by Hazel James
“What makes you think the damage is done?”
“Come on, Lei. People don’t recover from sex charges involving children. In the real world, you’re guilty until proven innocent, and even if the charges are dropped, the rumors will always be there. My entire business is based on trust. I’ll never get that back.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that.”
“Thanks for your vote of confidence, but I’ve already accepted it.”
She tips her head, studying me. “We’re going to play a little role-reversal game.” She stands up, sets her cup on the coffee table, and motions for me to do the same. “Lie down.”
Despite my misgivings, I comply while she angles the chair toward the couch and takes a seat. I keep my eyes trained on the ceiling above me because looking at her while I’m horizontal won’t go well for me. Not when she’s close enough to touch.
“Is there anyone you feel you’ve hurt in the past two weeks?”
My parents. My staff. My clients. “Yeah.”
“Who do you feel you’ve hurt the most?”
I release a long breath. “You really want me to answer that?”
“Mm hmm.”
“Um. My girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend, I mean.” Fuck, this is awkward. “I trusted the wrong person and believed stuff about her that wasn’t true. I never even gave her a chance to defend herself.”
Her soft sigh is the only indicator that I’ve stuck a nerve. “And did you have any contact with this woman after she left?”
I move my head back and forth.
“So despite hurting her and having no contact with her, she came back on her own.”
“It appears that way.”
“Why do you think that is?”
I blow out a breath. “I have no fucking idea.”
“Maybe it’s because she doesn’t need an investigation to know you aren’t guilty of the charges against you, and I’d be willing to bet she’s not the only one.”
God bless her, her heart’s in the right place, even if she is living in La La Land. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but it’s going to take more than a few loyal friends to save Battles.”
“I disagree. You built that gym when no one believed you could, and look what it turned into.”
“I didn’t do it by myself. I had help.”
“You still do. Only this time, you’re not starting from scratch.” She shifts, leaning forward several inches. “The members of that gym trust you with their lives, Clay. Literally, for some of them. Give them a chance to support you the way you’ve supported them.”
The student has become the master. A slow smile spreads across my face. “If you’re ever looking for a career change, you should consider being a life coach.”
She smirks. “Well I am unemployed.”
And there it is.
Regret settles around us like a wet blanket. She meant it as a joke, but it doesn’t stop the sting of our reality. The one I created. How is it that she’s here after everything I put her through? That has to mean there’s hope for us, right? I turn my head to the side and peer up at her. “Why don’t you hate me?”
“I did for about five days. I hated you like it was a full-time job and I was the star employee.”
That’s not surprising. Leilani has always been a fierce competitor, no matter if she’s going up against an opponent or simply trying to outdo herself. “What made you change your mind?”
This time she meets my eyes. “I figure you’re hating yourself enough for everyone.”
She’s got that part right. The consequences of my relationship with alcohol mean I’m no stranger to self-loathing, but this is a whole new level of disgust. Everything that’s happened in the past two weeks is my fault.
“I’m still mad at you though, and I won’t apologize for it.”
“You have every right to be. I’m the one who needs to do the apologizing.” I sit up, careful not to disturb the gap between our knees despite my intense need to touch her. “I will never be able to tell you how sorry I am. Every day, I wish I could take back the things I said to you. God, there’s so much I wish I could take back.” Exhaustion and shame pull my head down.
“I know you’re sorry, Clay. I wouldn’t still be here if you weren’t.”
That brings up a good point. I shift, leaning back on the couch to gauge her response. “Why are you still here? Not that I want you to leave, because I don’t,” I quickly add. “It’s just that most people wouldn’t give their ex the time of day after the shit I did to you.”
Her shoulders bounce once. “Anger and compassion aren’t mutually exclusive.”
“Um, could you elaborate? I’m still a bit hungover.”
“I had a big blow-up with one of my college friends earlier this year. But when I told her I had cancer, everything from before no longer mattered as much. Yes, we were still mad at each other, but that took a backseat to what was happening and the fact that she was my friend.”
“I guess that makes sense.”
“And, despite what you may think, I’m not completely innocent in our breakup.”
A deep line forms between my brows. “How so?”
“I didn’t realize that I’d put you on a pedestal. You’re so different from other men. You’re not an asshole. You know how to communicate. You understand that being sensitive to someone else’s needs isn’t a sign of weakness. Somewhere along the way, you became the perfect boyfriend. The perfect boss. It was so easy to overlook your flaws because there aren’t many of them.
“But some of your worst qualities are borne from the best parts of you. You’re incredibly loyal. When you let someone in, it’s like having your own personal cheerleading squad made up of bodyguards.”
I can’t help but laugh. “That’s quite the visual.”
“It’s true! You protect those closest to you, and encourage them to overcome their obstacles. Except, sometimes you’re loyal to a fault. Earlier, you said you never gave me a chance to defend myself. You were right, but I never forced you to listen, either.
