Pretend You're Mine

by Crystal Kaswell

  “Yeah, but I don’t mind hearing it again.”

  “Don’t go anywhere.”

  “I live here.”

  “No, Leigh.” He wraps his arms around me. “Don’t leave.”

  Chapter 34

  Ryan

  The next few days are paradise.

  I see Leighton every break at work.

  Spend every night at her place.

  Sunday, she finishes work early and laces up her running shoes. I can’t join her—I’m stuck finishing this sleeve—but I promise to work her hard after.

  She begs for the mercy of my air conditioning.

  I offer her my spare key.

  Somehow, I manage to focus on work even with my client teasing me about my relationship with the hot purple-haired chick.

  I manage to get to my car, drive home, park.

  My thoughts turn dirty the second I step inside.

  Leighton is sitting on my couch in nothing but a black towel.

  Fuck. That’s a welcome home.

  She tugs at the soft cotton. “You have to admit this is overboard.”

  “What about it?”

  She points to the black couch. The black dining table. The black coffee maker. The black frames.

  “Should I get red frames?”

  “Purple.”

  “Buy them. I’ll put them up.”

  “You’ll let me decorate your apartment?”

  “You have good taste.”

  Her dark lips—her makeup and hair are as perfect as always—press into a smile. “What if I adorn the walls in posters of hot rock stars?”

  “Not gonna find anyone hotter than I am.”

  Her smile widens. “Is that right?”

  “Yeah.” I kick the door closed. Click the lock. “You disagree?”

  “No. Just glad you see it.” She reaches for something on the black coffee table—my spare key. She holds it up, offering it to me. “You need this back?”

  “Keep it.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah.” There aren’t many things I’m sure of. Leighton being in my life is a no-brainer.

  “Okay.” She picks her pink, gem-stone shaped purse off the floor and carefully tucks the key into a hidden zipper.

  “Where do you find that shit?”

  “Shit?”

  I motion to the shiny purse.

  “I assume you mean amazing clothes and accessories.”

  “Of course.”

  “You really need to work on your sweet talk.”

  “Where do you find that amazing shit?”

  She laughs. “Internet. Where else?”

  “You think I’m carefully cultivating my t-shirt collection?”

  She stands and cinches the towel. “Of course.” Her teeth sink into her lip as she drops the towel. “You have to find just the right shade of black.”

  I can’t help but chuckle.

  She motions come here.

  I do.

  Her fingers curl into my belt loop. She tugs at my jeans, pulling my body against hers.

  There’s only one layer between my skin and hers. I need to have her. Now.

  “Your jeans always hug your ass just so.” Her fingers skim my stomach. “That doesn’t happen by accident.”

  “And?”

  “Your hair—nobody rolls out of bed with perfect waves.”

  I can’t help but smile. “What if I do?”

  “I’ll hate you forever.”

  “You don’t already?”

  She shakes her head. Tugs at my belt loop as she takes a step backward. “You can admit you try.”

  “Can I?”

  Her nod is heavy.

  “Can I be honest with you, Leigh?”

  She looks behind her to turn the hallway corner backward. “Of course.”

  “Don’t have a fucking clue what we’re talking about.”

  “Your jeans.”

  I bring my hand to her ass and hold her body against mine.

  She groans as my hard-on brushes her stomach. “You’re too good at this.”

  “You complaining?”

  “No.” She takes another step backward. Kicks the bedroom door open. “I just…” She steps into my bedroom. “I had this epic plan of winding you up and leaving you wanting.”

  “Now?”

  She shakes her head. “Take off your pants.”

  “What if I like your plan?”

  Her groan is agony.

  “What if I want you on edge all fucking night?”

  “Ryan—”

  “Yeah, baby?”

  “You’re evil.”

  “I know.”

  She slides her hand under my t-shirt. Presses her palm flat against my stomach. “You’re supposed to be desperate.”

  “I am.”

  “But you’re so—” She looks up at me, her blue eyes wide with lust. “In control.”

  “Don’t tell me you don’t like it.”

  Her purple hair falls in front of her eyes as she shakes her head.

  “That a yes or a no?”

  She backs herself onto my bed. “I fucking love it.” Her lips press together. She lies on her side, draping herself over my black sheets as she pats the spot next to her.

  She looks like a centerfold.

  She’s fucking perfect.

  But this is all wrong.

  This is so fucking wrong.

  There hasn’t been a naked woman in my bed since—

  Fuck.

  My head fills with that awful mental image. Penny under Frank. His name rolling off her lips. Her nails digging into his back. Her honey eyes filling with relief.

  I can’t fuck Leighton in my bed.

  I can’t even fuck myself in my bed.

  Leighton pulls the sheets against her chest. The same way Penny did.

  The same fucking—

  “Ryan?” Her voice gets soft.

  “I can’t. Not here.”

  “Oh.” Her blue-green eyes turn down. Her lips press together. “Did I do something?”

  “No, Leigh. It’s me.”

  “I thought you were over…” Her voice trails to a whisper. Her brow furrows. She can’t bear to finish her sentence. She can’t bear my bullshit.

