Wilder

by Nina Levine

  I see her warring with herself over this and fully expect her to continue arguing, but she doesn’t. Instead, she says, soft as fuck, “Yeah, sometimes it is.” She then climbs onto the stool, sits her ass down, and lifts the tea I made her to her lips. I watch in fascination as her eyes close while she sips.

  Scarlett drinks a lot of fucking tea, but I’ve never taken the time to watch her do that. I’m fairly fucking certain I’m adding it to my list of shit to do in life. It’s like a mug of peace for her. The tension she carries in her body 24/7 visibly eases, and the tightness in her face loosens. Hell, I’d never realised how tense her face was until now.

  She takes a few long sips before opening her eyes and looking at me. “I can feel your eyes on me. Stop doing that.”

  I fight a smile and pull up the stool next to her. “He was pretty bad tonight?”

  Her shoulders rise as she inhales and nods. I know the quiet her mind found with the tea peters out by the way those tight lines figure their way back to her face. “He was violently ill. I haven’t seen him like that for a long time.” She looks at me. “It scared me.” The crack in her voice is all I need to hear to know I’m doing the right thing by staying.

  “Tell me.”

  “Tell you what?”

  “Anything you want to get out of you.”

  The emotions Scarlett tries so hard to pretend don’t exist flicker across her face. I see every single one of them. Feel them too. When you’ve lived through almost losing a loved one, that fear never leaves your soul. It burrows down deep, sticking close so it can remind you whenever the fuck it wants to that shit can change in an instant.

  Scarlett swallows hard and drags her eyes from mine. She sips some more tea, but there’s no peace to be found this time.

  A few minutes pass by silently and I wonder if she’ll open up to me. I’ve got nowhere to be and all the time in the world tonight, so I sit quietly and wait her out.

  Finally, she says, “You’re not leaving any time soon, are you?”

  “No. You need someone to sit in the dark with you.”

  “We’re not sitting in the dark, Wilder.”

  “Yeah, we are.”

  She slowly turns to me again, her eyes pleading with me not to make her do this. “I don’t need you to fight my monsters.”

  “Scarlett, you don’t need me for any-damn-thing. That’s a well-established fact. I’m not here because I think you need something. I’m here because I have something to give.”

  She stops breathing.

  Just for a second.

  She stills like no one’s ever offered to simply give her something.

  “What?”

  “Understanding.”

  She lets that sink in, blinking once and then turning back to her tea and sipping it for a good couple of minutes before placing the mug down. Without looking at me, she says, “I was five the first time I found my mum with a needle in her arm. She smiled at me like the woman at the corner shop did when I went there with my sister to buy rice for dinner. It was the first time she’d ever smiled at me. I didn’t even know what smiles were. She only ever smiled at me three other times in her life.” She pauses, glancing my way again. “She loved Bailey, though, and gave him all her smiles. She could never say no to him for anything. Smiles, money, food, drugs, you name it, she gave it to him.” She cocks her head. “Is that the kind of thing you want to understand? Because it’s certainly not the kind of thing I want to.”

  I want to understand her, but I know telling her that will likely cause her to shut her shit down faster than ever. Scarlett’s got walls she doesn’t even know exist. I’m almost certain she’s spent a lifetime hammering them into place and perfecting her skill to the point she could do it in her sleep. I’ve tried more times than I care to count to see over those walls, but this is what she does every single time; she lets you see what she thinks will keep you away.

  “How old were you the first time you had to cook that rice for dinner?”

  “Seriously? I’m sharing my monsters with you and you wanna talk about rice?”

  “How old?”

  “Fuck, I don’t know.”

  My eyes bore into hers. “Yeah, you fuckin’ do. You never forget details.”

  “I thought I had a bad memory.”

  “For some things. Not for this, though. This is a hurt, and you carry those around like you’re collecting them for something special.”

  “Fuck you,” she snaps, making a move to vacate the stool.

