Harley & Rose

by Carmen Jenner

  I have a girlfriend.

  One little sentence that makes me want to die.

  “Rose,” he begins.

  I turn my face to the window and whisper, “Take me back to the cottage, Harley.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

  He’s sorry. He’s sorry. Not half as sorry as I am, and now there’s nothing to be done about it. He didn’t come home for me. He didn’t miss me at all, because he has a girlfriend.

  By the time we pull into the drive at the cottage, I’m seething. I climb out of the car before Harley even brings it to a stop. Within seconds he’s on me, grabbing my arm.

  “Don’t touch me,” I say, as I whirl around.

  “Rose—”

  “Fuck you! I loved you. I still love you,” I spit the words as if they were venom. “I left for you so you wouldn’t have to choose between me and football, and you gave us both up.”

  “I know, I’m an asshole. Please just talk to me.”

  “You let me think there was a chance for us again. Coming back here, kissing me?” I throw my hands up in exasperation. My heart squeezes until I feel like I can’t breathe. “God, you just can’t help but break my heart, can you?”

  “Hey, I loved you too,” he says sharply. “It shattered me when you walked away.”

  “Well, how convenient that you found someone to help put you back together,” I say caustically. “And just two short months after breaking up with me. I can tell I meant a lot to you.”

  “You walked away from me, remember?”

  “I left you because I didn’t want to hold you back, not because I stopped loving you, or because I was looking to replace you with someone else,” I say, feeling as if my chest caves in a little more as each word leaves my mouth.

  “No one could ever replace you, Rose.”

  “They already have.” I walk away and yank the screen door open. It slams against the brick wall, and I know I should be quiet. I don’t need Mom or Rochelle coming out to try and smooth things over with us. Hot cocoa and a couple of Kumbayas aren’t going to fix this. We’re broken, shattered, crumbled to sand and dust beneath his feet.

  I stalk into the cottage as I hear a round of expletives leave Harley’s mouth. The truck door opens and slams, but he doesn’t turn on the ignition. He doesn’t come into the room either. I don’t know where he’s sleeping. I know it’s not beside me though. Gone is the comfortable and reassuring sound of his breathing as he slept in the bed across the room, a bed so close to mine that when we were younger, far too young to know what it meant, or what those memories would mean to us later in life, we’d stretch our arms across the divide and hold hands as we fell asleep.

  None of that will ever be the same. Thanksgiving will never be the same. This cottage will never be the same, because we’re not the same, and we never will be again.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Rose

  I feel like hell, and it isn’t just because I stood on the street in the rain pouring my heart out to him and hoping—no, begging—him to open the door and let me in. It’s more than likely because I went to bed soaking wet, and that’s pretty much how I stayed all night. This morning, I can barely lift my head from the pillow.

  Everything aches. My head is filled with fogginess and my nose runs like a tap. I lean over and turn off the alarm. It’s a Sunday; I should be at the flower market collecting blooms for this week’s specials, but I can’t do it. I reach for my phone; I don’t know why. Every day for a month it’s been devoid of calls and messages from him, but this morning I’m surprised to see two missed calls. I squint at the screen and dial the number to retrieve my voice messages. A computerized voice tells me I have two new messages, and I skip past my mother’s straight to the second.

  Dermot’s smooth, warm voice fills the earpiece. “Rose, it’s Dermot. Obviously.” He sighs. “I can’t stop thinking about you. I was an asshole. I should have walked you to your door. I should have taken you up on that offer for a drink, and only a drink. I’m … I’m sorry. Goddamn, I hate these things. There’s no need to call me back, unless you want to, and I want you to.” I smile a little to myself, because it’s possible that Dermot is even worse at talking to voicemail than I am. “Shit, I’m not even making sense. How do I put this more succinctly? I know your heart belongs to someone else, but I’m—”

  Beep.

