Ground Rules: Rewritten

by Roya Carmen

  A smile curves my lips. She always has a way of cheering me up.

  “Seriously,” she goes on. “That’s every woman’s dream. That’s why I really don’t get this thing with you and Weston.”

  “You’re right, Gwen. But I just can’t seem to tear myself away. The pull is so strong and it’s not just the sex. I love being with him, seeing him smile, laughing with him.”

  She shoots me a tight smile. “You’ve got it bad, sweetie. But you can do it. I’ll help you. We’ll do it together.”

  “How?” I ask. I really want to believe she can help me because Lord knows I need all the help I can get.

  “It’ll be hard, but I’m not going to let you go off track. Thankfully, you’re not in too deep. Thank God you’re not pregnant. That would be a real mess.”

  I blow out a breath. “Yeah, definitely not pregnant, just had my period.”

  She’s so right. It’s complicated, but not that complicated.

  “Remember when you helped me stop smoking four years ago?” she says, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.

  I nod, remembering the many interventions I had to conduct, the trips to the pharmacy for emergency nicotine gum, the girl’s nights when she was feeling particularly vulnerable, and all the obsessive Google research I did on the subject of quitting smoking. I was so knowledgeable by the end, I could have founded my own stop-smoking clinic.

  “We’ll go about it the same way. Maybe therapy, perhaps hypnotherapy. It worked for me.”

  I wince. “You think they offer a program for sexual infatuation.”

  She smiles. “Who knows?”

  “You think I’m a sex addict?”

  She laughs out loud. “Mirella, you’ve slept with two men in your life. You are not a sex addict.”

  “Well, I have been feeling so out of control, sometimes I wonder.”

  She squeezes my shoulder. “Don’t you worry about that. I’ll be there for you, even through all the shakes and sweats.”

  The rays of sunlight stream through the open blinds, forming bright parallel lines across the messy, chaotic space. It’s steamy and dusty. I grab a face mask and wrap it around my face, covering my mouth and nose.

  “Hi,” I mumble through the mask. “It’s looking good.”

  Gabe looks up at me, his forehead sweaty. His thin white tee is plastered on his body, soaked at the arm pits. “It’s getting there.”

  “It looks great.”

  I try to find a decent spot to sit amongst the hodgepodge of junk; wood shavings, cans of paint, pieces of wood and trim, toolboxes, and baskets of stuff. “God, it’s hot in here. It’s like a sauna. How can you stand it?”

  He sweeps the sandpaper over the long curved chunk of maple. “I’m used to it. I should probably install a fan one of these days.”

  “Probably,” I say, looking over his handy work—an armoire he promised me about three years ago. He’s been working on it sporadically, but I’m glad to see he hasn’t given up on it quite yet.

  He looks up from his work table and his gaze lingers on me with a curious look. “What’s up?”

  I take off the mask. “I wanted to talk.”

  His eyes stay on me as he drops his sanding brush and makes his way around the work table. “What is it?”

  I bite my lip, trying to say it simply. I’m not sure what he’ll think about all this. This decision involves all of us, not just me. “I was thinking…”

  He takes my hands in his, the scratchy fabric of his gloves is rough against my fingers. He looks beautiful under the soft warm midday light peeking through the window.

  I smile up at him. “I want to end this thing with Weston and Bridget.”

  He blinks, clearly surprised. “Are you sure?”

  I stare down at the workshop floor, littered with wood shavings. The thing is, I’m not sure. I’m never sure when it comes to Weston. “Yes, I’m positive. I’ve thought about this a lot. It was fun for a while, but I think it’s getting too dangerous.”

  He pulls me to him. “I do too.”

  I look up at him, my arms wrapped around his waist. “You won’t miss Bridget?”

  He smiles at me. “Well, I might miss fucking her, I won’t lie.”

  Trademark Gabe, so grossly honest.

  His face softens. “But what I mean is, I won’t really miss her. You have no idea how happy I am.”

  I jerk back. “What do you mean? You’re happy?”

