Coming Back (The Sarah Kinsely Story - Book #2)

by Berry, C. J.

  He said "whatever" and we parted ways.

  When Marcus left I felt my blood begin to boil. I couldn't help but think over and over again about Aiden telling his cooks and wait staff about me. I imagined the harsh and cruel things he would've said about me in his kitchen speak. I imagined them flinging pans, fire splashing around them as they poked fun at what I thought were intimate moments.

  I felt ill thinking about him recounting our sexual interlude with people I would never meet.

  A tear fell down my face as I put on my mascara. A long black streak fell down my cheek.

  I closed my eyes, took a deep breathe, and looked at myself in the mirror. I still had to get through the meet and greet with my boss’s boss.

  I could cry when I got home.

  Chapter 6

  I had agreed to meet Brandon at a place he called “his go-to spot”. I didn’t know what that meant and so I dressed casual. I showed up exactly ten minutes fashionably late and he ushered me over to the table.

  It was the kind of place that you noticed for all the wrong reasons. The majority of the patrons seemed old enough to have grandkids, the waitstaff all looked old enough to have kids in high school, and the booths were high backed oak benches. It wasn’t tacky, it just seemed — overly nice.

  I took my seat across from Brandon. The waitress poured me a glass of white wine and I folded my white linen towel across my lap. I tried to look everywhere but Brandon’s face. Not for any particular reason other than the place had a very formal vibe to itself and that made me nervous. I felt like I was at a job interview.

  My stomach didn’t seem to care though. Brandon could have asked me to eat with him at Burger King and I would've been happy. After the past two weeks that I had, a nice meal with a friendly face was more than I could have hoped for. As long as we didn’t talk about Aiden, which would have been impossible since Brandon knew nothing about the man, I felt like the evening would go over just fine.

  At first, the conversation was very formal. He asked about how I liked working at Abraams and Snider. I told him I'd enjoyed it, that I found the atmosphere inspiring, and the work challenging. He laughed at that and pointed out that I'd only been there a week. I laughed, a little embarrassed for how bad I really was at sucking up.

  “You aren’t very good at brown-nosing are you?” He asked.

  “No,” I said, “it usually just turns into blatant lying before I can get a hold of it and I end up being worse off for trying.”

  He laughed, took a sip of his wine and looked down at his watch.

  Fifteen minutes later he ran out of things to ask me. I suppose, he had run out of things to ask me from his typical employee/employer list of questions HR had probably done up for him years ago. There was a moment of awkward silence as we snacked on salty French bread dipped in fresh olive oil.

  Not being one to sit comfortably through silences, I began to ask him about his life. I didn't know if it was my place or not, and at that point I didn't really care. I was really just trying to hurry the food along in my own little way. I asked about what he did at the firm, what he did before he was partner, and what his future plans were. It all felt very business-like and professional.

  Luckily, for the both of us, he didn't have to endure my awkward interrogation much longer as the food soon arrived. He had ordered some type of fish that crackled and popped on his plate, and I had opted for the steak and potato dish. My meat was thick, cooked to medium rare perfection with a crispy black layer that crunched with every bite. The fingerling potatoes had a deep garlic butter taste and were so soft that they broke apart on my tongue.

  Call it tacky, but if my company wanted to pay for my dinner I was gonna order the steak.

  Momma didn’t raise no fool.

  Spurred on by the wine and my now full tummy, I found myself picking up the conversation with Brandon. We took a wild left turn from our professional, rigid, business-like conversation and delved deeply into the personal.

  I had noticed a pale white line wrapping around his ring finger on his left hand where a ring had recently been. I asked him about his wife.

  The look of shock on his face made me momentarily cringe thinking that I had just killed the evening.

  “It’s over,” he said, “all good things come to an end.”

  With that he raised his glass in the air and took a long pull, letting out a smacking sigh.

  Despite all my awkwardness, I knew enough to know when people didn't want me to pry so I left well-enough-alone. Though it killed me to not know the details, I kept my mouth shut about it.

  I should have seen the next question coming.

  "How about you?" He said.

  "How about me what?" I said knowing exactly what he is getting at.

  "Don't you have a boyfriend or something? Isn’t that why you moved out here — to follow somebody?"

  I pulled the white linen napkin from my lap and wiped my lips trying to buy some time.

  "Oh God. Is that what people are saying about me?" I rolled my eyes.

  "Oh no," Brandon suddenly put his head down embarrassed, "I didn't mean it like that. I haven't heard anything about you. I just figured you're a very attractive woman, you have amazing talent that New York would have been grateful for, and yet you live out here in Portland. Just doesn't add up to me."

  There was a genuine feel about the way he talked. He was the kind of guy that made you think men weren’t half bad after all. There were some good ones out there.

  "Well, I suppose you could say the opposite is actually true," I said, "I actually left New York because of a guy. It might seem like a big city, and it feels that way, right up until you break up with someone. Then there just aren’t enough places to hide."

