Fox (Bodhi Beach Book 1)

by SM Lumetta

  He’s yelling and sarcastic. My face flames and I can all but confirm barfing is in my very near future. Yes, I want him to say sorry. The rest, well, I’m still having trouble admitting that to myself, but whatever.

  “Well, here’s the thing, babe,” he continues. The way he says ‘babe’ is harsh, and there’s a sharp pain in my chest as if the word itself punctures me right between my ribs under my boob. “The sex wasn’t all that great, if I’m being honest. I needed a pick-me-up.”

  My eyes are burning. I know he’s lying, but doubt is currently stronger than I am. Maybe he was lying then. I feel exposed and weak, but mostly awkward as hell. Thankfully, this makes him fidget.

  “I needed my routine, okay?” he continues, defensive, but I suspect he’s uncomfortable because I haven’t responded to his latest verbal attack. “You know me. I don’t like attachments, so when you got knocked up, I figured we could take a little break so things could go back to normal. I’m not father material anyway, so it’s not like I was going to be in the picture. If that means we can’t be friends anymore, then that’s on you.”

  I stare at him, openmouthed, for what seems like hours. Tears definitely fall because they’re burning the skin on my face like acid or lava.

  “Wow,” I say finally. It’s quiet and with an impressive layer of faux bravado. Maybe I’m simply too tired to even emote at this point, but I’m going to go ahead and be impressed with myself anyway. “You really do think a lot of yourself. I almost forgot. How silly of me.”

  With all the energy I can muster, I rip my arm out of his grip and step back. “I left some things at your house, so I’ll come pick them up in a day or two.”

  “Good. I don’t need chicks to think I have a live-in,” he retorts. “They might get the wrong idea.”

  “Or the right one, you selfish goddamn bastard.” I turn and walk away. After I get to my car, I stop and shout, “You know what? Fuck that! Burn my shit! I’m never coming to you for anything else ever again!”

  “GOOD!” he shouts. “I’m done doing you any favors!”

  I flinch at his choice of words. All the reasons I knew there were mutual benefits flurry chaotically before my eyes, but I can’t focus. “I hope Lifeboat Barbie bites your dick off!” I yell, desperate to exorcise the pain in my chest. And maybe to have the last word.

  Fox offers some half-ass retort, but I block him out and turn away… right into Doc, who startles me.

  “Sophie, you all right, love? What’s going on?” he asks.

  He’s clearly heard at least the last few seconds, maybe more. I do not want to deal with him, too, but I’m so tired, so completely empty, I collapse against his chest. The very last part of my brain that’s awake enough to be outraged tells me to get in the damn car, but Doc’s arms wrap around me and rub my back. From the angle I’m facing, I can see Fox. And for once, I can’t read him.

  “You’re the biggest mistake I ever made,” I hiss. It’s not very loud, but the sentiment hits its target. I watch Fox’s lips part like he wants to say something, but no matter what it is, I don’t want to hear it. Not right now. I close my eyes, because I just don’t want to look anymore.

  Doc’s chest rumbles, but I don’t know what he’s saying.

  “Everyone’s waiting for you inside, Wellesley,” Fox adds. “She’s fine. It’s not like she’s been drinking.” He sounds irritated.

  I feel Doc’s posture pull taller, and this time I understand his words. “You sure as shit have, mate. I’m going to make sure she gets home all right. You know, like a friend would.”

  Fox makes a noise, but says nothing. Doc barks “see you later” or something else noncommittal.

  I assume he turns and walks away, but I’m afraid to open my eyes. When I finally do, I stand up straight and pull out of his embrace. “Thanks, Doc. I’m so sorry to pull you into this, but I’m okay now. I need to go.”

  “Sophie.” He grabs my arms. “What happened? You look like hell. I thought you were in London?”

  I look up, shocked to find out he was not only brutally honest, but also paid attention when I tossed off the info that I had to go to the UK for work. “I was. I just got back.”

  “Like right now?” His voice tells me that this is incredulous. “Fucking hell, Fordham, what are you doing here? Wait, don’t answer that. I know exactly what you’re doing here. Goddamn Monkhouse.”