  He leans back on the edge of the table, his gaze glued to the floor. “I don’t want you with him. I can see you getting caught up in him again. Falling for the jerk like last time.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this? Why didn’t you tell me you didn’t want me to see him anymore?”

  He looks down at me. He’s wide open, he’s not holding anything back. I can see every emotion in those big eyes of his. “I didn’t want to have to ask. I wanted you to want to end it,” he says, his words so soft, I barely hear them. “I didn’t want you to end it because I asked you to. I wanted you to break things off because you wanted to.”

  “I want to,” I tell him, holding him tighter.

  “I didn’t want to cage you in. I guess it was a ‘if you love something, set it free’ thing.”

  I look up at him. “I don’t want to be free. I love you.”

  He takes my face in his gloved hands. His gloves are rough on my cheeks but his kiss is so soft, I could just melt into him. I wrap my hands in his damp shirt. He smells of wood and sweat and I want him.

  I’ve always wanted him.

  I pace around the house, wearing the floors down as I try to figure out exactly how to do this.

  Gabe and I talked and talked it to death. We decided we would definitely not be going the same route Weston and Bridget did when they dumped us—the whole official meeting, complete with briefcase slinging. No, we are going to do this the right way, and accord them the courtesy of a proper breakup. We’ve decided we would both meet with them individually; Gabe will meet with Bridget, and I’ll meet with Weston.

  I’ve never dreaded anything more in my life.

  I know I’ll break his heart, shred it to pieces because I know he’s in as deep as I am, possibly even deeper. I can’t even imagine how he’ll handle it.

  I drive myself to the city, my nerves shot. I wonder if driving in such a state of extreme dread is dangerous. But there’s no way I’m catching a ride in Weston’s car today. Gabe left work early to pick up the girls and I’m driving straight from school, still dressed in my red blouse, black pencil skirt and chunky flats. I rely on my dear old British friend, Mrs. GPS, to get me there because I am certainly in no mood to concentrate on directions.

  As I make my way into the pastry shop, the bell clangs. It’s busy, people milling about at the cash register and at the pastry filled window. I’m surprised when the delicious looking cupcakes do not tempt me in the least. That’s when I realize how nervous I am. There are quite a few duos seated at tables. It’s perfect. Weston can’t possibly make a scene here. He wouldn’t dare. He’s much too proper.

  My heart sinks when I spot him, seated at the back, nursing a cup of something. He rises when he sees me, looking as beautiful as ever in a dark suit.

  My feet drag as I make my way to him. Such a small distance has never been so hard to close. He kisses me on the cheek when I reach him. “You look nice.”

  “Thank you,” I say softly, staring down at the terra-cotta tiles. “I just came from work.”

  His gaze travels across the quaint little shop and settles on the teenagers and hipsters. “Me too. I’m afraid I’m a tad overdressed.”

  I smile up at him, and my heart sinks again.

  This is so hard.

  He brings his cup of coffee to his mouth. “Interesting spot you’ve picked. I’m intrigued.”

  I don’t want to do this. Maybe I can just leave. Just get up and leave with no explanation.

  I swallow hard, wanting to spill everything, but I don’t know where to
start.

  “You want something?” he asks. “I think you need to go to the register to order.”

  I rub my palms against the slippery fabric of my skirt, working up the courage to say what I need to say. “No, I’m not hungry. I just wanted to talk.”

  He sits up straight and sets his cup of coffee down, so softly, almost as if he’s bracing himself for something to come and swallow him whole. “What is it, Mirella?” he asks, his words almost a whisper.

  I clutch the chunky amber pendant of my necklace and swallow hard. “I just…”

  “Say it,” is all he says. I think he realizes what I’m about to tell him.

  “I’ve thought long and hard about it,” I say, closing my eyes, “and we…we can’t…” I trail off, not able to say the words. I’m such a coward. My eyes well up and I swallow the lump in my throat. I tell myself to keep my emotions in check, this needs to be done.

  He blinks hard. “We can’t what?”

  I turn my gaze away. “We can’t go on like this,” I finally manage. “I want to end this…this thing with you and Bridget.”