  "I'm sorry hear that. He must have been an idiot."

  “I guess so.”

  I stirred the bone and parsley around on my plate.

  I put my head down feeling a little embarrassed, a little awkward, and mostly drunk. I hadn’t planned on the evening getting so personal.

  Brandon's hand reached across the table and lay across mine. It was warm. It nearly covered my hand entirely, and even though I pulled away, that quick moment that it lay on top of mine felt soothing. It felt comforting. It felt understanding.

  Brandon looked at me now. He stared straight into me, and said, "I would never do something like that to you."

  I don't really know what happened to me after that. The words left his lips, traveled across the table and slipped into my ears with such a penetrable force that I felt momentarily stunned, like a deer in the headlights. The words felt clammy, awkward and uncomfortable at first, but as they settled into the deep recess which had been carved out by Aiden’s betrayal they took on more tender and meaningful tones. It felt like a life preserver had been cast out to me as I lay splashing about, drowning in my own mistakes. All I had to do was grab a hold and he would reel me into safety.

  I wanted that.

  I blame it on the alcohol, and I can't believe I said it, but I did, and as soon as the words came out of my mouth I knew the night would leave my control completely.

  "I know you wouldn't do something like that to me."

  Chapter 7

  He opened the door for me and I stepped out of the car, taking his hand for balance. The wine was starting to get the best of me and I needed something to hold onto. His hand slid down my arm and rested on the small of my back as we made our way to the front office doors.

  I can’t tell you why I wanted him here, at the office. When he had asked me after dinner if I would like to continue the “meeting” I had told him we should probably finish this “business meeting” where “business meetings” are supposed to be held.

  I had even made air quotes with my fingers.

  Under the influence I was a complete rube.

  Brandon pulled out a large set of keys and opened the automatic from doors by hand. As he pulled the heavy glass doors apart I placed my hand on his shoulders. He was
n’t a muscle bound hunk, but he was a man and it felt nice to feel him heaving and pushing with all his might. He looked back over his shoulder and flashed a smile at me.

  He grabbed me by the hand and pulled me through the reception area, I almost tripped flat on my face. The alcohol was gaining hold of my brain and robbing me of my ability to walk in a straight line.

  I saw Lizzy’s desk as he pulled me through into the main building.

  If only you could see me now, you burlesque bitch.

  I instantly regretted the thought. That wasn’t me. I am not that kind of girl.

  Or am I?

  I looked around, taking in the scene. My mind struggled to make the connections, to make sense of what was going on.

  I was at work, with my boss. He was holding my hand and we were heading —

  “Let’s go in here,” I said pulling Brandon into Peyton’s office.

  Yeah, this would be a good spot, right on her fake ass bear rug.

  My eye twitched and I frowned. Did I really just think that? What is going on with me?

  Brandon closed the shades to the windows that overlooked the Willamette.

  “Keep them open,” I said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  I walked over to the windows, gave Brandon an inviting stare and slid my finger down the glass, slowly, teasing him.

  He watched.

  “What do want to do?” I asked, trying my best to make the words come out right. My tongue was beginning to feel heavy, and my attention was wandering.

  Brandon walked over to me, put both of his hands around my waist and pulled me in.

  He smelled like expensive cologne and freshly ironed cotton.

  “What do you want to do?” He said as he cocked his head to one side and brought his lips just inches from my neck. He made his way up to my ear and whispered, “I don’t have any plans.”

  I grabbed his belt with both hands and held on for dear life as his soft whisper ran through my ear and down my spine.

  I looked down at the floor as he ran his hand through my hair, massaging my scalp with his fingers. It felt good.

  It all felt good.

  I felt like I was in a dream, half living it and half watching it all happen. It wasn’t so much that time had stood still as it was that time had disappeared altogether. I tried to wrestle with my sense of self-control, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered because there would be no consequences. No consequences meant that I could do what I wanted, that Brandon could do what he wanted.

  Without time we were free.

  I looked up into his eyes. He looked back into mine.

  I tried to keep focused on his face but the room was gently rocking.

  I closed my eyes.

  He kissed my neck.

  I let out a shuddered sigh, a slight moan, and I pulled his head into my neck with both hands.

  We stumbled slightly.

  “Let’s lay down.” He said.

  I laid on my back on the faux bearskin rug. It was soft and, for the moment, made the room stop moving.

  Brandon slid down on top of me. His leg slipped perfectly in between mine and he rested half of his body on me.

  What is happening?

  His hand slid under my dress. I felt it searching, wandering, until it found my bra.

  He kissed my lips.

  It tasted like wine and garlic.

  It was the slap in the face that I needed.

  “Stop.” I said, pushing him off me.

  “Don’t be silly,” he said trying to roll himself back onto me.

  “No. I said stop.”

  I pushed him off again and scrambled to stand up.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “We shouldn’t be doing this. We are both drunk.”

  “I am not drunk, are you drunk?”

  Brandon tried to reach out and hold my hand.