  My entire body reverberates with warning: I’m this close to shutting down. And by shutting down, I mean organs, brain function, etcetera. Doc must see this, because the next thing I know, I’m sitting in the passenger seat.

  “Are you still awake?” he asks as he starts the car. I nod, my eyes closing most of the way. “Well, I’m going to tell you something. I wasn’t going to, but I think you need to hear it.”

  This jars me awake just a little bit—enough so that I can pay attention. “What?” I ask. The word is quiet and, frankly, I sound like I’ve been smoking for three days straight.

  “I wanted to apologize for hitting on you like I did,” he says.

  I feel like an anvil’s been shoved into my lap, leaning back on my lungs. “I didn’t—”

  “No, you don’t understand,” he says, even though I hadn’t even completed a thought. “You are gorgeous and believe me, given the opportunity, I would hit that.”

  Despite everything, I chuckle. “I’m trying to figure out whether I’m flattered or insulted. Again,” I say and realize my filter died somewhere over the Midwest.

  He groans the groan of the guilty. “I know, that whole night… Listen, the thing is, I did it to goad Monkhouse.”

  The last pocket of energy surges and I straighten to turn and stare at him. “What?”

  “It’s entirely obvious to several people that the boy is head over heels for you, sweetheart,” he says as we pull into my driveway. “He just needed to get said head out of his ass. Had I known there was”—he moves his hand around in the air between us to indicate the arrangement between Fox and me—“something happening, I might not have done it, but… I’m sorry for doing that and then, the girl. I don’t know what I—”

  “Doc,” I begin. “Don’t apologize. It really doesn’t matter.”

  “I know,” he says. “You’re head over heels for the man-child. And all you want is for him to straighten up and fly right. That doesn’t even make sense. My point is I was just trying to nudge him across the line.”

  I sigh, wondering if this is all a hallucination. “Doc,” I say, turning to him. “You’re a lot sweeter than you give yourself credit for. Thank you for driving me home. I need to collapse before I completely fall apart.”

  “Do you want me to stay?” he asks. “I mean, just so you have someone here. So you’re not alone.”

  I push out of the car and walk around to the trunk. Doc beats me there and gets my suitcase before I can even pop open the trunk. “Don’t be bats, Fordham.”

  I follow him in, where he sets the bag next to the door. “Thank you, Declan Wellesley. You’ve been a good friend tonight. I appreciate it.”

  “I really am sorry—”

  I stop him, putting my fingers across his lips.

  “I would absolutely be your rebound lay if you—”

  I move my entire palm over his mouth. “Thank you. I would never do that to Nora, but thank you. I understand where you were coming from, and appreciate your efforts, but you can go.” I dig in my wallet for a couple of bills to pay for a cab. “Cab’s on me.”

  “Fuck off,” he says with a smile. “You’re not paying for my cab. And what the fuck are you talking about? Nora? We never dated.”

  I glare.

  “Well, I mean we had a fling, but she called it off. Said she didn’t want anything serious,” he argues. “Did she say I broke it off?”

  I honestly don’t have enough left to have this conversation. “All I’m going to say right now before I strip off my clothes and climb in bed is that she does not think of it as a fling, but that you’re an a
sshole.”

  “She called me an asshole?”

  “I believe her exact words were ‘that fucking Aussie prick asshole,’ ” I tell him, shooing him toward the door.

  “Honestly?” he asks, but answers himself. “Wow. Not just an everyday asshole, but a ‘fucking Aussie prick asshole.’ There’s emotion there. That must be why she’s so openly hostile whenever I see her.”

  “Congratulations, and thank you again, studly. I’m off.” I kiss his cheek and shout over my shoulder, “Lock it on your way out, please?”

  “Can I at least watch you strip first?”

  “Get the fuck out, Wellesley.”

  “I love you, Fordham,” he calls. I feel hot tears rapidly bubble and spill over my cheeks. Not because I’m so happy to hear the words from him, but because I admit to myself, finally, that they’re the words I want to hear sincerely from someone else.

