Bless them for taking pity on my broken heart.
“It’s so weird Teller bought the house,” my brother says, tucking in his shirt. Every time I see him in his police academy cadet uniform, I’m overcome with pride. It’s a welcome relief from sadness. “Why would you transfer all the money to my account? Only half is mine. And it’s still so fucking weird it’s Teller’s money.”
“I tried to cancel the sale, but that jerk made a cash offer. It expedited the entire process, so here we are.” I’m cocooned under my comforter in front of the TV.
When is the last time I washed my hair? It feels … thirsty.
“Okay, but that doesn’t answer my question as to why you want to give the money to me,” Em says. He pours himself a cup of coffee and leans against the counter. The only thing missing from this scene is a sprinkled donut.
“Thanks to Teller, the house is still technically mine,” I say sarcastically. “He’s adding my name to the deed. We’re supposed to meet with the notary this afternoon.”
Emerson’s brows shoot up in surprise. “I didn’t think you were speaking to him.”
Pressing my lips together, I close my eyes against the clenching pain I feel in my stomach whenever I think of Tell. “Aside from a few texts about the house, we haven’t. I wasn’t going to agree to sign the quitclaim deed, but it’s Dad’s house, you know. Besides, Teller doesn’t take no for an answer. I don’t have the energy to fight with him about it.”
Sorrow is grueling, and it’s left me indifferent. I don’t have the strength to do more than eat, sleep, and feel sorry for myself. Unfortunately, the world doesn’t care that I’ve caught a wild case of misery. My bills won’t pay for themselves, my family and friends are beginning to hover, and I really should wash my hair before I rejoin society.
My brother drops his mug into the kitchen sink before grabbing his car keys. “Keep your half of the money, sissy. You’ve earned it.”
After Emerson leaves for the academy, I mosey back to my room, with my blanket trailing behind me like a train, to watch the minutes pass from the comfort of my own bed. This morning’s coffee threatens to reappear, but I chalk it up as nerves. I haven’t seen Teller since Maby and Husher’s wedding six weeks ago, and as much as I’d like to avoid him forever, today is unavoidable.
As time tick-tocks around the clock, the nervousness in my stomach spreads to the rest of my body. I get out of bed with the best intentions, but my shower runs too long, and I can’t be bothered to blow-dry my hair afterward. Making it out of the house with a bra on is real progress, and dressing in a pair of jeans and a hoodie is an achievement.
The sight of my G-Wagen lifts my spirits, and my stomach settles in the short drive to the notary office. It’s a temporary reprieve, because as soon as I see Teller waiting for me beside his vehicle, dressed in dark denim and a white T-shirt, my stomach and heart do somersaults again.
I instantly regret the decision not to dry my hair and wish I put on something that doesn’t make me look like a high school student with a hangover. It’s all I can do not to turn my car around and make a run for it. We don’t have to sign these papers together; I’ll reschedule for a later date when Teller isn’t here looking like a tattooed James Dean.
Purposely parking at the other end of the lot, I stay put with both hands on the steering wheel. Not only do I look like a sixteen-year-old girl, but the butterflies tickling my insides and the heat kissing my skin make me feel like one, too.
“This is what you wanted,” I whisper to myself. It’s a lie.
The sudden knock on my window startles me and I scream.
Teller smirks at my fright, blowing a lungful of smoke over his shoulder. He takes a step back and gives me room to open the car door. “No running away this time, Smella.”
“Oh, shut up,” I say, brushing past him.
He follows me into the office with the scent of tobacco on his clothes and a smile on his mouth I’d like nothing more than to bite off. I’m hyperaware of his nearness and our ignored affection that fills the small room from corner to corner. Teller sits across from me in the waiting area, pretending to flip through a gossip magazine while our hypothetical baggage clutters the area between us.
“Don’t trip over our dysfunction,” I almost say to a lady who walks by. “Watch out for my childhood trauma, and prick’s daddy issues. And his mommy issues. And his sister issues.”
The idea of our emotional trash piled on the floor makes me laugh, resulting in a few odd glances from other customers and a skeptical look from Teller. Los Angeles is notorious for being eclectic and wild, but crazy is crazy in any city.
“What are you laughing at?” he asks. He’s just had his hair cut, and I want to smack him for looking so damn good. “Tell me. I want to laugh, too.”
“Seems to me like you had a fantastic laugh when you scared me in the parking lot,” I say dismissively.
We’re called back fifteen minutes later to sign the papers that will add me to the deed to my childhood home—the result of a temper tantrum I had the day I ended my engagement to Teller three months ago. He’s a couple of hundred thousand dollars poorer, not that it’ll make a dent in his account, but with my signature, Teller officially has the last word.
Impulsiveness and immaturity almost cost me the last tie I have to my father and my mother. Teller’s pigheadedness and arrogance prevented that from happening, even if his reasons for buying the house were only to prove a point.
I swallow my pride and sign my name on the dotted line.
“Do you want to grab something to eat?” he asks as we’re leaving the notary.
Unlocking my Wagen, I say, “I have dinner plans with Maby tonight, so…”
“Ella, it’s noon.” He steps inside my door as I slip onto the driver’s seat. “Have lunch with me. Just because we’re not together anymore doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.”