  I flick my hand out and catch her wrist, keeping her right there on the stool next to me. “Give me a number.”

  She stares at my hand wrapped around her wrist. She doesn’t want to give me the number. If I were to wager a bet, I’d say the only thing she wants to give me is a knee to my balls. “Seven. There, are you happy you know that now?”

  “Did it kill you to share it?”

  She yanks her wrist from my grip, but she doesn’t move off the stool. “It may kill you,” she mutters.

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  “I thought you were here to give me your understanding. This doesn’t feel much like that.”

  “I never said we were gonna be all fuckin’ hearts and lollipops about it.”

  She shoots me a glare before reaching for her mug and shoving it at me. “I don’t know who taught you to make tea, but they did a good job. You should make more.”

  “There a please in there?”

  “No, there’s a ‘hurry the hell up and make yourself useful’ in there, though.”

  I take the mug and move around to the other side of the counter.

  “So what else can you make besides rice?” I say while filling the kettle.

  She rolls her eyes. “I work with you in a restaurant. You know what else I can make. Stop with the fucking small talk.”

  I switch the kettle on, plant my hands on the counter, and settle my gaze on her in a way that says I’m ready to stop with the fucking small talk. I was working my way there gently, but if she wants to get straight down to the monsters, I can do that. “What are you going to do about Bailey? This can’t go on.”

  She pulls her legs up and wraps her arms around them, resting her feet on the stool. “I took out private health insurance for him. I’m hoping to get him to agree to rehab.”

  Fuck, she amazes me sometimes. The things she’s done for her brother in the time I’ve known her go above and beyond what most people would do.

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  She tightens her arms around her legs. “Now we’re getting to the hard stuff.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t have a Plan B. If he says no, I’ll be winging it.” She glances to the side, to where she can see Bailey on the couch. I haven’t missed the way she constantly checks on him. “I’m pushing like fuck for Plan A to work.”

  “And he’s been evicted? Where’s he living?”

  “I don’t know. We had a fight yesterday. I refused to pay his rent because I didn’t believe that was what he was really using the money for. Clearly I was wrong.”

  I hear the guilt laced through her words. “Clearly fucking nothing. Don’t you take that burden on.”

  “I’m the only one he has, Wilder,” she says like I don’t understand.

  “And you are always fuckin’ there for him. At some point in his life, and hopefully early fuckin’ on, a man has to stand on his own two feet.”

  She looks at me sadly, like all the fight just exhaled out of her. “What if a man was never taught how to stand on his own two feet? What then?”

  “Were you taught how to stand on your own?”

  I barely know her story, but I know the answer to this without having to hear it. Scarlett doesn’t even bother to answer. Instead, she says, “I’m not getting into this with you. This is my family shit to sort out, not yours.”

  “For a woman who doesn’t allow herself to make excuses or to feel sorry for herself, you’re doing a fuckin’ good job
of letting Bailey do those things.” When she stares at me like she wants me to take all those words back, I say, “Fuck, I’m not trying to be an asshole here. I just don’t like seeing you beat yourself up over this when so much of what I see you do with your life is about helping your brother. You’ve got a heart of fuckin’ gold when it comes to him, Scarlett. I hope he knows that.”

  Something I say connects with her, because she drops her legs, leans her arms on the counter, and says, “I’m ready for that tea now. Also, there are Tim Tams in the fridge, and because you’re showing me your nice tonight, I’m gonna share them with you.”

  9

  Scarlett

  Wilder: I’m gonna run late this morning. Don’t come in until 8.

  I stare at his message, wondering if he had a brain explosion during the night. I’m not rostered to start work until 9:00 a.m.

  Me: Huh? I’m rostered for 9 this morning.

  Wilder: You forget our conversation where I asked you to come in early to help me with orders?

  I rack my brain for that conversation but can’t locate it.

  Fuck.

  Seriously?

