Cinq A’ Sept

by Mj Fields

  “I just can’t believe he’s the same person.” After a moment, I get less reminiscent and more realistic. “But I was clearly an idiot. In fact, I can’t believe how stupid I was. And I really can’t believe I’m that horrible of a judge of character.”

  “But all things happen for a reason, right?”

  “Yeah.” I lean down and grab the bottle of wine, pouring as much as I can into the glass. Then I drink what’s remaining in the bottle straight out of it. “I guess so.”

  I hear a knock on the bedroom door and get up.

  “I think the movers are back. I’d say call me later, but I plan to be passed out sometime soon.”

  “Chat soon,” She sings before hanging up.

  When I walk into the bedroom, I nearly trip over a suitcase.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Bass

  I waited until the elevator emptied before stepping out. Then I watched as the movers walked down the carpeted floor that looked like it had seen better days.

  I spot the signs pointing to the apartment numbers and look left. Her place is in the same direction as the movers are heading.

  I feel like the wind has been knocked out of me when I realize it is her place they are emptying.

  She’s fucking moving?

  I hurry to her opened door and step aside as the movers carry a couch out. Then I step in and watch them load boxes on dollies.

  When one of the men looks at me curiously, I nod. “A friend of Angela’s.”

  “She’s in her room.” Luckily, when he says it, he nods toward a doorway.

  “Thanks, man.” I nod back.

  Another mover walks out of her room and nods. I nod back and watch as they head out the door, leaving me alone in her apartment.

  When I walk in her room, I see a curtain blowing in the wind and walk in farther as I hear her talking.

  “I’m sorry I’m not there with you today.” I’m pretty sure that’s Autumn’s voice, minus the venom.

  Then I hear Angela. “You’re at work. And honestly, I’m actually very good.”

  “Are the movers there?”

  She sighs. “Yes, and it’s going fast.”

  “Did you do Natasha’s room yet?”

  “I had it done first.”

  “So, are you going to tell me about …?” Autumn stops and waits for a reply.

  “I signed a NDA.”

  “Well, those things are flying around here like floggers in a Fifty Shades’ trailer.”

  Angela laughs, and it sounds amazing.

  Autumn continues, “Well, I haven’t signed a damn thing, so let me tell you—”

  “Autumn, don’t. If he hears you, you’ll be next.”

  Irritated, I think, Oh, he’s hearing you.

  “He left the office for the day. And besides, I wasn’t even talking about him. But let me tell you about the jackass I’m dealing with all damn day. He smiles like it hurts, passes pleasantries like a fat kid passes the cookie tray, and I’m not sure if he’s giving it or taking it from his butt buddy, but I’m pretty sure there’s something shoved so far up both their asses that they’re going to explode, and then, then you can come back.”

  Bullshit. I haven’t been that bad … have I?

  “Is it that bad?” Angela holds back a laugh.

  It’s not fucking funny.

  “I would say yes, it’s hell, but that’s because I’m bias. And if I wasn’t able to text you seven zillion times a day to get a question answered, yes. But … he whose name we cannot say is like a tyrant. An uptight, on edge, angry tyrant. But, at least he’s no longer threatening to fire everyone within a mile radius of him.”

  She’s fucking fired … soon.

  “I just can’t believe he’s the same person.”

  What the hell does she mean? She knew damn well who I was!

  “But I was clearly an idiot. In fact, I can’t believe how stupid I was. And I really can’t believe I’m that horrible of a judge of character.”

  She sounds as sincere as a nun. I know better.

  “But all things happen for a reason, right?”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  I can’t listen to this shit a minute more. I knock on the door as I step out of the room so she doesn’t know I overheard her bullshit.

  “I think the movers are back. I’d say call me later, but I plan to be passed out sometime soon.”

  When she walks into her room from the balcony, she trips over her suitcase, and as she’s trying to stay upright, she asks, “What are you doing here?”

  I reach out to help her, but she pulls back. This time her ass nearly hits the floor, but I grab her. When I do, the contents of her wine glass end up down the front of my white shirt.

  Her face bursts into flames as she closes her eyes.

  Seeing her in a tank top and shorts, hair braided to the side, without a stitch of makeup on, my dick and my heart get a little fucking confused. She’s not Angela; she’s Bridge.

  “You okay?”

  She opens her eyes and looks down at my hands that are on her hips, gripping her. Her eyes widen as she looks at them, and she clears her throat, swallows hard, and steps back.

  I fucking beg whatever force it is that’s keeping them there to let go.

  “I’m …” She stops and looks at my shirt. “It’s red wine. It’ll stain.”

  “It’s fine.”

  She stares at my chest as I stare at her. Not a word is said for several, painfully silent moments.

  “Mrs. Petrov?”

  We both look toward the door at one of the movers.

  “The photographs on the living room wall and the two boxes in your daughter’s room?”

  She walks quickly around me as he steps back. “I’m going to take those with me. Thank you.”

  I walk out of her room and watch as she thanks the men again and hands them each what appears to be baskets of some sort. “I appreciate your help.”