The suspicious look I give him needs no explanation. Teller and I have never managed to be just friends. It always ends in riots. Why start now when history has proven we’re incompatible? “Knock it off.”
“We can’t avoid each other forever. Our families are too close for that shit.”
“Fine,” I say, too fatigued from today’s round of stomach-turning anxiety to put up a fight. “I’ll follow you.”
Teller takes me to our favorite Mexican restaurant downtown, knowing damn well I’m a sucker for their chips and salsa. I give our waitress a round of applause when she sets the menus down in front of us and promises to return in a few minutes for our food order.
I want one of everything.
“Do you want lime in your beer?” Teller asks, squeezing some into his Corona.
“That’s okay.” I dive right into the salsa, closing my eyes and moaning when the spicy concoction touches my tongue. “Southern California has the best Mexican food in the world. The crap they had up north was a gross imitation.”
He smirks admiringly from his side of the table. “Don’t tell me this is your first time here since you got back?”
I nod, chewing on heaven. “Don’t judge me, prick. I haven’t really left my room since the wedding.”
“I’ve heard.” Teller plucks a chip from the basket. He chews with an arrogant smirk, washing it down with a swig of beer. Salt is on his lips, and I consider licking it off before he does.
“What do you mean you heard?” I ask.
“Ella, your brother is my best friend. Just because I don’t see you, doesn’t mean I don’t see him. Which is why we need to learn how to coexist.”
I’m so trapped in my own head I haven’t noticed Emerson’s coming and going, aside from when he leaves for work in the morning and we share a pot of coffee. Why wouldn’t he see Teller? He’s right. They’re best friends. Teller and I—first me, then him—ended our relationship for good. Now we must share custody of our family.
“Call me crazy, but it’s going to be kind of hard to coexist with someone who, once again, went behind
my back. You bought me a house. You bought my house from me and gave it back. Who does that?” I crunch a chip between my teeth and wait for his explanation.
Teller claps salt from his hands. “That was a peace offering. And technically, it’s our house.”
“You’re delusional.”
“You didn’t want to sell the house, Ella.”
“It wasn’t your place to interfere, Teller,” I shoot back.
Our waitress swings by with a notepad and pen, ready for our order. Teller asks for two more beers and orders enough food to feed the population of a small city. Food is a perfect distraction, and we need something other than our resentment to keep us company. No one’s hostile in front of a plate of tacos, not even Teller Reddy.
“Can we have some more salsa, please?” Teller nods his head in my direction. “My friend here has lived off ramen and cold coffee for the last six weeks.”
The dark-haired woman with bright red lips, named Paola, hugs our menus to her chest and smiles sweetly at me. “Have you been sick, mija?”
“Sick of this mother—”
Teller coughs, pounding on his chest with a closed fist as if he’s choking to keep our server out of the line of fire. She diverts her attention to him, ready to give him the Heimlich when he waves her off.
“Oh, pobrecito bebé, let me get you some water.” She scurries away, dropping the menus on the bar before rounding the bar top for the glass of water that will save Teller’s life.
“Ass,” I mumble, eating another chip.
Paola drops off our food twenty minutes later, bringing with it peace and true religion. The carnitas deliver me from evil, and the enchiladas are hallowed. Mixing my rice and beans together, I know there’s a God as soon as I take a bite and feel His awesomeness runneth over. Devine flavor explodes in my mouth, and the light it shines within me is holy.
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been months since my last carne asada taco.
I’m going to Hell.
Teller takes advantage of my spirituality and asks, “When are you coming back to the hospital?”
I’m not allowed one taco before my faith is tested.
With mad reluctance, I set my food down and wipe my hands clean on my napkin. I know we’re here to talk, and rejoining the rest of the world as a productive member of society isn’t something I can dodge forever, but I hoped it could wait until after I ate my emotions.
“I’m not going back,” I say.
The change in his face is instant, and he’s unable to keep the smug expression. Teller’s grin falls flat, and the light in his eyes dims to blurry green. Assertive shoulders drop, and he inhales a frustrated breath. “Why the fuck not?”
I roll my eyes, recognizing this version of the person sitting in front of me all too well. “It’s not a good idea for us to work together. There are plenty of other hospitals that need nurses, so I’ll find one that wants me. There will be peace on earth because of it.”
“But we’ve always worked together, Ella.”
Legit disappointment mixed with a smudge of immaturity pierces his tone and chips away at my stubbornness. I was prepared to come here with Teller, fill my stomach with something other than unease, and leave. What’s left to say after all these years and everything we’ve experienced together? It’s too late to change. We’re passable people individually, but together we embody hysteria.
We’ve tried and tried again to build a life together, as friends and lovers.
We don’t work.
“I’d prefer not to have another run-in with someone you’ve slept with while I’m busy trying to save lives.” The knife beside my plate would look amazing lodged in his eye. “That probably wouldn’t be great for morale.”
He laughs out loud, dropping his head back and shaking his shoulders. “You’re such a bitch.”
