by Cindi Madsen
Wild Bill leaned across his desk. “You point me in the right direction, and we’ll take care of that guy good.” Yes, he was threatening my ex, but anger wasn’t the right word for the way he did it. More like solidarity, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t appreciate it.
Ron shook his head and sighed. “Healthy ways, Bill. Violence isn’t the answer, remember?” He cast me a glance that made it clear he blamed me for the outburst. And he wondered why I didn’t open up more. “Go on.”
“Anyway, this awful woman at my work—”
“Healthy words.”
Seriously, dude, I’m trying not to be angry here, and you keep prodding me. I took a deep breath, hoping it was the cleansing kind people talked about. “She wrote in the Las Vegas Beacon about how I got stood up, and then she questioned how I could plan others’ weddings when mine fell through.”
Gina, the woman on my left, gasped. See. She gets it. Of course, she did Carrie Underwood her cheating ex’s truck, baseball bat to his pretty little ride and all. Truth be told, I was kind of jealous. I bet it was fun to get all that rage out in physical form, an object to destroy instead of only feeling destroyed inside.
I flashed her a thanks-for-understanding smile.
“And then?” Ron asked.
“Then I ended up here. You fill in the blanks.”
Our instructor pursed his lips. Light bounced off his shiny bald head as he tipped his chin down and looked at me over his large glasses. Seemed like an odd choice to put such an annoying guy in front of people who were in trouble for acting aggressively. I’d appreciated the tips I’d learned, but homeboy needed to back off.
Or maybe that was my bottled emotions talking—Ron had said that could cause a person to take out his or her anger on someone else, lashing out at people who didn’t deserve it. “I wasn’t actually going to punch her in the face. Whatever happened to jokes?”
“Jokes about bodily harm aren’t funny,” Ron said.
Wild Bill shot me a sidelong glance, as if he didn’t necessarily agree but didn’t want a lecture.
I let out a bit of the anger churning inside me, just a tiny leak as I tried to explain my side of the story. “I never asked for her to cover my personal life in her public column.”
Ron took a few steps closer, a hint of actual sympathy on his features. Finally he got it. That I was justified. “Can we control other people and what they say?”
Control. That was what it came down to, right? Well, I liked to have it. I liked to give orders and organize my weddings. I knew the answer was no, but what I really wanted to know was why not? Things would be better.
On the other hand, the lack of control when I was with Brendan, how he surprised me—how my emotions ran out of me unbidden—were all things I liked about him. He made losing control fun.
Gina nudged me with her elbow and shook her head, mouthing “no” as if she really thought I was stumped on the answer.
I recited what we’d learned last class. “We can’t control the unpredictable actions of others. Only the way the events affect us.”
My words were meant to get Ron to back off, but I’ll be damned if it didn’t help cool the heat winding through my body. It was like my brain needed to hear that I couldn’t control everything. Didn’t mean I didn’t want to, or that I’d be happy about what Phoebe said from here on out. Or even that I’d never be tempted to say things about wanting to punch her. But surely that was still progress, right?
I looked my anger management instructor in the eye and said, “Thanks, Ron. You just made me realize something.”
He blinked at me a couple of times, a goofy smile curved his lips, and then he moved on. I was still thinking about my column, though. The only thing I could control about the Las Vegas Beacon was what I wrote in my column. I was going to give the people what they apparently wanted and write Tess her article, and I’d make it more popular than Phoebe’s gossip section if it was the last thing I did.
The thought of letting out all the feelings I’d been holding at bay made my stomach clench. What if I couldn’t get the floodgates to stop once I started?
Worse, what if I didn’t like who I was once it was all out there?
Either way, it was time to reclaim control of my life and finally put my failed nuptials behind me. And I knew just where I had to start.
