Nic’s expression softens as she reaches by me for the toilet paper. She rips a handful from the roll and passes it over. “Ella, Teller bought the St. Helena house. How did you not know that? Didn’t you talk to the realtor?”
With a quick shake of my head, I rest on the edge of the bathtub and release a loaded breath. “I left after the open house in a hurry, and…”
“You ran from your problems again.” It’s not a question, and I’m too guilty-hearted to face her. “When are you going to grow up? Teller’s a dick, but you’re at the center of most of this shit. Why did you leave L.A. in the first place? Because he hooked up with someone when Kristi was cheating on him?”
“With Joe!” I snap.
“Exactly. Joe messed up, not Tell. So, explain to me why you’re taking it out on Teller because it’s affecting all of us.”
“He should have told me,” I say.
She rolls her eyes and opens the bathroom door. “It’s about time you’re let in on a secret: We don’t live in Gabriella Mason’s world. Feel free to join us on this one, or fuck off. I can’t do this with you anymore.”
The silence she leaves behind is staggering and only defeated by the amount of shame siphoning the air from the room. Nic’s words ring true, and they turn the small voice in the far corners of my mind into a wail.
I thought I learned how to fight for myself once my parents were gone. That’s what leaving our childhood home and starting over was supposed to be. Every time Teller upset me, and I cried, hit, and stomped, it was my show of strength and reliance in spite of everything I lived through. The tough exterior I put between myself and everyone else was supposed to be proof that I can take care of me before anyone else.
Who needs parents?
Who needs guidance?
A mother’s touch? Or a father’s close eye?
The truth is, my fight was a weak attempt at liberation.
I ran away from St. Helena the first chance I got because existing under that roof was a slow death. Teller’s place in my life was unexpected, and his brand of chaos was the only thing able to lessen devastation’s grip on me. But even that was on my terms.
You can look, Teller. You can touch. But listen, boy. You can’t be inside. You can have most of my heart, but the murky corner is off-limits.
Until he was inside of me, and I nearly gave him the dark parts of my heart, too.
It was the diamond ring he slipped onto my finger that pushed me back into old habits. Slow at first, like a milkshake too thick to drink through a straw. The ice cream eventually melted, though.
I wanted to find those letters.
My subconscious searched for something to wreck perfection with.
As soon as I did, I tied my running shoes and left, when I should have given Teller an opportunity to explain. It would have been the fair, mature thing to do. Since that day, I’ve grasped at lousy excuses and wrestled with the truth: I screwed up.
Pulling myself together, I walk over to the sink and wash the smeared mascara and regret from under my eyes before rinsing the rest of my makeup off. I’m left freckle-faced and repentant, and it’s the best I’ve looked in months.
Nicolette smiles when I emerge from the bathroom, holding her hand out for me to take. “Are you okay?”
I rest my head on her shoulder as we watch Maby slide her feet into her shoes.
“I hope so,” I say.
“You look beautiful,” Teller says. We’re arm-in-arm, waiting for our cue to make the walk down the aisle as maid of honor and the best man.
I scoff. “I had a small meltdown before we left.”
“Is that why your dress is wrinkled?” he asks, smirking.
“This is nothing,” I say. “You should have seen me an hour ago.”
Once the slow music starts and the double doors part, Teller winks and leads the way. Wedding guests turn their heads in unison and smile as we pass them. The photographer is too close for comfort, and my vision is blurry around the edges, but I project togetherness and pray my knees won’t give out before we reach the altar.
“At least I get to walk you down the aisle once,” Teller whispers.
It feels like he reached into my lungs and stole the breath directly from me. The pain’s sharp and unexpected like a broken bone, and I’m helpless to keep the tears back. Most of the guests are beaming, under the assumption I’m overcome with emotion because my best friend is getting married. Except for Teller’s parents, who aren’t convinced by my fragile attempt at composure and shift uncomfortably in their seats.
