Can I See You Again?

by Allison Morgan

I glance over at our suite’s balcony. The curtains and door remain closed.

  I wonder if Sean knows I slipped out.

  I wonder if he knows I lied about my period.

  thirty-six

  Thirty minutes later, I climb the steps to Nixon’s second-floor town house and knock on his door.

  “Bree?”

  I try not to notice the morning sunlight reflecting off his bare chest.

  I try not to notice the smell of sleep on his skin.

  I try not to notice that the top button of his jeans is undone.

  “What are you doing here?”

  What am I doing here? “Sorry, it’s so early.”

  “It’s fine. You want to come in?”

  “No. I . . .”

  “I don’t bite.” He steps aside.

  “Right, of course not. Sure, just for a minute.”

  His home smells like laundry detergent. A dryer tumbles clothes in the next room.

  “Want a cup of coffee?”

  Before I answer, a sleek and silent white cat slinks between Nixon’s feet, then dashes toward a tennis ball in the living room. He swats the toy with his paw before jumping onto the neck rest of Nixon’s leather recliner.

  I laugh out loud. “Who is that?”

  “That’s Sketch.”

  “He’s cute.”

  “Don’t let his sweet eyes fool you.” Nixon scratches behind the cat’s ears, and the cat arches his neck in thanks. “Sketch is a direct descendent of the devil.”

  A relative of Martin, then?

  “So, how about that coffee?”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll just be a second.” Nixon disappears into the kitchen.

  I move wide past Sketch—Martin doesn’t like me and there’s no telling what this evasive cat might do—into the living room flanked with two large glass windows.

  On the iron coffee table sits a framed picture of Nixon’s parents on their wedding day. Mrs. Voss and her baby face look too young to be married. I think about my mom and dad. Too young to die.

  Beside the picture rests a pile of Smithsonian magazines topped with an old film-style Canon camera. I trace my fingers along the leather strap, then step toward the opposite wall lined with five or six black-and-white framed photographs of La Jolla’s windswept rocks, beaches crowded with dilated umbrellas and lifeguard towers, and a simplistic yet powerful shot of a young woman’s ankle as she steps from a cab onto the boardwalk, the chaotic city traffic blurred in the distance. They’re bordered with the same frames as I have at my office. Funny he never mentioned it.

  I examine the remaining prints, drawn to one in particular. It’s a ground-level perspective of a long and rutted wood-planked pier. The end disappears into the horizon, but Nixon’s zoomed in on a shattered lightbulb, dropped from a weathered metal light post and sprinkled on the floorboard. From this viewpoint, I can practically hear the glass crunch underfoot, smell the sea salt and kelp, feel the sun’s warmth. It’s powerful, intense, gorgeous.

  Like Nixon.

  “Hey.” He hands me the coffee.

  “I have to admit, I imagined your place to be different. It isn’t cold and sterile like I thought.” It’s warm and sensual.

  Also like Nixon.

  “You were right about the expired milk, though. Hope you take your coffee black.” He hands me a mug.

  “You take these?” I point at the photos.

  “Yeah, took this one just the other day.” He motions toward the pier. “I converted my guest bathroom into a darkroom, got the stabilizer baths, tongs, and everything.” He shrugs. “A dumb hobby.”

  “Hardly a dumb hobby, Nixon. You’re really good. These are beautiful.”

  He reaches to straighten a frame, then lowers his arm, touching mine.

  If I remain still, maybe he won’t move.

  There’s no denying that I find myself relaxed and comforted by his composure. Charmed and absorbed by his humor, his generosity, his sincerity.

  Standing this close to Nixon, I allow myself thoughts that I’ve sequestered the past few weeks. I think about his tall, chiseled frame mirrored against mine, palm to palm, belly to belly, thigh to thigh. I picture the want in my eyes, reflected in his own, as he lowers himself onto me.

  I know what I’m thinking is wrong. What I’m feeling even more so. I’m engaged to another man. But there’s something about Nixon’s presence that cushions my vulnerability, makes sense of my wrongs.

  It’s ironic. For the expert I claim to be in body language, I didn’t figure him out. I never pegged him to be this kind, handsome, addictive man. I pegged him as shallow and narcissistic. But I was wrong. Turns out, he’s pretty great. And, if I’m truthful with myself, I miss him when he’s not around.

  He steps away and opens the living room shutters, welcoming in a view of the ocean. Just beyond a couple of rooftops and a two-lane road, a long stretch of smooth-sanded beach spreads into rolling waves and the same weathered, wood-planked pier from his photo.