…
The hopeful lilt of Grant’s voice when I’d asked him to meet me for a late dinner had done a number on my resolve. I kept telling myself that he left me, so I shouldn’t feel bad about what I needed to do. I’d even called Jillian, filled her in on Brendan and my make-out session, and had her amp me up for the conversation I needed to have with Grant. But it didn’t stop the churning in my gut.
Good thing I’m trained to break bad news in a way that makes it seem okay.
Grant strode into the restaurant, an ear-to-ear grin on his face.
You’re killing me, Smalls. Of course a quote from The Sandlot—a movie I’d watched with Brendan a dozen times growing up—popped into my head. But it helped me be strong. To remember why I needed to do this—this was for my future wellness, and so I could give my relationship with Brendan a real shot.
Meeting at my place would’ve been weird considering I lived there with Brendan, and Grant’s place would’ve been difficult, but I was also rethinking the out-in-public option I’d chosen. Too late now to do anything about it.
“I’m so happy you called,” Grant said as he settled across from me.
I repeat. Killing me. “Grant, you know I care about you, and always will…”
His smile faded. I should’ve prepared something more original than the classic breakup starter-kit speech, but there was no reason to dance around the point any more. I sucked in a deep breath and focused on everything I needed to say, hoping it wouldn’t get all twisted up on my tongue before I could get it out. “These past few days I realized something I didn’t see before. I loved you, so I guess I didn’t want to see it. But we don’t want the same things.”
The more I’d thought about our relationship, the more I realized it’d been off-balance. I was the fixer. I’d held back talking about my problems or the stress in my life to take care of his. “I tried so hard to be the perfect girlfriend and then fiancée, and at the time it seemed nice because I was helping and doing what I did best. But I got lost along the way—I’m not blaming you for that. It was who I thought I needed to be.”
“I’m not asking you to be perfect.”
“I know. But Grant, what would you even do if I had a breakdown and started crying?”
“But you never cry.”
From his perspective I could understand his confusion, since I’d never let him see me cry, not really. It wasn’t until Brendan showed me what it was like to feel whole even when broken that I realized it was okay to not just have flaws, but to allow people to see them. If I couldn’t let go with Grant, how could I possibly expect us to work? “When it comes down to it, our connection doesn’t run as deep as it needs to for it to hold up a marriage.”
Then there was the fact that I’d always remember how he left me standing alone on the shores of Jamaica, and it’d come up in every fight. Every time we went through a rough patch. I could forgive, but I couldn’t forget, and that meant we’d always have trust issues. Maybe that made me a bad person, but if that were the case, at least I was an honest bad person. Since I didn’t think rubbing salt in a wound was the way to go, I held back—healthy words and all. “I admire you for stepping up when you found out about your son. I know the transition was a bit rocky, but you’re going to be a great dad—you don’t need me for that. And someday you’ll find another girl who you won’t hesitate to marry.”
Grant’s eyes narrowed. “It’s that other guy, isn’t it?”
Something inside of me snapped. I’d tried to keep this civil, but I could feel angry heat traveling through me. He’d always had a tendency to blame things on everyone else, and I used to rub his back and tell
him I understood. That so-and-so from his office was hard to work with. A hundred other excuses I’d provided trying to be supportive. See? Fixer. But that wasn’t my role anymore.
“Do we really need to replay how you were the one who stood me up at the altar? Who ran away instead of talking to me? That’s on you. Take some responsibility and live with your decisions.”
Grant stared, mouth slightly agape, as if he didn’t recognize me.
I rose from my seat, pride welling in my chest. It was time I take responsibility, too. I’d let him in again, lied to myself, and allowed his mother to influence me. Regaining control of my life had taken me longer than I’d thought it would, but I’d keep getting back up and trying, day after day, until I got it right.
The last part of my course today, right before Ron signed off on the form saying I’d completed it, had been on being assertive, but not attacking. I’d told Grant how I felt without swearing or yelling, and it was nice to get it out there.