  “Me too.”

  “So you’re still…”

  I nod to the hallway. “Let’s go to the couch.”

  She shakes her head. “No, uh… I… I’m gonna get dressed.” She stares into my eyes.

  She’s asking for something.

  But I don’t have a fucking clue what it is.

  She must not find it, because she looks away with a frown.

  Slowly, she slides off the bed, pulls the mirrored closet door open, and dives into the top drawer of the black dresser—her drawer.

  “Could you give me a minute?” She hugs the black sheets to her chest.

  “It’s not you, Leigh.”

  “I believe you.”

  But she doesn’t. It’s written all over her face.

  “It’s just not… I don’t want to think about her either.” She swallows hard. “It’s okay. Really. I’m starving anyway.”

  “I’ll make you something.”

  “No.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “I should probably—”

  “Stay.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Let’s get street tacos.”

  Her voice perks. “Yeah?”

  “Your pick. You can school me on how to make them.”

  “You didn’t add any cilantro last time.”

  “I’m a monster.”

  She nods, but there’s no enthusiasm in it.

  She’s pulling away.

  I can’t let that happen.

  I need to fix this.

  But that means fixing my head.

  And I don’t have a fucking clue how to do that.

  Chapter 35

  Ryan

  Leighton shifts her weight between her heels. She taps her grey jeans with her silver fingernails. Adju
sts the lacing on her tank top.

  Fuck. It’s like she’s wearing this shit to make some point about what an idiot I am for not taking her against the wall.

  No arguments here.

  I’d kill to turn off the part of my brain that throws up the brakes. That part that’s still tied to my ex-girlfriend.

  I’d kill to pry that last bit of my heart from Penny’s French manicured grasp.

  The couple in front of us rises to their tiptoes to order at the window. The guy wraps his arms around the girl. Laughs at some joke as he hands over a twenty-dollar bill.

  Leighton taps her cork sandal against the pavement. “I’ll order.”

  “I know.”

  “I’ll get it too. You can find us someplace to sit.”

  “We can go back to the apartment.”

  “I don’t want to be there.”

  I bite my tongue. She’s pissed. I get that. I deserve it.

  If she needs time to deal with that, fine.

  But I need to know.

  She motions to another couple sitting on the curb. “Let’s grab that spot.”

  “All right.” I’m being a hypocrite—holding onto all this instead of explaining it to her. But I don’t know how to put it into my words. I don’t know how to make her understand.

  It’s not that I still love Penny.

  It’s not that I want her.

  It’s the scar tissue. I don’t know how to heal it. I don’t know if it’s possible to heal it.

  Am I going to walk around struggling to trust people for the rest of my life?

  Wondering if I’ll ever be enough for a woman?

  Looking for evidence in every sigh or frown?

  I find an empty spot on the curb a block away. Watch Leighton turn on the charm as she orders and pays.

  She’s magnetic. Nobody can resist her smile. Or her laugh. Or the way she curls her hair around her finger in that I’m thinking about you naked way.

  She steps aside. Joins the dozen people waiting in front of a closed furniture shop.

  Her hips sway as she shifts her weight between her heels. Her nervous gestures stay the same. She keeps tapping her nails against her thighs. She keeps avoiding my gaze.

  A short guy picks up his order. Drowns a burrito in red salsa.

  A tall guy squeezes lime on his tacos.

  A curvy woman adorns an enchilada plate with cilantro.

  Leighton turns to me. Her eyes meet mine. They’re still asking for something. And I still don’t know what it is.

  We stare like that forever.

  Until the happy couple steps in front of her to grab their takeout order. They laugh like they’re the first people to discover love.

  I want to hate them, but I can’t. I remember that feeling. I don’t miss Penny, but I miss the intoxication. I miss being able to let my guard down. Being able to love someone without wondering when the other shoe is gonna drop.

  Leighton knows my head is a mess.

  But that’s different than living in it.

  I need to explain this to her. Or convince her it doesn’t matter.

  But it does.

  And I don’t know when I’ll feel normal.

  If I’ll ever feel normal.

  She taps her heels together as the guy calls her name. Her eyes fix on me. She motions come here.

  That defeats the purpose of us splitting up, but I do it anyway.

  The taco truck casts yellow light over the beige pavement. It turns her purple hair pink. Bounces off her white tank-top.

  A million things flit through my head. Come back to my place. Spend the night in my bed. Let’s replace that ugly memory.

  But I can’t ask that.

  ’Cause I can’t offer it. Not yet.

  She turns to the window. Smiles as the woman in the truck hands her two plates of tacos.

  I take the bottles of water.

  Leighton turns to me and nods to the salsa bar. “Watch and learn.”

  “I’m studying under the master.”

  “You’d like to be under me, wouldn’t you?” The joke doesn’t land. Her smile stays sad.

  She shakes it off as she sets the plates on the silver bar. She picks up the tongs and grabs slices of limes two at a time.

  “Chicken is perfect with citrus.” She stacks eight slices on the plate.

  “That great?”