  When I wake up, I have no idea what day it is, let alone how long I’ve been sleeping. Every muscle in my body is stiff and screaming with every movement. As quickly as I can muster, I drag myself to the kitchen to stick my face under the faucet and guzzle down the entire month’s water bill. I look out the window above the sink to see it’s kind of gray and hazy out. Matches my mood, so ya know, bonus.

  About an hour later—kidding—I feel somewhat hydrated. I take stock of my surroundings. My suitcase still sits by the door, my purse is on the floor, the front room light is on, but it’s also daylight. I check the clock. 4:53. My God, I slept over nineteen hours.

  I scrub a hand over my face and decide I need a shower like a flower needs the sun. “Oh,” I say to myself. “Flower.” I love that dog. And Cat! And now I’ll probably—

  Stop! Stop thinking. Just clean. Shower, unpack, do laundry. It’s that simple. That’s all I need to do right now. And maybe stop by the animal shelter and find a new best friend. Well, other than Nora.

  I go about some house chores after taking the longest shower known to man and drink another eight gallons of water.

  Once I’m feeling more put together and accomplished, I head to the grocery store to fill in the essentials. I notice the condom display near the pharmacy and nearly start crying. Okay, I do cry. I sit down in the pharmacy chair right next to the display, nearly leaning on the condom stacks themselves. Fox and I never used them, but now I’m back to square one. Foil square one.

  The audience pipes up for the first time in days. They stand and cheer.

  Then I start laughing, because how stupid is this? Crying at a condom display? Imaginary audience ovation? Christ, talk about rock bottom. Or cock bottom. Jesus. I howl my way back to the toilet paper aisle and consider myself on the pothole-riddled road back to being me.

  As I drive home, I think about where I’m going. Not in the literal sense, of course, but as far as having a baby. I’m still barreling towards barrenness. Oh, hell. Baroness Barrenness. I snicker and frown. It’s going to be a long, shitty road.

  I don’t know where to begin, because I clearly cannot ask someone else to take Fox’s place. Just the thought shoots a bullet of anxiety ricocheting through me, tightening every muscle in my chest. I realize with a mournful sigh that I’ll have to decide whether I can go back to tube-daddy shopping. In the meantime, I apparently have other shit to deal with.

  I pull into my driveway to see Fox sitting on my steps with his head hanging down. He snaps to attention and zeroes in on me when I pull up. I sit in my car for the better part of a minute, just breathing. I need to psych myself up for this, even though I have no fucking clue what’s really about to go down.

  The top of the Mustang is down and the sweetest smelling breeze sweeps around me, only the slight hint of brine stinging the back of my tongue. I nearly turn the ignition and leave with the intention of heading straight to the beach. But I don’t. I push out of the car and close the door. I lock it and shove my keys in my pocket. I look the car over. I just locked a convertible. I take one last deep breath and march forward into battle where I will not say a goddamn thing, because I’ve already said what I have to say. Sort of. Not really. Goddammit.

  I’m just going to tell him that if he brought my shit, he can leave it and go. But then I stomp up the stairs, not unlike a petulant child, and I bump into his chest when he blocks my way. It’s then that I finally look at his face.

  “What’s wrong with you?” It’s out of my mouth before I can kick myself in the ass.

  His eyes meet mine. Beyond the dark circles and almost gray pallor, it’s easy to see he didn’t sleep much last night, if at all. He looks awful, but I’m determined not to make whatever this visit is easy on him.

  “Not that I care,” I say. I nearly do kick myself in the ass. Or something, because REALLY?

  “I’m sorry,” he says. His voice is extremely hoarse and I’m glad.

  “Pfft. No, you’re not,” I say.

  Fox sighs. It’s long and exaggerated, like he’s frustrated. I think he just wants to be absolved of the guilt. A chill walks through me because I hate that I know him so well. Yet, at the same time, I feel like I don’t know him at all anymore.

  “If I hurt you, I didn’t mean to,” he says.

  “Excuse me?”

  “What I said last night. I don’t know why I said it, but I didn’t mean any of it.”

  “First of all, if?” I tick off one finger. “No. It should be obvious, even to an asshole such as yourself, that it did. Second, am I to believe some Jäger goblin stuck its evil hand up your ass and puppeted that shit without your permission? Is that what happened?”