  Me: You ever considered that maybe YOU forgot to have that conversation with me?

  Wilder: My memory’s good.

  Wilder: See you at 8.

  And welcome to Monday, fuckers. It’s not even 6:00 a.m. and I’m ready for it to be Tuesday. I hope whoever invented Mondays died a slow death like we all have to on the first day of the week. And yes, Monday is the first day of the week. No one will win that argument with me.

  I throw my phone in my bag and exit my car, not even close to ready for this damn yoga class I agreed to with Chelsea. I’m mostly not ready because, yoga, but also because I got hardly any sleep last night thanks to spending all those hours worrying over Bailey.

  Oh, and also thinking about Wilder.

  Yesterday was a lot.

  A lot a lot.

  I should never have gone to the clubhouse. The next time I decide to do something for someone, i.e. deliver nappy rash cream to Harlow if she’s anywhere in the vicinity of Wilder, I need to slap some sense into myself. That whole shebang of shit that occurred after he cornered me is going to cause us no end of problems. I mean, there’s no way we can act on whatever we’re feeling. Not when we work so closely together.

  Then he came over to help me with Bailey, and let’s just say, that got me all in a dither.

  And I don’t do dithers.

  But Jesus, I’ve done two of them in one fucking week, all over the same guy.

  I’m beginning to think that if Bailey refuses to agree to psychological help, I might just pretend to be him and check my damn self in for that help. Clearly I need it.

  “Scarlett!” Chelsea waves me over when she catches sight of me outside the yoga class. “You came.”

  Of course I came. I’m not a girl who doesn’t do what she says she will.

  “How much is this going to kill me?”

  She laughs. “It’s not going to kill you at all.”

  “We’ll see.”

  I follow her in and take note of all the instructions she fires at me about lockers and towels and mats and straps and blankets and bolsters and blocks. Seriously, if taking a yoga class requires a girl to retain this much information, in a memory she’s been told she doesn’t even have, yoga is not for me.

  Before I know it, I’m loaded up with all those things she mentioned and we’re setting up in the front of the class.

  I copy Chelsea, laying my mat out and positioning my equipment. She’s still jabbering on about God knows what. I honestly can’t keep up.

  Finally, when I’m not sure I can take any more, I throw out, “Chelsea, it’s six fucking a.m. in the morning. On a Monday. If you don’t start pretending you like silence, I’m outta here.”

  Her mouth snaps shut, and her eyes widen a fraction. She recovers fast, though. And then she shows me that maybe I’ve judged her a little too fast. “If you don’t start pretending you’re not the moodiest woman alive, I’m gonna encourage Harlow to step up her matchmaking.”

  I stare at her like I’ve never really noticed her. “Well, holy fuck, you aren’t just a pretty face, are you?”

  She shoots me arched brows. “There’s so much more to me than the packaging, Scarlett. I know I talk too much for you, and I’m into stuff you’re not, and that maybe we don’t have much in common, but I like your honesty and your lack of pretence, and I want to be your friend.”

  The yoga teacher welcomes everyone, putting an end to our talk, and so begins my hour of torture.

  Chelsea assured me via text over the weekend that this class would be suitable for beginners. I’m buying her a dictionary so she can look up what that word actually means. I doubt this class is even a breeze for yoga disciples.

  Except for Chelsea.

  That chick can bend her body at will.

  I bet she could sit in lotus pose while executing an Exorcist-style head spin and simultaneously tapping out an email with her toes.

  “Did you love it?” she asks as we pack up our equipment.

  “Love is a little extra.”

  “Okay, so maybe you need a few classes to really feel it.”

  “Oh, I’m feeling it,” I assure her. “In ways that’ll remind me never to believe you again.”

  Her smile reaches for her ears. “Next class is on Wednesday morning. Same time.”

  “You do remember that thing you said earlier about us not having shit in common, right? This is one of those things.”