Pins and needles start at the tips of my fingers, rising up my arms and pouring into my chest. Electric-like exhilaration kick-starts my heart, and I hate that I haven’t felt this alive since the night we spent in the tent together.
I hate that after six weeks of emotional deprivation, there isn’t anywhere else I’d rather be than here with him.
It’s a damn abomination, but I drop my napkin on top of my tacos and start to slide out of the booth. Teller’s faster than me, and he glides onto my side of the table, pushing me against the wall to prevent my escape.
“Do you know what I want to do?” he asks. Teller pushes my hair behind my ear, brushing his knuckles across my cheekbone.
Slapping his hand away, I say, “Murder me in my sleep?”
“Tempting, but no.” His breath smells like beer and his skin smells like sunlight and nostalgia.
Our eyes meet, and I push back, refusing to let him have the upper hand. “Let me by, Teller.”
His lips curl into a smile—a direct link to my soul —and he pulls out his wallet, dropping a stack of bills onto the table. “When I’m through with this fucking residency, I want out of that hospital and I want to open a clinic that actually helps people.”
“Easier said than done,” I reply dryly, even if the idea makes my heart swell.
“You’ll help me,” he says.
“The only thing I’m going to help you with is out of the booth, so I can leave,” I say, shoving his chest. “This was a bad idea. What the hell was I thinking coming here?”
Teller reaches across the table for his beer, drinking the rest of its contents in one swig. He dries his wet fingers on the front of his jeans and asks, “Do you want a box for your food?”
Yes, I think to myself.
“No,” I answer.
“Do you remember what happened the last time we both sat on the same side of the table at a restaurant?” Green irises catch fire, smoldering resistance and warming me from the outside in.
Yes.
“No,” I whisper breathlessly.
When we went to Las Vegas, not long after the accident that killed Joe and Kristi, Teller and I were still in the should we or shouldn’t we stages of our romantic relationship. He took me to lunch. He ordered us something to drink. He sat on my side of the table.
He slipped his hand under my skirt.
Teller decided we should—we definitely should.
“Yes, you do,” he says, sliding out of the booth.
I contemplate staying where I am to finish my tacos just to be stuffed with something other than sexual tension.
“Let’s put a hold on coexisting for the sake of our families until you can control yourself, okay?” I recommend, taking his hand to help me out of the seat. Physical contact intensifies the tingling sensation between my legs.
“This part will never go away, baby.” He sticks a cigarette behind his ear and follows me outside, waving to Paola as we leave. Once we’re outside and the crisp air clears my head, Teller tucks me into his side, tightening his arm around my shoulders to keep me from running. “We can ignore what we have together, Gabriella. We might even be able to forget it. But it’ll always be there.”
“Like hepatitis C,” I mumble.
“Smart ass.” He chuckles.
An unspoken cease-fire goes into effect on the walk back to our vehicles parked down the street. Electric affection flows through us, soothing like a warm blanket and sleepiness on a rainy day. The volume on the rest of the world goes all the way down, making it possible to hear the steady rhythm of our heartbeats as our souls recharge beside their other halves.
How could the universe be so cruel to make this man both my beginning and end?
“We should do this more often, Smella,” Teller says as we approach my Wagen.
“Wait.” I grab his shirt before he can break the connection, pressing my body against him in a vise-like squeeze. “Don’t let go yet.”
Teller laughs softly into my hair, pressing his lips to the top of my head before laying his cheek there. Long, strong arms I know by heart wrap around me, protecting me from stresses that will return the seco
nd we let go of each other.
I wish oblivion could last forever, but this is L.A. and my parking meter is about to run out of time.
“See you later, prick,” I say, pushing him away. “Don’t call me. You suck.”
The life out of me.
Maby is a whirlwind of domestic bliss and confusion, embracing the married life but not quite sure where to start. She serves grilled cheese sandwiches on crystal dinnerware they were given as a wedding gift because she doesn’t know what else to do with it. Soda is poured into paper cups, and we eat in the living room.
“I tried to make spaghetti, but I burned the noodles,” Maby says apologetically, wiping her hands nervously on the front of her apron. “And the sauce.”
I love that she wore an apron to make grilled cheese.
“This is perfect.” I take a bite, chewing slowly as the spinning in my stomach gets worse. “Teller and I had a big lunch today, so pasta might have been overkill anyway.”
Maby falls onto the couch beside Husher and pulls her TV tray closer. We’re eating grilled cheese sandwiches on thousand-dollar plates, drinking out of throwaway cups in a million-dollar home. It does not get better than this.
Until Husher takes a bite of his sandwich and the cheese is still wrapped in plastic.
“I told you I was going to be a horrible wife,” Maby says to her husband before looking at me. “Right, Ella? I told you I wasn’t cut out for this.”
“A little plastic never killed anyone,” Husher says reassuringly.
As much as I’d like to enlighten Husher on exactly how many deaths plastic products cause every year, including suffocation and choking, and not including what plastic is doing to wildlife, I don’t. Mostly because Maby is too hard on herself, but also because I’m suddenly too queasy to do more than agree with a slight nod.
“I made soup last night,” Maby exclaims. “It was from the can, but whatever.”
Sever (Closer Book 2) Page 10