“I could have stood on your desk until you at least looked at the papers I was holding. Then, maybe you would’ve had a lightbulb moment and realized you’d been loyal to the wrong person all along. We were both to blame for me going home. Of course, it’s like ninety percent you, ten percent me…”
A smile finishes her sentence. It’s the fourth one I’ve seen this morning. “One thing I’ve learned is that when you care about someone, you keep pushing. You don’t let them shut you out no matter how hard they try. I didn’t do that, and I’m sorry.”
This is the weirdest post-breakup visit ever. I expected tears and shouting, maybe some name-calling for good measure. But cleaning my house and making a list of my good qualities? It’s like an episode of Jerry Springer in reverse.
“Thank you for coming down here and making sure I was okay. For a second, I thought I was hallucinating when I saw you in the hallway.”
“Last night you said I was an angel and asked if I was dead.”
“Oh God,” I groan, covering my eyes with my hand. “I’m sorry you had to see me like that.”
“What do you tell your clients when they hit rock bottom?”
“It varies, depending on what brought them there in the first place, but one common theme is reminding them they don’t have to repeat the same mistakes they made yesterday. That every day they choose to abstain from their addiction is a win.”
“Okay, then. Are you going to be a winner today?”
The corners of my mouth curve up. “You should really consider being a life coach.”
“Right now, I’d consider a nap.”
For the first time, the logistics of her visit cross my mind. “How’d you get here, anyway?”
“Kiki drove. She stayed at a hotel last night and headed back to Fort Sill this morning.”
“Have you talked to Rebecca?”
She nods. “That’s who told me you were arrested.”
“Did she say anything about staying with her parents?”
“She briefly mentioned moving into her new house at the end of the month. With both of us out of the apartment, DH can bring in two new people, which makes sense.” Leilani walks her mug into the kitchen, then makes a detour down the hallway. I guess that means our role-reversal game is over.
Panic has me racing around the couch, much to the dismay of my lingering headache, to meet her in the laundry room. “Where are you staying tonight?”
“I haven’t gotten that far yet.” She closes the dryer and spins the knob to start it. “The only thing I was concerned with yesterday was getting down here.”
Coffee swishes in my stomach when I ask her the next question. “Are you planning to go back home?”
She rubs her palm on her thigh as if the answer is hidden under a layer of Lycra. “I haven’t figured that out either.”
Thank Christ. Relief washes over me, but I keep a neutral expression. “Stay here and sleep for a while. It’ll be easier to decide what to do once you’ve gotten some rest.”
“Uh…”
I hold my palms up. “You can stay in the spare bedroom at my parents’ house or crash here on the couch. I promise I won’t bother you.”
Her bottom lip disappears between her teeth while she considers my offer and finally says, “The couch is fine.”
Hell motherfucking yes! My brain knows this doesn’t mean anything—we still have a bunch of shit to talk about, and there’s a huge chance we won’t get back together—but my heart feels like Rocky Balboa when he reached the top of the steps at the Philadelphia Museum of Art.
I make a beeline for my room to get a pillow and blanket off the bed I haven’t slept on since Leilani went back to Colorado. I tried, but there were too many memories tied up in those sheets.
After closing the blinds, I grab the remote and turn the TV on. A cartoon tiger in a red jacket appears on the screen, singing about friendship. Jesus, how drunk was I last night? On the plus side, I remembered to stay away from the news. That was one of my attorney’s three rules, along with “Don’t turn on your phone” and “Lay low.”
I quickly change the channel, not bothering to ask Leilani what she wants to watch. As long as it’s one of those shows on house hunting, fixing up, or flipping, she’s happy. “I’ll just be in my room,” I say, keeping my promise not to bother her. “Let me know if you need anything.”
“Uh, you can watch too, if you want.” She gives me my fifth smile of the morning. By far, it’s my favorite because there’s a hint of hope in the corners of her lips. Even though HGTV has never been my thing, my ass is on the other end of couch before she changes her mind.
Today’s show follows newlyweds as they turn a run-down house into their dream home. How they have a sixty thousand-dollar renovation budget on his salary as a dental tech is beyond me. There’s no place for logic in television, though.
They’ve just finished the demolition when I feel it—her feet on the side of my leg.
When I sat down, she had her knees angled enough that they didn’t leave the middle cushion. Does she know she’s touching me, or did she stretch out in her sleep?
Please be awake. Please be awake.
I risk a peek in her direction and suppress a grin.
Her eyes are open.
A New Lease
“THAT SONOFABITCH.”
I don’t think I’ve ever seen Clay’s nostrils this big before.
“I can’t believe I never caught on. Do you know he used to tell me I was too trusting?” He downs the rest of the water in his bottle and crushes the plastic with his fist, muttering, “fucking irony” on the way to the trash can.
“You’re not the first person he conned and at the rate he’s going, you probably won’t be the last.” Mrs. Prescott’s words do little to improve Clay’s mood.
His parents got back shortly after I woke up from my nap. She said how great it was to see me again, gave me a bear hug, and insisted that Clay and I join them at their house for dinner. I’m not one to pass up a roast, so here we are.