  When I look at him again, all I see is the pain on his face.

  He reaches for my hand and takes it in his. “You don’t mean that.”

  The tears officially start. “I do. I’m s-sorry,” I tell him, my words coming out in shorts gasps. “Gabe and I…we both want this.”

  He swallows hard. “Is this about our fight? About the things I said?” he asks, not waiting for an answer. “I was so angry seeing his name on your skin. I just don’t want him to control you, to own you. You don’t belong to anyone.”

  I wince. “I know, Weston. This isn’t what this is all—”

  He jerks his hand back. “Is this you talking, or is it Gabe? I know the man despises me.”

  “No,” I cry out. “It’s me. It was my decision.”

  He fixes me, his gaze dark. “I don’t believe you.”

  I wipe the tears away with the heel of my hand. “I’m telling you the truth.”

  He leans in close, the half-empty cup of coffee clanks on the table. “But you love me,” he says. “I know you love me, Mirella.”

  He’s right. I am in love with him. I am completely infatuated with him. But that’s not the point.

  “I need to do this, Weston,” I plead with him. “For all of us. It’s just like when you broke up with me.”

  “No one will ever love you like I do, Mirella. Not even Gabe.”

  I turn from him and summon the courage to leave. “I’m sorry.”

  He grabs my wrist and glares at me, his mouth tight. “Is it because I’m not hard enough for you? I’m too soft, too square?”

  “No.”

  He jerks to his feet, and sends the chair tottering. “Do you want me to be more like Gabe?” The chair teeters dangerously on one leg, and finally falls back to its original position.

  I try to tear myself away from his grasp. “No.”

  He pulls me to the hallway at the back of the shop. It’s just the two of us, my back pressed against the wall, his tall frame towering over me.

  “Is this what you want?” he asks, a hand still firmly wrapped around my wrist, the other grasping my thigh tightly, just above the knee.

  “Weston.”

  He presses his mouth against my ear. I can smell the coffee on his breath. “I can take you into that washroom right now and fuck you senseless. That’s the kind of thing you like, isn’t it?”

  I close my eyes. I can’t let him try to seduce me, manipulate me, melt my resolve.

  He trails his hand slowly up my thigh under the fabric of my skirt. “I can split you in two, if that’s what you want.”

  Damn, Weston.

  I look up at him. There’s a hard, unyielding intensity in his gaze. There’s not even a whisper of the soft, sweet Weston I’m in love with.

  “Um…is everything all right here?” The deep voice sears through like a knife. A young man wrapped up in a big scarf, funny hat and skinny jeans studies us with great interest. His gaze meets mine. “Is everything cool?” he asks.

  Weston pulls away from me, and I smile at the boy as I smooth down my skirt. “Yes, everything is fine. Thank you. I was just leaving.”

  I take advantage of this precious moment to run to the table, grab my purse and make a run for it. And on my way out, I mouth a “thank you” to the boy in the weird outfit.

  I don’t even look back at Weston. I don’t want to see his face.

  The image haunts me as I make my way back to my car, my knees shaking. The image of the boy—the way he looked at me—he knew something was wrong. Something was definitely wrong. I knew Weston wouldn’t take it well, but I never imagined he’d be so angry.

  I can split you in two.

  I’m already split in two—the part who loves Gabe and the part who loves Weston.

  Tears run down my cheeks as I drive off. I’ve got to give him his anger though. I too, was livid when he broke up with me—I threw a damn briefcase at his face for heaven’s sake…I gave him a shiner.

  He’ll cool off. And then, he’ll realize this is for the best.

  That’s what I want to believe.

  Chapter Thirty

  I hadn’t seen anything yet.

  WELL, I CERTAINLY HAVE NOT PICKED the best time to throw myself into a whirlwind of emotional upheaval. June is a busy month at school, with parent-teacher meetings and report cards. I go on about my day, nod and smile. Meanwhile, I’m torn apart inside. This is a lot harder than I thought it was going to be.