  “Yes. That great.” She grabs a green container of salsa. “Traditional salsa verde is perfect.” She drowns the plate in salsa.

  “It’s gonna be a mess.”

  “Life is a mess. Grab a fork if you can’t handle it.”

  I do. And napkins.

  She laughs. “That was a dare.”

  “What if I need my hands clean?”

  She presses her lips together. For a second, her eyes meet mine. Then they’re on the second plate. “I went easy on you. Steak and chicken. No tongue. Not even chorizo.”

  “You’re kind.”

  “Thank you, I know.” She grabs an orange-red salsa. “Chipotle brings out the flavor best. Trust me. I’ve tested it.” She drowns these tacos in the orange-red sauce. “But we need a little of this—” She grabs a different green salsa. “Avocado salsa. The nectar of the gods.”

  “That why you use so much?”

  “Don’t hate until you’ve tried it.” She uses tongs to shower the plates in cilantro. “Now, they’re perfect. Trust me. You’ll be begging for seconds.”

  “Guess you’ll still get me begging.”

  Her eyes go to the concrete. “Ryan. Can we… Let’s just eat, okay?”

  “Yeah.” Hunger doesn’t exactly make conversation easier.

  She follows me down the street. Past my previous spot. “Where are you going?”

  “It’s a surprise.” I lead her around the corner.

  It’s a dozen blocks to the nearest park. We walk them in silence.

  The air between us stays heavy.

  We step under the yellow glow of a streetlight. Take seats on an empty concrete bench.

  Leighton sets the plate between us.

  I hand over her water bottle.

  Her fingers brush mine as she takes it. “I forgot about this place.”

  “I run here sometimes.”

  “It’s small.” She looks at the empty basketball court. It’s late enough the lights are off. Kids are home.

  No one is here but us.

  The world is ours.

  But, right now, there isn’t an our. There’s her and me and a million walls between us.

  “I want to explain this to you,” I say.

  “You don’t have to.” She grabs a chicken taco and brings it to her lips. “I understand.”

  “You don’t.”

  “You walked in on your girlfriend fucking another guy in your bed. Of course you’re gonna feel weird about the bed.” She picks up a lime, squeezes it over her taco, does it again. “I’m sure you’re more tired of thinking about her than I am.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So let’s eat.”

  She doesn’t want to talk about this.

  But I’ve only got two ways to convince her. And it’s not like things are gonna go different if I take her back to my bed a second time.

  I can fuck her in my bed. I don’t have any problem getting hard.

  But there’s no way I’m fucking Leighton with that image in my head.

  And there’s no way to erase it.

  Leighton groans as she licks salsa from her fingers. “Perfect. Right?”

  I take my first bite. Soft tortilla. Tender chicken. Tangy salsa. Just enough cilantro. “It is.”

  “If you don’t eat faster, I’ll finish yours.”

  “You can.”

  She shakes her head. “The whole point of this is teaching you how to enjoy Mexican cuisine.”

  “So I can pick up takeout when you’re busy?”

  “Well, if you insist.” She grabs a steak taco. Bites off half. Chews. Swallows. “But I doubt you’ll give up
the chance to cook me dinner.”

  “You don’t think I’ll get over it?”

  “Not with how obsessed you are.”

  “You don’t worry I’ll stop wanting to take care of you?”

  She licks cilantro from her finger. “No. I…” Her eyes go to the ground. “I worry you’re going to get to the wedding, see her walking down the aisle, and snap. Do a Dustin Hoffman.”

  “Huh?”

  “The Graduate. He’s lusting after the girl next door all summer. While he’s sleeping with her mom. He shows up at her wedding and whisks her away. Then they get on a bus.”

  Oh. That movie. “And the camera stays on them. It goes from romantic to awkward. They realize they made a mistake.”

  “You know it?”

  “It’s a famous scene.”

  “You don’t watch movies.”

  “We watch three a week.”

  “I guess…” She taps her nail against her thigh. “You can’t have sex in your bed, Ryan. The place where you’ve slept every night for the last year. I get that it would be confusing. But you’ve had a year. Why not get a new bed?”

  “That wouldn’t—”

  “Or a new apartment? Why not erase those memories from your life?”

  It’s a fair point. Even if—“I have rent control.”

  “If you were broke, that would explain it. But you have plenty.” She takes another bite. Chews. Swallows. “I get it. Change is hard.”

  “I want shit to change. The last year, I’ve grown more than I did the eight years before. I figured out what the fuck I liked to do. I figured out what I wanted.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want to run the shop until the day I die. I want to take care of someone I love. Start a family.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah. I always saw that with her. But now I just see it.”

  “You want kids?”

  I nod. “They’ll rebel by getting MBAs and wearing Abercrombie.”

  She laughs. “God, could you imagine the two of us for parents?”

  “How would you have felt if your mom approved of your pink hair?”

  “Mortified.” She picks up a chicken taco. “It was awful enough that she got over it fast. She was complimenting me by week two.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. She thought I was ‘so creative’ for the way I expressed myself through my clothes. Even when my boobs were about to pop out.”