  The message cuts him off. I’m what? What was he going to say? Without pausing for even a beat, I hit the ‘return call’ button and field a couple of sneezes as I wait for it to ring. He’s probably out jogging or doing breakfast with a client or winning a freaking Noble Prize. Hell, maybe he’s out hiking in Muir Woods. Whatever he’s doing, I’m betting it’s something active, because I can’t understand how the man could be almost old enough to be my father and still have a body like that. I make a mental note to join a gym because somehow I doubt he’s sitting around eating a pint of Ben & Jerry’s every night.

  “Rose,” he answers, sounding a little breathless. In the background, some kind of machine whirs.

  “Are you in the middle of something?”

  “No, just jogging. Are you okay? You sound terrible.”

  “I feel terrible,” I admit, hating that even though he’s a little out of breath, he still sounds so put together, and me? I sound like I stuffed that pint of Ben & Jerry’s up my nose. “I got caught in the rain last night after you drove me home.”

  “You left your apartment?” I hear the barest hint of accusation in his tone.

  “Yeah. I had some words to say to a friend.”

  “I see,” he says, so calm and collected. I wish I could see that handsome face, catch a glimpse of those warm brown eyes that seem to give everything away and nothing at all. “So what can I do for you, Rose?”

  “I don’t know. I just—I wanted to hear your voice.”

  He chuckles, but I’m not sure if he finds that funny or ironic after last night.

  “I know you’ve been hurt before, and I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to just cut your losses now and a … a … choo.”

  “You’re sick,” he whispers.

  “It’s nothing.”

  “It’s not nothing. I tell you what—save that thought. I’m going to clear my schedule, and I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  “You keep to a schedule on Sundays?”

  “Of course. Doesn’t everyone?”

  “No,” I say automatically, and then I realize that my Sundays are ordinarily filled with flower markets, inventory, online ordering, and anything else that might make my week a little easier. “Actually, yeah, I guess I do too.”

  “I’ll see you soon.”

  “Dermot, don’t come over. I’m snotty and gross.”

  “I’ll be there soon,” he repeats, a little more firmly this time. “Don’t argue, sweet Rose, you won’t win.”

  “Dermot,” I say before he can hang up. “Can you bring ice cream?”

  “Sure,” he says and disconnects. I fall back against my pillows and sigh, and then it occurs to me that I probably look like hell, so I get up and shower, brush my teeth, and change into a sweater and leggings. Ordinarily I wouldn’t consider wearing anything like this around him, but I guess there’s only one way to find out if he’s serious about me: have him see me at my worst. Though we might need wine for that.

  Close to half an hour later, a knock comes from downstairs and I crawl out of bed, my muscles protesting each movement and practically screaming at me when I use the stairs. Dermot stands on the other side of the glass in a sweater, jeans—likely designer ones that cost more than a month’s rent for me—and a charcoal gray blazer. The man certainly knows how to dress. In his hands he juggles two big black and white striped bags. My eyes zero in on the label and I realize he went all the way to Soma for this. And not only that, but he bought ice cream from the best creamery in town. Warmth fills my chest.

  “Hi,” he mouths.

  “Hi,” I say, feeling marginally better
now that he’s here.

  “Let me in,” he says. I give a little scoffing laugh because he’s right, I need to let him in, and not just because he’s standing on my doorstep with ice cream that’s likely melting. I need to let him in. I have to take a chance on this gorgeous man because he hasn’t broken my heart, and if gut feelings are anything to go by, I dare say he never will.

  I pull back the locks and he steps inside, out of the morning mist. Dew clings to his dark salt-and-pepper hair, and I want to run my fingers through it, I want to smell the moisture that’s settled with his skin and cologne, but I guess that’s kind of creepy and I don’t want him to get sick, so I don’t. Instead, I let him enter the shop, and I close and lock the door behind us.

  “I’m glad you came,” I say, leading the way up the stairs.

  “Me too. I didn’t know what kind of ice cream you liked, so I bought one of everything.”

  “What?” I turn and face him with a dubious expression. “My freezer is not that big.”

  “I didn’t want you to be disappointed.”

  I keep walking up the stairs, turning once I reach the top in order to see his face. “Okay, what’s wrong with you?”

  His brow furrows as if he doesn’t understand the question. “I’m sorry?”

