arms around my legs. “Ella,” he says. His voice is uncharacteristically soft. “I don’t want to do this if you don’t. I just…I’m just tempted. I’m a guy. If you think he’s gonna hurt you again like he did before, then we should definitely not go there.”
I can’t believe he’s leaving it up to me. Doesn’t he know I’m not in a right frame of mind when it comes to Weston. “What about you? You weren’t that impressed either with being left on the curb, if I recall.”
“I got over it in about a day,” he points out.
He’s right. He did seem to get over it pretty quickly.
“I can handle this swap thing. I can keep my emotions in check. It’s not a problem for me,” he reminds me.
Well, except for the jealousy, I almost want to say, but think better of it.
“I can handle it too. It’s not a problem for me either.” Even as I’m uttering the words, I know I’m so full of it.
“Can you, really? Because you were pretty upset last time. You tried your best to hide it, but I could tell. It took you a good month to get over it.”
I sneer at him. The truth is; it didn’t take me a month. It didn’t take two months, or three…because I never did get over it. But I’d never admit that to anyone.
“Do you realize what you’re saying? This would mean entering that world again. The drama, the tension, the unknown…the risks.”
“Everything was running smoothly before the abrupt break-up,” he points out.
Yes. Before I told him I loved him.
“Whatever you say goes, Ella,” he says, his hazel eyes fixed on mine. “Just tell me what you want.”
So it’s up to me now. How did this happen?
Bridget. That’s how.
I can’t make this decision. I’m just not equipped to do it.
I just know I’ll make the wrong one.
I’ve been thinking about Weston. He’s respected my wishes. He’s managed to leave me alone for over three weeks now. No calls, no texts. How clever of him to dangle his mighty carrot in front of Gabe. If anyone could change a man’s mind, it’s Bridget. The woman could charm the fur off a fox. That is so Weston—cunning and inconspicuous.
I’ve told Gabe I’ve decided to not start things up again. I really don’t want to go down that road again. But it’s been hard not to think of Weston lately. I’ve been keeping myself busy with work and the girls, and have honestly never been such a good mother, or teacher. Among my new little projects have been organizing new craft and social interaction activities for the kids, and working on a new-age curriculum incorporating nature and eco-awareness for the upcoming spring session. I’ve been baking homemade cookies and pies. I even made my own pasta from scratch the other day. I swear, people must think I’m on speed.
But for the life of me, it hasn’t worked. I think about him constantly, still. I pray to God to make this go away. I think about him morning, noon, and night. Especially at night. I long for him. I get myself so riled up thinking about his face, his touch.
And every day, I fight the urge to reach out to him.
And on this ordinary Wednesday evening, as I reach for my phone, I know I can’t be helped. “I’m so weak,” I admit to myself as I text the single word.
Talk?
I drop to my knees, shaking, knowing I’m doing the absolutely wrong thing. But I knew all along it was inevitable. It was just a matter of time. I knew I would do this. I always knew.
He texts me about a minute later, and I’m so happy to hear from him.
When? Where?
I type furiously, my fingers trembling. I’m frazzled. I can’t believe I’m doing this. I backtrack to fix mistakes. Every cell in my body tells me this is wrong, but I press on.
Friday night at Little Market at the Talbott Hotel
…strictly business. We have a few things to discuss.
6:00 pm
I will be there. We will talk. Strictly business. : )
He’s usually the one who makes the plans, but things are going to be a little different from now on. There’s a new boss at the office. And she’s cooked up a whole new set of rules.
I throw my phone on the bed, already chiding myself.
I’m officially in it now.
I’ve jumped.
Into a big stinkin’ hot mess.
The warm air wraps around us as soon as we enter the cozy chalet-style restaurant. It’s been so wet and cold out, February is such a dreary month.
The hostess, a middle-aged woman wearing a red and white checked button shirt and blue jeans, greets us with a big wide grin. “A little nippy out there?”
I smile at her as I pull off my gloves. “Yes, you could say that.”
“Two for dinner tonight?”
“Yes,” Gabe says, shaking the snow out of his curls. “No kids tonight.”
She winks at me. “Date night?”
We smile at each other as we follow her to our table.
A cheery blonde, dressed in the same get-up, makes her way to our table.
“Hi, folks, I’m Colette, and I’ll be your server tonight.” She grabs two beer coasters from her black apron and plops them on the table. “Are we starting with drinks?”
We start off with a Rolling Rock for Gabe, and a glass of Coke for me. I take in the restaurant’s cozy chalet décor
and giant rustic chandeliers, and I remember the last time we were here. It was a while ago. We were all here as a family celebrating Gabe’s birthday. That seems like a lifetime ago—back when life was simple.
I trail circles along the rim of my glass, not knowing where to start. “I’m not sure this is the best place to have the conversation we’re about to have.”
“But the food is great here,” he says, his nose buried in the menu.
“Exactly. This place is busy. Maybe we should have gone somewhere more intimate.”
He shrugs. “Well, we’re here now. We can still talk.”
I don’t know where to start.
“There’s so much to say.”
He puts down his menu. “Just start with the truth, Ella,” he says. His beautiful hazel eyes are striking in the warm light. “I want you to tell me.”
“Are you sure?”
He smiles at me. “Yes, I’m sure. No more secrets.”
He’s so beautiful. There’s a sweetness about him sometimes. The contrasts in him are so puzzling.
I sit up straight. “Well…” I start.
Colette pops up in front of our table, like a jack-in-the-box. “Hi, folks. Have we decided?” she chirps, her voice a couple of octaves higher than I would like it to be. “Crazy menu, right?”
“Uh…” I say, mildly annoyed. I just want to talk to my husband. But I suppose she is just doing her job. If we wanted quiet, we should have had this discussion on a park bench. “I’ll have a cheeseburger, please. With fries.”
“Sure,” she says, noting it down on her pad. She blows out a breath. “Would you like steak fries, yam fries, chili cheese fries, home fries, curly fries, potato wedges, shoestring fries or poutine?” I think she actually runs out of breath. She looks a little blue.
“Oh geez, now I’m overwhelmed. On second thought, I’ll have salad.”
She sighs. She probably hates me. “Caesar or Garden?”
“Garden, please.”
“Which salad dressing would you like?” she asks with a hint of an eye roll. “House, ranch, French, oil and vinegar, Italian…” she goes on, staring up at the ceiling, “blue cheese, raspberry vinaigrette, honey mustard, Greek…”