  He smiles at the basket and then at her. “It isn’t necessary, but thanks.”

  Kindness shows in her eyes, “You’re welcome.”

  When they leave, she stays in the doorway, ensuring the door doesn’t close, and looks back at me.

  “You’re moving?” I ask, stopping at her kitchen island because I’m not ready to leave yet, and the closer I get to her, the further chance I have of staying and getting some answers.

  She nods.

  “Where?”

  “What does it matter, Bastien?”

  “Well, Angela, it matters because this is your home.” I point to the wall of photos. “You and your daughters.”

  She gives me a hardened look. “Not anymore.”

  “Do you have a place?”

  When her brows knit and her face scrunches up a bit, my fucking heart clenches.

  “This is because of me? The …”

  “Please don’t.” She shakes her head and looks away from me.

  “Don’t what, Angela? Give a fuck that—”

  “That you tried to ruin my life?”

  “I—”

  “Lied to me, tricked me, used me as some sick way to get back at a man who hurt you?”

  “Enough fucking lies!”

  I really hadn’t meant to yell, but fucking no more.

  “Lies?” she snaps then steps away from the door and throws her hands out. “No one’s here. No one to impress or to hide things from. Not that it should matter. You’ve already embarrassed and degraded me in front of Alfred, Oliver, and whoever was within ten feet of the boardroom on Tuesday. Why continue lying? You used me to hurt him like you did Ines.”

  I huff, “Everyone at the office speaks of you as if you colored the sky. I’m the tyrant to them.” Just like your little, smart-mouthed friend called me.

  “You had no cause to fire me.”

  I look at her like she’s insane. “I offered you—”

  “I’d rather walk through fire than back into a pla
ce that thinks I make it a habit of sleeping with—”

  “Thinks? You did. You slept with—”

  “That’s neither yours, nor their business. And you acting like I deceived you when it was you who deceived me, used me—”

  Two steps, and I have one hand on her wrist, one under her chin, and I’m looking down at her. “Don’t play the damn victim here.”

  “Right. Of course. How dare I.” She pushes against my chest, but I don’t move. “You … you …”

  “I, what?”

  She blurts out, “I was wrong for being with a man as young as you. I never would have thought you were twenty-five.”

  “Twenty-four the first night,” I remind her.

  “Whatever.” She pushes me again.

  This time, I’m afraid my hardening cock’s betrayal will be confused for forgiveness, so I let go.

  “You had a gray streak in your damn hair.”

  “That fucking streak came after a nasty fall down a flight of stairs, a concussion, and two dozen stitches at one of the foster homes I had to live in, because the man you respect so much didn’t give a damn about his own kid. I dyed it because this industry prefers a younger look.”

  She looks stricken, and I gain too much fucking satisfaction from it than I should.

  “No one in the office except Alfred, Oliver, and your little friend have a clue what transpired between us. So tell me; why would you sell your home and not accept the offer to come back?”

  She shakes her head quickly back and forth. “Why should I believe you? Do you think after the lies, the dump and dash, the leaving me and not—”

  “You.” I point at her. “You knew damn well who I was. You left—”

  “No! No, I didn’t. And yes, I left, and I left a note. I left a note because you never came back.”

  “You’re quite the actress, Bridge.”

  “Get out!” She opens the door that shut when she began waving her hands about.

  “Why not just admit—”

  “I left you a note, dinner, my name, my number. I’m not a liar, but you … you’re sick. Now get out and don’t come back.”

  “Unbelievable.” I shake my head. “Jesus, just tell the fucking truth. Christ, you’re a mother.”

  “I’ve told the damn truth, you … you …” She stops and shakes her head. “Just get out.”

  I walk out the opened door then turn around and face her, making damn sure I’m blocking the inevitable door slamming in my face.

  “I had no fucking clue who you were. There was no fucking note. I got a message from Alfred with employee files while at the hospital with Maisie.”

  “Is she …?” She stops and looks down. “Never mind.”

  I know damn well she was going to ask if she’s okay.

  “I looked through the files, including pictures of the key employees and board members. You looked familiar. I stopped to talk to Oliver, get advice on how to proceed. That’s why I didn’t get back quickly enough.”

  She looks like she believes me, yet she’s shaking her head.

  “When I came back, you were gone. There was no note. I came to the conclusion that you’d been trying to secure your … position and were playing a game. An hour before the board meeting, while meeting with Alfred, it hit me. My beautiful Bridge hadn’t had sex in nearly a year.” The thought sickens me, and I can’t continue with the words, but I can’t stop from showing her the truth. My truth.

  I reach in my pocket and pull out my phone. I hit my photos app and show her the dozens I took of her sleeping, showering, in the boat while she sat curled up and leaning against the back of the seat when I went to grab drinks, on the beach while she was talking to her daughter, in the restaurant with her back to me. I don’t care how fucked-up it looks to her that, every time she wasn’t looking, I was taking pictures of what I thought were the best and most genuine memories of my life and I want to keep them.