  “There has to be something wrong with you. You’re gorgeous, you’re sweet, you’re thoughtful and considerate, and you’re successful—what woman in her right mind wouldn’t want that?”

  He laughs. “You tell me.”

  I pause, suck in a deep breath, and look into his eyes, really look. I have so much to say, and no idea where to start, but I suppose an apology is as good a place as any. “Dermot, I’m sorry about last night.”

  He takes a step forward, and I move away from the stairs in order to let him come up. I realize this is the first time he’s actually setting foot in my apartment, even though we’ve been dating for weeks. “There’s no need to apologize.”

  “Yes there is.”

  “You want to show me where to set this stuff down?”

  “Right, sorry. In here,” I say, and lead him into the tiny kitchen. The bags barely fit on the counter, and I don’t know where the hell I’m going to store that ice cream because my freezer is only so big, unless of course I use the cooler downstairs.

  Dermot opens the freezer, putting away pints of expensive homemade ice cream.

  I snatch the Matcha green tea flavor from the bag and hold it to my chest. He raises a brow and looks as if he’s storing that information away for later, but once he’s done filling my freezer—all but three pints, including the one I’m holding, fit inside—he takes it from my hands and pulls out another bag. This one contains fresh fruit, cinnamon rolls, bagels, and a small container of soup. “It’s early. I wasn’t sure if you’d had breakfast or not, but everyone should have chicken noodle soup when they’re ill.”

  “You’re like my sexy fairy godmother right now.”

  “I’m not sure the words ‘sexy’ and ‘fairy godmother’ should be used in the same sentence, but I do like to be thorough.” He grins, and something tells me he’s not talking about being a boy scout. “Now, go lie down. Patients should be in bed.”

  My belly backflips, and heat scolds my cheeks. At least I can blame the blushing on my fever. I sit on the couch, because I’m not sure I’m ready to jump into bed with Dermot just yet, but I do feel a little odd about having him wait on me in my own house. It’s clear he doesn’t feel the same way because he sets the food down on the coffee table in front of me, along with a nip of brandy from my cupboard.

  “Brandy?” I question.

  “My mother always swore on brandy for a sore throat.”

  I smile at that. I like the fact that he has a mother and a whole life I know nothing about. He’s a mystery to me, and one I don’t mind uncovering. “Where is she now?”

  He removes his blazer and lays it over the wingback chair. I expect him to sit, but instead he crosses the room and settles on the loveseat beside me. Though my nose is stuffy, I can smell his licorice spice aftershave. It’s intoxicating. So grown-up and mature, but not stuffy, and nothing like vetiver and green and citrus. “She passed ten years ago.”

  My smile falters. How did I not know this? How have I not asked him about his parents? I’m a sucky … girlfriend. I’m selfish and thoughtless, and I’ve spent this whole time focusing on what was behind me, that I forgot to look ahead. I couldn’t see a future outside of the one I’d imagine with Harley. But there is a future, just not one with my best friend in it. “Oh, Dermot. I’m so sorry.”

  “She had emphysema. In the end, it was easier to watch her go than to watch her struggle,” he says, and damn if that doesn’t just break my heart. The idea that someone you love could be in so much pain that it is easier to watch them die than it is to fight.

  “That must have been horrible.” I reach for a tissue and blow my nose. I might have discreetly wiped away the tears springing up in the corners of my eyes too.

  “It was.” He pauses for a beat and smiles, as if he’s remembering her with fondness. “She’d smoked these imported dainty menthol cigarettes her whole life, convinced they couldn’t kill her because she was smoking half of what a regular person would.”

  “That’s terrible.” I sniff.

  “That’s life.”

  I nod, though I’m not sure I’m free to comment. I’ve never lost anyone close to me, apart from my grandmother when I was thirteen years old. My mom may drive me bat-shit crazy, but losing her would kill me.

  “And your dad?” I’m almost afraid of the response, but I want to learn more about him, and I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to figure that out.

  “He passed too, when I was just a boy,” he gives me a gloomy smile. “I do have a sister and a niece that live just outside the city that I rarely get time to see because of work.”