Husher offers me his handkerchief after I take my spot like rehearsed the night before, and he whispers harshly to Teller when he takes his. I focus my attention ahead, but I don’t see the rest of the bridal party walk down the aisle through the cloudiness in my mind. I don’t come to until Maby and Husher exchange their vows, and even then, it’s because Teller’s unmoving stare robs me from the here and now.
“You make me a better version of myself…” Maby’s vows fade away with the rest of the room.
Teller’s the only person left, trapping me under the weight of his wide-open honesty. The look in his eyes voices everything I already know to be true: He loves me. I messed up. There’s no going back this time.
Nicolette carefully circles her hand around my waist after Husher kisses his bride. Mr. and Mrs. Husher Rye retreat down the aisle as a married couple for the very first time to loud applause and joy.
“We’re almost done,” Nic says quietly, gently nudging me toward Teller.
Even as we follow Husher and Maby away from the commotion, Teller only has eyes for me. I don’t stand a chance against the pressure of his expectation, but this isn’t the time or place, so I call on what little fight I have left and keep a brave face.
Change isn’t easy, but I should start by not ruining the most important day of my friends’ lives.
When the wedding party regroups, we share a toast and take pictures while the guests enjoy cocktail hour. I envy their access to hard liquor but move through the motions and fulfill my obligations to Maby. My brother’s humor, Nic’s guidance, and the couple’s enchantment keep the earth below my feet. I dangle from their olive branches, absorbing their ease and peace in hopes that Tell’s notions don’t suck me dry first.
He spins me around and dips me back, kissing my cheek when the emcee introduces us at the reception thirty minutes later. The moment the spotlight shines on the next couple, Nic and Em, I make a beeline toward the bar. I’m let down and relieved when Teller doesn’t follow me—instead, taking his seat at our designated table, in his assigned seat.
“What can I get you?” a gray-haired bartender asks.
“What do you have?” I’m too overwhelmed to look at the short menu or come up with a drink idea myself.
“The bride and groom are offering lavender-infused champagne as their signature cocktail tonight,” he answers, picking up a dark bottle.
Shaking my head, I say, “No, thank you. I need something stronger. Something much, much stronger.”
The bartender drops a few ice cubes to the bottom of a glass and fills it with top-shelf vodka. He passes it to me on a napkin before looking to the next person in line. Cool, bitter liquid immediately numbs my lips and warms my blood, dismissing my inner struggles as long as I keep the booze coming. For this reason, I don’t stray far from this newfound peace.
“Keep them coming,” I say, indifferent to the uncertain looks I get from the other invitees waiting for their chance at the lavender champagne. But everyone knows the bridal party doesn’t wait in line with the common folk. It’s the rules.
“You got it,” the bartender, and my new best friend, says.
“Don’t worry,” I say to a woman muttering garbage about me to her much older husband. “I’m with the bride. And the groom. We’re practically family. They’re all I got.”
Turns out, I have more in common with my mom than I thought.
Vodka wipes out the sleepy b
uzz I arrived with, replacing it with a swift heartbeat and a hyper understanding as to why the lowdown and dirty drink too much. If I can stay liquored up all day and most nights, I won’t need to deal with my corroded spirit. I can get used to stumbling from side-to-side in the misty woodlands of nothingness. I like it here. The music is better. And the vodka doesn’t burn going down anymore.
But these heels suck.
I cross the empty dance floor with my drink, squinting against the lasers brandishing a worthless monogram on the walls. What’s the point of advertising Maby and Husher’s initials on every flat surface when we’re all here because we adore them? Obviously, we know what letters their names start with.
Surely better information could’ve been shared, such as their shoe sizes. No one can ever have enough shoes.
Speaking of shoes, where did mine go?
“Looking for these?” Teller asks, dangling my heels by their straps from the tips of his fingers. A bright white H glows across his face.
H for hellraiser.
H for heathen.
H for he’s cute.
“Give those to me.” I reach for my shoes, but the prick hides them behind his back. “How did you even get them? Stop trying to rob me all of the time.”