  But I’m determined to stick it out. Gwen and Gabe have been my allies, my support system. Gabe and I are planning to take a nice vacation with the kids. He’s taking some vacation time and we’ve planned a trip to Pelee Island this summer—might be just what the doctor ordered.

  Because I seriously need to get away…get away from Weston.

  Weston Hanson is such a wonderful man; giving, caring and so utterly unique. But he’s also a desperate man, a torn man. I know he’s not in a good place. And I also realize I’ve been his drug, his coping mechanism, his distraction.

  The poor man desperately needs to face his past and work to heal himself. And regrettably, I cannot be the one who fixes him. I wish I could be. When I think about his little Jonathan, my heart just breaks. But I have my own family to worry about and cherish. And I’m also thinking about the well-being of his beautiful family too, and his marriage as well. I hope with all my heart that he and Bridget can get past this. I hope they can find a healthy way to do so. I wish them nothing but happiness.

  I’m finally ready to let go. For all our sakes.

  Unfortunately, Weston has not made letting go easy. He’s called me repeatedly on my cell. I eventually had to block his number. And then, he called me from a different number. I had to block that number too. I feel so horrible, but it’s what needs to be done. He needs to get the message.

  He even popped by the school one time and I told Sylvia the deal—I do not want to speak to the man, nor do I want to see him. She politely informed him that it would be in his best interest not to return. Then, she proceeded to tell the whole school staff about my rumored affair. Gwen came to my defense and told everyone the story.

  It’s all very hush-hush, she told everyone. But this is the story: apparently I met this man by chance one night on a date with my husband, at a restaurant in the city. And he was so smitten, he eventually became obsessed with me. Yes, so far, the story is real, but of course, in her version, I’m not interested at all and have never even entertained the idea of sleeping with the man. Apparently, he’s not my type, and I’m not that kind of woman.

  Oh, I wish.

  Luckily, most of the women at work have never laid eyes on Weston, but I think Sylvia, who has seen him, is still a little suspicious.

  This story, this thing with him has me on edge. I can’t seem to eat, or sleep. I feel out-of-sorts all the time. He’s wreaking havoc on my body. I think I’ve lost about ten pounds.
I’ve never had a stalker before. I’m not quite sure what to do. The last thing I want to do is get the police involved.

  So I’ve tried to handle the stress and pain as best as I can—by keeping busy with life, school and the girls. I’ve caught up on all my appointments; yearly physical, dental check-up and cleaning, and haircut.

  I thought a new haircut would cheer me up, but it was a no-go. When I took a seat at the stylist chair, I spotted it straight away—a damn poster on the wall of this model with a fabulous head of dark hair. Of course, he looked exactly like Weston; same hair and same face, chiseled features, hard jaw line, large almond-shaped eyes framed by long dark lashes, sensual lips, and beautifully defined brows.

  I wonder if Weston gets his brows waxed. He must. How very metrosexual of him.

  But this is my problem. His beautiful face is always popping up in my head, unwelcomed. Sometimes, I want to rip it to shreds.

  And sometimes, I just want to reach out and touch it.

  I trace the tip of my finger along the edges of the carved wooden sculpture; a man holding a woman against a willow tree. It’s so beautiful.

  Jenna stares at me with wide curious eyes. “Do you like it?”

  I smile at her. “Of course, Jenna. It’s beautiful. I love all my gifts,” I say to the kids who are sitting in a circle, watching my every move with great focus. Honestly, I don’t love all the gifts—too many boxes of chocolate and lame coffee cups. But what I do love are the expressions on their sweet little faces when they give me their presents. And I make an Oscar-worthy effort to show how much I love each and single gift.

  The last day of school always leaves me both exhilarated and a little sad. It’s so bittersweet. I will miss these kids, but admittedly, I do also need a break.

  But this wooden sculpture, I really do love. The woman and the man look like Weston and me.

  Oh damn, here I go again.

  When the girls and I get home, Gabe is all worked up.

  He paces the room and pulls at his hair. I study him as I set my bags down. “I’ve got to get back to the car. I’ve got a lot of stuff to bring in today,” I tell him.