  “You should make time for them.”

  “I should,” he agrees, and clears his throat. “I’m supposed to be taking care of you and here I am making you feel worse.”

  “I like learning more about you.” I chew my bottom lip in an attempt to hide my smile. Dermot reaches out and runs his thumb over my cheek.

  “I like you asking.” His gaze turns molten and my face gets hot, my skin prickles all over, and I swallow hard. My head hurts, but I’m sure it’s not just the fever that’s making it swim. I glance away, searching for an escape.

  “Should we watch a movie?” I say, too quickly.

  “As long as you eat something first.” He gestures towards the coffee table laden with food.

  A slow smile spreads across my face. “You’re pushy, huh?”

  “Oh, Rose, you have no idea.” He grins, and there’s something wildly sexy and sinister in it, but then it’s gone. “I don’t like to see pretty girls wasting away to nothing.”

  “I’m hardly wasting away.”

  “You’re incredible. Your body is incredible. I’d like to see it stay that way.”

  “Okay Mr. Bossy Boots.” I pick up a cinnamon roll that’s almost as big as my head and attempt to hide behind it because I’m blushing again. I nibble away at it for a bit just to appease him. It’s not that I don’t want to eat in front of him; we’ve been on several dinner dates already, and I’m not one of those girls who is shy about food. SF has some of the best restaurants, food trucks, and farmer’s markets in the country, and I’m not afraid to try all of the gastronomical delights the city has to offer. The problem lies more in my throat feeling like I swallowed razorblades. The only food I want to eat when I’m sick is ice cream.

  I set the pastry down and field the look Dermot gives me. “It hurts my throat,” I explain without looking at him. I flick past my recommended viewing options on Netflix, afraid he’ll see how wedding crazy I am, and I settle on a movie that seems ruggedly manly and intellectual, if such a movie exists. He takes the remote from me, flicks it to the main menu and settles on Crazy, Stupid Love. I stare in shock.r />
  “You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Of course not,” I say, because Ryan Gosling.

  Dermot picks up the spoon and my ice cream from the coffee table and hands them to me. I snatch them greedily and stroke the carton as if it’s my own, my precious. He looks amused but doesn’t say anything, he just grabs my ankles and settles my feet into his lap.

  “What are you doing?” I’m not sure we’re at this juncture in our relationship. I mean, I love the feel of his hand at the small of my back, I love his mouth on mine, but my feet in his lap?

  “Quiet,” he commands, and I promptly shut up because he rubs them with smooth, sure strokes, and it feels divine. Maybe we are at this juncture after all.

  “You don’t have to do that,” I say, because I feel like I should. Not because I actually want him to stop.

  He turns to glare impatiently at me and grips my ankle, pulling me down farther on the couch so my legs are in his lap now, and my butt is flush with his side. “Rose, we don’t know each other well, but if there’s one thing I hate, it’s talking during a film. So shut up, eat your ice cream, and enjoy my hands on your body.”

  That makes my eyes grow wide as dinner plates. His hands on my body? “Your hands on my body?”

  As if he felt words weren’t enough to convey his meaning, his strong hands smooth my calf muscle and I groan, a little louder than perhaps I should because Dermot’s deep chocolate eyes have turned predatory again, and I’m pinned by his gaze. I gulp, and the man smiles. Bastard.

  With one hand, he takes the ice cream from me and sets it down on the coffee table. His other hand slides up my calf and pulls me farther down the couch and when he releases me, he climbs up my body, wedging himself into the space between my legs. His arms pin me into place on either side of my head, and he leans in to kiss me.

  “What are you doing?”

  “What does it look like?”

  “You’ll get sick,” I warn.

  “I don’t care,” he whispers and presses his mouth to mine. At first I try to pull away, because I can’t fathom what he sees in me right now with my rheumy eyes, my hair in a messy knot on top of my head, and my nose red. I try to resist but I can’t because this stunning, sweet man came running the second I called, and it’s nice to be someone’s priority for once. So even though I know he will likely get sick too, I kiss him back.