“I was in line and watched you kicked them off and walk away.” Now the M is plastered on his stupid face.
M for manipulator.
M for maniac.
M for maybe he isn’t that bad.
“I must have missed that part,” I admit.
His smirk is delicious. “You missed the part where you kicked your own shoes off?”
“I’m preoccupied,” I say. “Being the maid of honor comes with a lot of weird obligations.”
“Like cleaning out the bar?” he asks.
“I was put in charge of portion control and making sure Maby’s guests don’t overdrink. Huge responsibility. Huge.” I watch Teller over the rim of my glass, shrugging my shoulders as I swallow my share in portions. “You wouldn’t know anything about that.”
“Come on, Smella.” Teller drapes his arm over my shoulders. “Let’s monitor the steak and chicken before those bastards my pops works with eat it all.”
“That’s the spirit!” I say, allowing him to lead me away.
He tricked me.
No one’s touching the steak and chicken because most suits are vegan.
“Less vodka and more food, Ella,” Teller says. “You’ll thank me later, baby.”
The room’s spinning, so I don’t argue and shovel a forkful of buttery mashed potatoes into my mouth. It doesn’t escape me that vodka is made from potatoes, and now I’m eating potatoes, so maybe by the end of the night, I’ll turn into one.
I love carbs.
“I need a refill.” I scoot my chair back, but Teller captures my wrist to keep me in my seat.
“Have mine,” he says. Teller slides his glass from in front of his plate to mine.
Eyeing the glass skeptically, I ask, “What did you do to it?”
Puncturing his ribeye with a fork and carving it with a knife, unpredictability smirks dangerously and chuckles. I admire how the veins in his hand dance on top of bone as he cuts the streak knife back and forth. I’ve never resented a fork like I do when Teller takes a bite because I know exactly what it feels like to have his lips around me, too.
“You’re blushing,” he says.
“No, I’m not.” Unconcerned by what Teller may or may not have done to his drink before offering it to me, I accept his charity if only to cool the heat spreading through my body.
I spit it out.
“What the hell,” I shout. “That’s water.”
Teller passes me a napkin, but I learned my lesson the first time and refuse it. He’s not to be trusted with my heart, my refreshments, or a damn rag—fancy as it may be. Thankfully, his treachery and my outburst only caught the attention of a few passersby, and there are no reported casualties after I made it rain liquid disappointment.
“You’re so fucking lucky Maby didn’t see you do that.” Teller sits back, resting his arm on the back of my chair. The tips of his fingers only skim my bare skin, but it’s enough to light me up.
I sit straight, now thankful for the water. If he touches me again, I’ll need to pour it over my head.
“I ask for vodka; you give me water,” I say casually. “I ask you for space; you buy my house.”
Teller coughs into his fist and straightens his spine, taking his touch and the electricity it sparked through me away. “Who told you?” he asks.
“Does it matter?” I ask. “Did you think I would never find out?”
“No, but I wanted to break it to you myself, Ella. I’m not a fucking monster.” He digs in his pockets until finding a crumpled pack of cigarettes in his suit jacket. His habit doesn’t make it to his lips before Nicolette herds us like sheep. She snatches the smoke from between Teller’s lips and grinds it in her hand, sprinkling tobacco onto our empty dinner plates.
“Time to give your speeches,” Nic says. She claps her palms together, sprinkling flakes of Marlboro Reds to the floor. “You do have your speeches ready, right?”
Prick and I nod in unison, and a look of relief crosses my sister-in-law’s face. I should suggest she take over maid of honor commitments for the rest of the night. I’m not cut out for this madness, or sober enough. Nic is the essence of reliability, and I’m one vodka on the rocks away from twerking on the dance floor.
“I’ll go first, Smella,” Teller whispers. He tucks me under his arm and smiles at the audience. He’s calm under their keen gazes and cool beneath the blinding spotlight shining from above.
I picture Husher’s parents naked and sweat grossly.