  “Yes. Well, I think I am. I don’t know. We just shouldn’t be doing this. Don’t you think this is a bad idea?”

  Brandon thought for a moment, then his lips formed into a deep frown.

  “I was having a nice time actually,” he said.

  I knew this game. The guilt trip didn’t work on me in high school and it sure wasn’t going to work on me then.

  “Listen Brandon, I am very grateful that you took me out for dinner — as an employee — but I don’t think that means I owe you anything.”

  He let out a laugh.

  “You honestly think that I take all my employees out for dinner?”

  He laughed again.

  “God Kinsely, you really are hilarious.”

  He walked over to the open windows and looked out, shaking his head.

  I started to cry.

  How had I let this happen? What was I supposed to do now?

  “Oh Christ, what is it?” His tone was sharp.

  “Nothing. Can you just take me home?”

  I wiped my cheek.

  “Listen,” he stepped towards me, “why don’t we just talk a—”

  “Just take me home,” I looked up at him, tears now streaming down my face, “please.”

  Chapter 8

  I slept most of Sunday.

  By Sunday night I was feeling sick to my stomach.

  One more missed day of work and I was fired. But how could I return after what happened with Brandon?

  I tried hard to shake what little memory of that night I had left. I was so ashamed of myself.

  What was I thinking?

  I made a promise to myself, one I had made to myself many times before: I am never drinking again.

  By some magnificent act of will I forced myself out of bed that Monday morning, put on something drab and boring and made my way back to Abraams and Snider. I was blessed with a bit of luck when I tried sneaking in with the interns this time. Lizzy was too busy signing for packages, talking on her bluetooth, and trying to check the interns in for their day of free labor to even notice me.

  It was a small victory, but I would take it.

  Since it was a Monday, the office was more busy than usual; especially Peyton.

  Another lucky break.

  I didn't see her emerge once from her office that entire morning. I was beginning to think I might just make it through my first real Monday since starting at Abraams and Snider unscathed.

  Then I saw Brandon.

  He was walking down the hall and heading straight for my desk.

  Oh shit. I looked around for something to throw over my head, hoping that if I just didn't move he somehow wouldn't see me. I had a copy of the latest People magazine and buried my face in it, pretending to look for good headlines to lift for my swipe file.

  "Hello Sarah. How are things this morning?"

  Damn. It hadn't worked.

  "Good Brandon. How are things in your neck of the woods?" I tried to create as much distance between us as possible and was hoping that coming off sounding like an 'ole chum would help that process.

  He seemed to notice and looked over his shoulder at the other copywriters, peering their noses over their cubicle, desperately hoping to get some face time with the boss.

  "Everything is great. I just wanted to check and see how you were holding up. Looks like you got everything under control. Well, have a good day."

  With that, he stuck out his hand for me to shake but decided against it last minute, instead shoving it in his pocket. He looked around again checking to make sure nobody saw him, and sulked away looking slightly embarrassed.

  For a brief moment I felt sorry for him. He looked almost pitiful sulking away like that, trying to find a legitimate excuse for making his way all the way down to copywriting from his office on the third floor. Luckily, the alcohol had long since warn off and my momentary feeling of pity quickly turned to disgust as I remembered Saturday night.

  Yuck. I suddenly felt like taking a shower.

  I threw the magazine down and cracked open my email. No new messages. I looked at the cl
ock and was happily surprised to find that the morning had come and gone without my noticing. I snagged my rain coat and made a beeline for the front doors.

  During my week long mourning over Aiden, I had found some very interesting things out about Portland. Amongst my discoveries about this quirky little town were the parking lots dotting the city filled with permanently parked food carts.

  It was food from these delightfully quaint little samplings of culinary delights that had provided the sustenance I needed during my week of trying to pull myself back together. I would wake up at noon, throw some shoes on, venture down two blocks from my house in my pajamas, and spend $5 for some of the best food I had ever tasted.

  Then I would come home and sleep the rest of the day away.

  I found that one of the largest gatherings of these food trucks in the entire city was just blocks from my work, near Pioneer Square.

  I had promised myself that if I could make it through that first full Monday back I would treat myself to a food cart feast.

  I deserved it, dammit.

  After making a complete circle around the entire parking lot, looking for the right food cart to spend all my money on, I finally found the man I was looking for.

  Leaning outside the tiny cart window was a lean, tan, younger guy who wore some kind of hipster tank top for men. I don’t know if it was his tan skin or that his teeth were really that white, but every time he flashed a flirty grin towards the women passing his cart they all giggled. Some stopped, and a few ate.

  I was one of those that stopped and ate.

  His Cuban accent rolled off his tongue and for a moment I forgot why I had come to see him. He pointed to different items on his menu, describing each dish as if we were at a five start restaurant in Paris. At some point he stopped speaking and waited for me to answer a question I hadn’t heard him say.

  “What do you recommend?” Was all I could say.

  He recommended the “pork box”. I shook my head and said, “That sounds great.”