“Good-bye, Grant,” I said. “Best of luck with the rest of your life.” I walked out of the restaurant and inhaled the fresh air. I had upcoming weddings to finish preparing. And for the first time in a long time, I was actually excited about it.
Part Four
Cautious Cobalt – Guarded
(General risk of odd behavior, family pressure, stress, and cold feet. Tears held at bay, but can quickly turn either way)
“The course of true love never did run smooth.”
—William Shakespeare
Chapter Twenty
Living with a hot guy who was willing to drag me into the bedroom whenever I was ready, but not taking advantage of it, was like walking by a table of beautiful slices of wedding cake and not taking a bite. Not even a little swipe of the finger to taste the icing.
In other words, so hard that I thought I must be mental for even attempting it.
I was starting to think that he was purposely parading around half naked, too, knowing he was slowly driving me crazy. A lazy grin spread across his face as he looked across the kitchen at me. His faded blue jeans hung low on his hips, his hair was still wet from his shower, and he hadn’t shaved today. “Hey.”
My heart took off on a high-speed chase, practically leaving the rest of me behind. I bit my lip as I took in his toned chest and the sexy vee of his obliques. I put down the peanut M&M’s I’d been snacking on, closed the distance between us, and wrapped my arms around his waist. The dampness from his skin soaked into mine. He slid his hand into my hair and lowered his mouth until our lips finally met. As we kissed, I ran my nails up his firm back muscles, smiling when he groaned. If he was going to drive me crazy with desire, I might as well not be the only one.
If we were in a normal relationship, I’d need several dates to see if we were compatible, and if he was more or less attractive the more time we spent together, before deciding if I was ready to add sex to the mix. Brendan and my compatibility was off the charts—we liked the same food, movies, sports. He was much messier than I was, but his attractive factor was growing exponentially by the day, so it negated the points I usually would’ve taken off a guy’s overall stick-aroundability score.
But jumping in too fast made it feel like a rebound relationship, and I didn’t want Brendan to be just a rebound. And while I knew we were way past that, I also didn’t want to move too quickly.
Every day, every kiss, was chipping away at my resistance, though. Making it harder to remember why I’d decided to go slow.
Brendan gripped my waist, lifted me onto the counter, and wedged himself between my legs. My breaths came faster and faster, and then he moved his lips to my neck, sending goose bumps across my skin. I hooked my feet behind him, unable to stop a moan from escaping and filling the crackling air between us.
The bowl of fruit on the counter got tipped over in the process, but as his mouth came over mine again, I hardly noticed the apples and oranges rolling across the counter and floor. Fire burned through me, hotter and wilder with every stroke of his tongue. I traced his muscles with my fingertips, going lower and lower, until they were brushing the top of his pants.
It sometimes felt like we were playing the dirtiest game of chicken ever. Testing the boundaries, seeing how far we could push it. Who’d crack first. If only frustration wasn’t the end result, it’d be the most fun game ever, too.
“Living together is a bad idea right now,” I said on a breath.
“Nuh-uh,” Brendan so articulately disagreed, his hands sliding up my thighs. If I’d been wearing my usual skirt outfit, I would’ve been a goner—I practically was anyway. His touch burned through my denim and left me wishing for a skirt.
“You know we need to leave in, like, five minutes.”
“Five minutes is all I need,” he said. I smacked his shoulder and he laughed. “I was kidding.” His gaze ran over me, burning everywhere it touched. “I’m gonna need much longer.”
My heart beat even faster, somewhere around hummingbird speed now. “You’re evil, you know that?” His whiskers tickled my fingertips as I brushed them across his jaw and over the indention in his chin. “You knew we needed to leave, and you had to stand all half naked and wet in the kitchen.”
Mischief danced in his eyes. “I never said I was a good boy.” He kissed me hard on the mouth, then turned and strode to the fridge, the muscles in his back and shoulders tight. He opened the door and stood there for a moment, taking deep breaths. I fanned myself with my hand, trying to get control of my hormones as well. Here we were about to go hang out with my dad, and my head was nowhere near where it needed to be.