  “I asked him if you were Angela. His look answered the question that he could never confirm nor deny.”

  She looks away, stunned as she shakes her head back and forth.

  I wait for something, but she still won’t look at me.

  “I’m not lying to you, but you, you’re not being honest. And at this point, I’m confused as to why.”

  She says nothing, not a damn thing.

  “I’d like you to stay on. You don’t have to work with me. Train Oliver. Think about it. And Angela, there’s a dinner tomorrow night with the board. They expect you to be there.”

  Unable to contain myself, I reach out, grab the back of her head, and pull it close enough to lay what may possibly be the last kiss I ever give her to her forehead. Then I turn and walk away.

  A few steps away, I look back. She’s still standing there, stunned.

  I want to ask her to come with me, to tell her I believe her, but every time I believe in something, it always kicks me in the balls.

  I believed my mom when she said she was going to be okay. I believed my grandmother when she promised she would never leave me. I believed the bitch who pushed me down the stairs when she said it was an accident … until it happened again. I believed in my heart that, when I found my father, he would take care of me. He didn’t give a fuck.

  An hour and forty minutes later, I’m at the beach house. I run up the stairs to check the bedroom for this note she said she left. There is none. Then I look in the fucking bathroom like an idiot before heading back downstairs.

  I can’t believe I fucking thought there was a possibility she was being honest. I would have sworn…

  I walk over and open the fridge to grab a bottle of water and see the food she left that I didn’t eat because I was so pissed she had left, then hurt at the possibility that my blonde Bridge was really the brunette Angela who, even though it wasn’t confirmed, gave me a sick feeling in my stomach, one I hadn’t felt in a long time, since Ines—that I was being used.

  “Fuck this.” I grab the container and walk it over to the garbage. When I open it to toss out the entire container, I see crumpled papers.

  I reach in and grab one, and unwrinkle it. Then I grab another and another.

  “Fuck.” I silently chuckle as I read them.

  The first:

  Dear Joe,

  I received a call from work and have an unscheduled meeting that is of high

  The next:

  My Dearest Joe,

  I have no idea how to put into words how grateful I am for the amazing escape you gave to me these past few days.

  Another:

  Hey Joe,

  Gotta go

  And another:

  Joe,

  Wow, what a great time

  That one has a huge X over the entire page.

  The last:

  Thanks for the good time.

  XOXO

  She wasn’t lying. She did write a note. However, she didn’t tell me she threw them out.

  I lean back against the counter and drink the water while looking at the yellow, crinkled papers laid out on the granite when a gust of air comes through the window above the sink. It blows a piece of paper off the counter. Not ready to throw them out yet, I bend down and search for it, seeing a yellow paper sticking out from under the cabinet next to the wall.

  I don’t waste time grabbing it up and reading it.

  Joe,

  I received a call and have an early morning emergency meeting, or should I stick to the college grad story and write I have a job interview?

  This letter seems so impersonal, but duty calls and you’re not here.

  I sincerely hope Maisie is okay.

  I hate that I’m not able to say goodbye. It feels wrong leaving like this. I also understand we weren’t sure how we would say goodbye, but I would hope it was with real names, and possibly numbers exchanged? If not, feel free to ignore this mess of a letter, written in haste, and accept my thank you for the most enjoyable moments in … longer than I can remember. I will cherish the memories of th
em.

  Would it be weird to say dinner’s in the fridge and it would be best to warm it up on the stovetop because microwaved scampi sounds disgusting?

  Well, either way, I said it.

  Kindest and truest regards,

  I immediately pull out my phone, take a picture of all the papers on the island, and send it to my Bridge.

  Then I send her a message.

  Bridge,

  Maisie has a concussion. She’s staying the night for observation. I hate that you didn’t say goodbye either. Thank you for dinner, for the note, for the memories, for not kicking me in the nuts today.

  Joe

  When it goes through, my heart nearly beats out of my fucking chest.

  I wait for a reply.

  It doesn’t come.

  I place the papers in a drawer and grab my keys off the counter to go see Maisie.

  I check the phone again before I get in the car. And when I get out of the car at the rehab center, I check it yet again.

  Nothing.

  I slide the phone into my pocket then head in to see Maisie, knowing something she will see, say, sense, or maybe a story she will tell me will make this okay.

  It always has.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Angela

  Sitting on the living room floor, I still feel his lips on my forehead. I’m buzzed and have tears running down my face, I’m so confused. Pulling my knees to my chest, I hug my legs.

  If someone asked me right now if it’s possible to miss someone you aren’t even sure exists, I wouldn’t have answered, because anyone who heard me say yes would think I’m crazy. Hell, I think I’m crazy, because right now, I miss Joe.

  I lean back against the wall and wipe away my tears.

  In my book, any man who will manipulate a woman in any way for his own personal gains is horrible. Any man who uses a woman, or anyone for that matter, to hurt someone one else is awful. And any man who would be so irrational to want to hurt a dead man is clinical.