Teller Reddy charms everyone with slick words and effortless swag. Halfway through his speech, my worries about the house, naked parents, and my burned retinas are in the back of my mind. He’s chosen the sweetest moments with his sister and Husher to share with their guests, offering a highly edited picture of family and friendship. It’s hard to believe that a few days ago I was fighting to get him off my lawn, and now I’m pushing myself closer.
“Anyway,” Teller concludes. “Maby, you’re my favorite sister, and I wish you nothing but happiness.”
“I’m your only sister,” she replies with a laugh.
This side of Teller is utter bullshit—he isn’t the tailored almost-doctor with nothing but warm regard for his family, and Maby might never be truly happy, but for a moment in time, we pretend.
My speech isn’t as well-rehearsed or as well-spoken as Teller’s, but the bride and groom smile with tears in their eyes, and we raise our champagne flutes in their name. The end of my speech marks the end of my obligations for the night, and I exhale a deep breath.
“Let’s dance.” Teller relieves me of my glass and holds his hand out for me.
“No, thanks,” I say.
“Gabriella,” Teller replies. He stops me from walking away from him. “Dance with me, please.”
The charmer leads me to the center of the dance floor, where we’re painted in monograms. Bright light creates sharp shadows on his face and waltzes across his eyelashes, intensifying how green Tell’s eyes are. The shape of his smile makes it impossible to look away, not that I want to—not that I need to.
“I like your hair,” he whispers. Teller slides his hands across my lower back. I circle mine around his neck. “It looks pretty, baby.”
“Thank you,” I say in return, slowly closing my eyes as his scent of ginger and vanilla hits my senses.
“But all that paint in your hair was fucking hot, too.” He chuckles, pulling me closer to keep me from smacking his chest.
We sway from side-to-side, moving in a small circle to the soft beat of the music. I press my ear to his chest and listen to the beat of his heart, slow and deliberate. The world melts away like it does when we’re together, turning to vapors while our fixation manifests into a touchable thing. I hold tighter, and Tell
er curves to fit me better. A cry of desperation is stuck in my throat, but I choke on it because no one will understand if I let it go.
“I’m sorry,” I say instead. “I’m sorry I left, Tell. I’m—”
“Hey.” He presses his lips to the side of my heated face. The hint of champagne on his breath makes my knees weak. “You were right, Ella. I shouldn’t have shown up on your doorstep the way I did.”
“You shouldn’t have bought the house,” I counter. The fact is, I wanted him to show up. I waited every day for his knock on the door.
He shakes his head. “No, I’m glad I did. You should keep the house. I bought it for you.”
“It was already mine,” I say, pulling away.
Teller tightens his arms around me. “If it sold to anyone else, you’d hate yourself. The only reason it was on the market is that you were mad at me. It gave you the excuse to ditch town and avoid your problems here. You’re lucky I’m so fucking rich. Some old couple could have bought it. Or worse, hipsters.”
I laugh out loud because that’s all I have left. “I hate you.”
“I love you,” he says. Teller cradles my face in his hands, ending our dance. “And that’s why we’re going to do this your way for now on.”
“Teller,” I start.
“My way hasn’t worked. It’s pushed you away, and it’s made us both fucking miserable.” He rests his forehead on mine. “I don’t want that anymore.”
Translation: I don’t want you anymore.
The idea is so crippling, I don’t say a single word. I don’t scream and admit I was wrong or do anything to change his mind.
I walk away.
And this time, he lets me.
Now
“Escrow on Dad’s house closed last week. The money was deposited into my checking account, so I’ll have it transferred to yours later today,” I tell Emerson over my second cup of coffee.
He and Nicolette didn’t say a word when I appeared at their front door and moved back into my old room. In the weeks since I intruded on their happy lives, they haven’t asked for a cent to help with rent or bills—probably because I don’t have a job. And probably because I spend my days moving from my bed to the couch, and back to my bed again.
Sever (Closer Book 2) Page 9