After he was arrested, Clay finally fessed up to his parents as to why he fired me. To my surprise, being around them for more than a few minutes wasn’t as awkward as I feared it would be. All Mrs. P said when we walked into the kitchen was, “Do you mind grabbing the rolls out of the oven?”
I waited until after dessert was over to bring up Marshall’s previous stolen valor charges. Given that I fell asleep after this morning’s heart-to-heart, I still hadn’t had a chance to tell Clay about it. At that point, it made sense to wait until his parents were there, too. He and I still need to talk about his drinking and his assurance that it was a one-time mistake, but we can only have so many heavy conversations in one day.
“I’m sorry to have killed the mood tonight,” I say to the room, though my eyes are on Clay.
Mr. P’s response is immediate. “Don’t be. The more information we have on this bastard, the better.”
“He’s right, this is actually great news. Our hands are tied right now because our lawyer is still waiting on the search warrant report. This gives us more ammo to show that Marshall… Nathan… whatever his name is,” Mrs. P waves her hand, “is the one behind all of this.”
Clay only grunts. I hate that there’s nothing I can do to fix this.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you—I’ve decided to demo the back bathroom. Your mother’s been wanting some fancy tile in there for years and I’m not getting any younger. Feel like coming over tomorrow and helping your old man?”
“You think giving me a sledgehammer is a wise move?”
The elder Prescott grins. “Might do you some good, and it’d save me money on labor.”
I’d bet anything that Mr. P had no intentions of remodeling the bathroom, especially not tomorrow, which makes his gesture even sweeter.
Clay silently considers his offer before pushing off from the kitchen counter and collecting the dessert plates. “You hear that, Mom? Child labor. I thought you said that would end when I turned eighteen.” His sarcastic smirk is a welcome sight, and the rest of us breathe a sigh of relief.
“I said eight-y,” she clarifies, a grin crossing her face.
“Eh, it looks like you’ve got forty-six years’-worth of muscles in there. You shouldn’t have any problems.” My neck and face flush as soon as the words leave my mouth. What the hell am I doing talking about his muscles in front of his parents?
Floor, swallow me whole please.
Clay, thank God, never misses a beat. “I told you guys she was good with numbers.”
They smile as I make my escape, tucking the bowl of walnuts in my arm and grabbing the chocolate syrup on a desperate dash to the kitchen.
Mrs. P follows, either oblivious to my state of mortification or thoroughly enjoying it and ready for more. “Are you staying at the cottage again?”
I stand there, mouth agape, not knowing how to answer. Clay and I haven’t discussed that yet, though his body language today has been a clear indicator of what he wants.
“Mom!” he coughs, shooting her a warning look.
“What?” She points to the brownies. “I was going to send the rest back with you. I just didn’t know whether to put them in one container or two.”
“Mm hmm.” The look on Clay’s face says he’s not buying it.
My phone rings from inside my purse, signaling my reprieve. I excuse myself and make a beeline to Mrs. P’s sewing room—the same one I was in when she fixed my breast form earlier this summer. My, how things come full-circle.
“Hey, I’m glad you called.” I texted Kiki a few times today, but we haven’t been able to talk. When her editor found out she came home early from her weekend pass, he stuck her on an assignment at the artillery range.
“How’s it going?”
“Good.”
She pauses. “What aren’t you telling me?”
We purposely avoided conversations about Clay and
Marshall during our road trip yesterday. Instead, we played ostrich by discussing Kiki’s next duty station options, singing along with the radio, and sleeping—me, not her. This is the first time I’ve told anyone what’s on my mind as far as Clay goes. “I want to give him another chance.”
“You sound like that’s a problem.”
I plop down on a chair in the corner of the room. “I feel like I’m not supposed to want to.”
“Why?”
“Because of the Travis thing and him firing me. That’s two major strikes. What happens when the next one comes?”
“He earned his first strike fair and square, but the second one wasn’t entirely his fault.”
My forehead furrows. I didn’t tell her about me taking part of the blame for that one. She was already out covering her story when that happened. “What do you mean?”
“He ended things under false pretenses. None of that would have happened if that dickwad wasn’t in the picture.”
Huh. “I guess you’re right.”
“No guessing. I’m older and wiser, remember?”
I can hear the smile in her voice, which eases some of my anxiety. Kiki may not be in a relationship of her own right now, but she’s always been a damn good source of advice. “So I’m not crazy for still having feelings for him?”
“No! Stop worrying about what other people think. And as far as counting strikes goes, you can’t keep tally like that. It’s not fair to either of you, because you’d just spend your whole relationship waiting to scratch another mark on your scorecard. Besides, what does Dad always say about fear?”
“It makes a terrible compass.”
“Exactly.” She starts her car and the phone switches over to Bluetooth. Knowing she called me before she even got the air conditioning going makes me love her even more. “If you’re too stubborn to listen to your heart or your gut, then listen to me: Give him another chance. No one is perfect—”
“—except Nick Bateman,” we finish in unison, laughing. Kiki used to tell me that before every gymnastics meet during my senior year of college to help with my pre-match nerves.