  She slings her bag over her shoulder. “No, this is one of those things we could have in common. I’ll see you on Wednesday.”

  I watch her exit the studio wondering why my mouth decided to stop working. Also wondering whether my body is gonna last the day. I leave with no good answers to either of those questions.

  Wilder is all business and bossiness when I arrive at Trilogy just before 8:00 a.m. He’s lucky I’m not a girl who thinks hours should be dedicated to beauty. I had to rush home from yoga to shower and get ready for work and then rush here to make it in time. I’d like a breather for even just ten minutes to ease into my workday, but he’s stalking around the restaurant issuing directives all over the place without barely a blink in my direction.

  That fact in itself confuses me after what happened between us yesterday. At the same time, it’s good. Maybe it means he came to his senses too and realised we need to forget yesterday and never mention it again.

  Mostly, though, it confuses me, which only leads to confusion over that confusion.

  I am not a girl who overthinks shit, but Wilder has turned me into that girl.

  And that pisses me off.

  “Do you think we could figure out how to stop the staff using all the fucking soap without telling me I need to order more?” I hurl into his office just before lunchtime.

  He looks up from his computer, leans back into his chair, and narrows his eyes at me. “You care to enlighten me as to what this is really about?”

  “Soap! They need to stop using it so damn fast.”

  “And stop not telling you to order more. I got all that, but your mood makes me think you’re pissed off over something else. Did someone do something we need to talk to them about?”

  “No, but I’m not into the mess we walked into here this morning. I’ll be letting the guys who worked last night know they can’t pull that shit again. You good with that?”

  “You know I’m always good with that.”

  “Sometimes you’re not.” At his frown, I add, “Sometimes you’re all love and light and ‘let them off this time; they were probably having a bad day’ or some shit.”

  He crosses his arms and hits me with an irritated look. “You finished? Or you got more to get off your chest?”

  Ugh, an energy I can’t put my finger on is speeding through my body, making me feel all out of whack. I know I’m overreacting to the things I’m complaining about, but I can’t help
myself.

  “Fine, so I might be exaggerating a little about love and light, but seriously, Wilder, you let them get away with too much.”

  “I manage them, Scarlett. There’s a difference.”

  “Okay, good talk. You keep managing them and I’ll keep watching them get away with shit.”

  I turn and exit his office, my legs carrying me away from him nowhere near as fast as I want them to. That fact is confirmed when he catches up with me just a few short steps past his door. It’s doubly confirmed when his hand curls around my bicep and he halts my progress. And it’s triply confirmed when he says, “How’s Bailey today?”

  Goddamn it.

  I don’t want him to show me his nice again. He did too much of that last night and I liked it more than I care to admit. I mean, I even shared my Tim Tams with him. I share them with no one.

  “He’s alive.”

  “How alive?”

  “Sleeping on the couch when I left for yoga this morning and still sleeping when I left for work.”

  “You’ve taken up yoga?”

  “Don’t sound so surprised.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You definitely had a tone.”

  “There was no tone.”

  “Well, for your information, my next class is on Wednesday.” Really? Seriously, I’m going? News even to me.

  Wilder seems less surprised about this news than I am. “Good.”

  I glance down at his hand. The one still around my arm. The one causing all sorts of zinging to take place in my body. “Has your hand got plans with my arm for much longer?”

  “That depends.”

  I meet his gaze again and that zinging in my body decides it’s joining the goddamn circus, taking up acrobatics like a fucking pro. “On what?”

  “On whether you agree to take lunch now and maybe take it down by the river.”

  “You trying to get rid of me?”

  “Yes. Take your AirPods, your lunch, and some tea, and go sit by the river for an hour. It’ll make this afternoon go a lot fuckin’ better for everyone.”

  If he’d said this to me any day before yesterday, I would have wanted to punch him in the face. Today, my brain latches onto the fact he knows that music, tea, and the river make me happy. And hell if that knowledge doesn’t make me act all crazy.