  He rolls his eyes, his mouth hanging open in preparation for some brilliant response to my awesome question.

  I rush to fill the space because I don’t want to hear his bullshit. “Fucking. Liar. Either you meant what you said, or you just wanted to hurt me. There’s no third option.” I step forward and try to push past him. “I’d like to go inside, please.”

  His arms spread, each hand white-knuckling the railing on either side. “Lolls.”

  A violent exhale rushes past my lips and my shoulders sag. I’m pissed and sad and still so tired. The jet lag isn’t done with me yet, and the exhaustion weighs on me. I can feel the emotion swirling around, pricking at my cheeks and eyes from the inside. I’m ready to burst into tears at the drop of a hat. The doctor said emotional dips and peaks are entirely normal following a miscarriage and encouraged me to see a therapist after following up with Dr. Beaufort.

  “Move.” It should have been a demand, but there’s no power behind it.

  “This whole… thing”—he pauses, shaking the words from his head—“it was not well thought out.”

  I throw him some seriously poisonous eye-daggers. “Thanks. Like I want more of your opinion.”

  “I meant on my part! I mean, we both went into this with… shit. None of this is coming out right.”

  “Look!” I snap, and his eyes go wide. “My expectations changed and I didn’t mean for that to happen. You don’t like attachments and the agreement we had was met. End of story.” It’s a relief to get the words out, even if it’s not the full confession. Even if the truth of it kills me. “Let. Me. By,” I hiss.

  When he doesn’t, I shove a shoulder into his chest and successfully get past him and up the stairs. He follows me the rest of the way, stopping close enough that I feel his heat on my back and nearly break.

  “Can we please talk?” he asks over my shoulder.

  His minty breath hits my cheek and I want to cry. Instead, I pop an elbow in his stomach so he has to jump back a step.

  “I don’t have anything else to say to you.” I’m encouraged to hear some semblance of resolution in my voice. I unlock the door successfully and go inside.

  He immediately follows.

  “I don’t remember inviting you in,” I say quietly, but with a surprising amount of venom.

  Shock reverberates through his expression, stopping him just a step past the threshold. “I-I’m sorry, I,” he stutters and
pauses awkwardly. “Can I please?”

  “No.”

  He doesn’t move.

  “You’re my best friend in the world, Sophie,” he says quietly. “I can’t lose you.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I say with biting sarcasm. I’m reminded of his accusation last night, so I stare pointedly. “That’s on me.”

  His shoulders slump. “No,” he murmurs, sounding so sad he might cry. “It’s not.”

  “Whatever,” I say, whining through my damnable tears and oncoming snot. I swipe my eyes quickly and toss my purse on the breakfast bar. “It doesn’t matter anymore. I miscarried, and we’re done.”

  The admission comes so swiftly, so easily, I’m not prepared for how the words will impact me once they’ve escaped my big mouth. I gasp and find myself holding my belly. It’s all still surreal and I’m still wrapping my head around it. I hadn’t had a lot of time to get used to the fact that I was pregnant, but just when I’d started, it was over.

  “What?” He sounds appropriately shocked, heartbroken even.

  But I ignore that. I tell myself I’m imagining it because that’s how I want him to feel right now. A heavy dollop of remorse wouldn’t hurt either.

  He stumbles sideways into the doorframe and grips the edge of it. “When?”

  “A week ago. When I was in the UK.” My throat tightens around the answer. Maybe I should have called him then, I suppose. But I couldn’t. I was angry. And the bastard probably wouldn’t have picked up the phone.

  “Sophie.”

  Fox’s soft chastisement is enough to bring it all back. The horror, the pain, and initial loneliness of the ordeal lands on me again and my knees buckle under the weight. I expect to meet the floor with record speed, but for his quick arms.

  “I didn’t know,” he whispers into my ear. “Why didn’t you—”

  I shove him away and stand on my own, unevenly and wobbling. “You didn’t care,” I hiss, immediately feeling the lie drag me under. “You wrote me off as soon as I was pregnant. How many women have you fucked since then? One per day? Or did you just have them line up constantly in between shifts and waves?”