Brendan grabbed two bottles of water. He took a generous swig of one, and then offered me the other—we’d been going through a lot more water lately. “Need help with the apples and oranges?” he asked.
“No, go finish getting dressed so we’ll be on time. I might just leave them till later, anyway.”
One corner of his mouth twisted up, the skepticism in his expression clear. “Mm-hmm.”
After downing half my water bottle in one gulp, I turned my attention to the fruit scattered across the floor. Part of me wanted to leave them to prove I could. The other part of me was screaming louder, though. I mean, who leaves food on the floor like that?
I gathered the apples and oranges and stacked them neatly in the bowl, thinking of how he used to just leave them on the counter. They probably wouldn’t have scattered everywhere with his old method, but the bowl looked nicer, and I liked that we did the kind of kissing that knocked things over.
Picking up my purse, I wandered into the living room and glanced at the time again. I was about to call for Brendan when he came out of his room. Along with his jeans, he was now wearing a baseball tee and his faded black Niners cap. He’s just as irresistible clothed, too. Fortunate and unfortunate all at the same time. He raised his eyebrows in a way that said he’d caught me ogling him, and I gave him my most innocent smile with plenty of batting my eyes.
I’d never felt so…silly in love. I’d gotten butterflies, and there’d been desire and attraction, sure. But when I was with Brendan, I sorta felt like Cupid—bouncing around, jumping whenever he came into the room, and a whole lot of panting.
It was a total how-did-this-amazing-thing-happen-to-me feeling. But I didn’t quite trust it, either. My relationship with Grant was more serious, but I’d loved him with everything in me, and I wasn’t sure I could do that again, which also seemed unfair to Brendan.
Although he’d made it clear he wasn’t big on long-term commitments, and at the time I’d been experiencing enough angst over relationships to stupidly agree, not realizing it might come back to bite me.
“Don’t worry.” Using his thumb, Brendan smoothed the spot between my eyebrows and then cupped my cheek. “We got this.”
I wasn’t sure if he meant hanging out with my dad, or more—like all the things I worried about. But then he kissed me again, and it didn’t really seem to matter.
…
“This is a trip,” Brendan said as he pulled up to my dad’s tan ranch-style house. The yard was rocky, with a few stumpy, short palm trees, and the red door with the fancy window Mom had insisted on stood out in the game of “which one of these things was not quite like the others.”
“Not much has changed.” I climbed out of the truck and waited for Brendan to round the hood. Besides the door, the tiny two-bedroom home hadn’t been updated since it was built in the seventies. It seemed like the entire neighborhood had upgraded, but not Dad. He was of the if-it’s-not-broke-don’t-fix-it mind-set. Apparently “in need of serious update” was not “broke.”
I reached over the chain-link fence and opened the gate. When Dad answered the door, it took him all of two seconds to give a pointed look to Brendan’s hand on my waist.
“Hi, Dad.” I stepped forward to hug him and whispered, “Remember to be nice.”
Dad made a phfft noise that didn’t give me a whole lot of confidence. But he pulled out a smile when he turned to Brendan and shook his hand. “Brendan. Been a long time.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You still play ball?”
“Just a pickup game here and there whenever I can.”
Dad nodded, assessing him the way he did his players, as if he could tell everything about him with a good once-over. “You had a good arm. I remember that.”
“So did D.J.,” Brendan said.
Dad patted me on the shoulder. “That she did.”
“I came by it naturally,” I added, thinking I might as well keep the happy mood going.
We headed inside, and Dad jerked a thumb at the cardboard boxes on the coffee table. “I got pizza. Hope that’s okay.”
“Pizza sounds great.” I sat on the couch next to Brendan and grabbed a slice of pepperoni, and Dad set up in his trusty recliner with all the fancy compartments that hid remotes and held his drinks. It was a lot like Brendan’s couch, actually.