  “My God, Nixon. This view. I didn’t realize you were so close to the water.” I point through the window at a lady walking along the shoreline, sipping from a to-go coffee cup. “You can practically read the type of drink she ordered.”

  He laughs. “I don’t know about that.”

  “I bet you spend a lot of time in the sand.”

  “I used to, but now one of my favorite things to do is sit on the porch and watch the surfers on Sunday mornings. The beach is usually empty at that time of day, just a handful of guys and girls who come every week to ride the waves. I hardly ever miss it.”

  “You don’t surf?”

  “Nah. After swallowing a couple lungfuls of salt water and getting tossed ashore, I hung up my board. Rough waves are too much for this old guy.”

  I imagine him sitting shirtless on the porch steps, sipping his coffee, feet propped on the porch railing.

  “Sit?” Nixon breaks my spell and points to a cream-colored leather couch decorated with burnt orange throw pillows.

  Hee . . . haw. Hee . . . haw.

  “Need to answer that?”

  Probably. I pause before mustering the courage to say, “I watched the sunrise this morning. I thought of you and your family and everything you’ve done for me and how these interviews are almost over . . .” I clench my jaw. Say it, Bree. “I thought about how you make me feel and . . .”

  “Bree.” He slides his hand onto my knee.

  My thighs tighten from his touch, but I shake my head as my eyes well up with tears.

  He pulls his hand away. “Look, I didn’t mean to push something that—”

  “No, it’s not your fault. Nothing like that.”

  Tell him you’re engaged.

  “Do you remember before your cousin’s wedding, I had something to tell you?”

  “I didn’t until now, but actually.” He licks his dry lips. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to say something first.”

  “Sure, go ahead.”

  Nixon folds his hands in his lap and stares at the ground.

  In all the times we’ve spent together, I’ve never seen him like this. His shoulders are curved inward. His eyes are narrowed. Sweat trickles below his brow. I’ve never seen him nervous. Insecure.

  “What is it, Nixon?”

  “All right, here it goes.” He smacks his hands on his knees, his confidence back. “So, you’ve heard me say, many times, that the last few weeks have all been for show.”

  That’s what you wanted to say? Gee . . . great. “Yes, you’ve made yourself clear.” And I clearly feel like an idiot.

  Nixon catches my tense nod. “No, that’s just it. I haven’t made myself clear.” And without pause, he grabs my hand and flips it over, just like he did during our first interview. But now, n
o one else is here. No observers. No cameras. No questions. Just us. Surely, in this very second, just he and I, him holding my hand, isn’t just for show.

  “Look, Bree.” His fingers follow their familiar course across my wrist, one after the other, prickling my skin. His eyes find mine. “I don’t know if this is the right or the wrong thing to say, but I’ve got to tell you—”

  Loud as a shotgun blast, the mail slot’s door bangs open and the newspaper plops onto the floor.

  Sketch vaults off the recliner and pounces on the National Tribune, clawing at the rubber band, tearing at the newspaper, shredding the pages. Tattered bits of paper scatter across the floor.

  “Take it easy, Sketch.” Nixon lets me go and scoops up the paper and the cat, setting Sketch by his tennis ball. “See what I mean? He’s nuts. Not much left of this.” Nixon frees the fragmented rubber band and the Tribune unfolds. The Close-Up article falls onto the ground.

  But I don’t care what the article says. I don’t care what charming anecdotes Candace inscribed or what comments readers sent in. All I want to hear is Nixon’s words. I want to watch his lips move. I want to hear what he started to say.

  But the atmosphere between us turns toxic the minute Nixon reads the article’s headline. Anger and surprise flash within his eyes. The lines between his brow deepens. His shoulders stiffen. The tenderness of a moment ago is gone.

  “What’s wrong? What does it say?”

  “Shit, Bree.” He flings the paper onto the couch. “You’re engaged?”

  thirty-seven

  BREE CAXTON IS A FRAUD.

  Shocked, America? So are we.

  “They think . . . Oh, God, Andrew . . . America thinks . . .” My throat tightens and I swallow hard, reading the headline over and over.

  Andrew pours us more Merlot, then scoots close to me on my couch. “Bree, don’t—”

  “No, they’re right. I deserve this. I’ve lied the whole time. I lied to Jo, Randi, Candace, and my readers. I lied to Nixon, his family, and their friends. And worse yet, I lied to my fiancé. Just this morning I made up a story when I returned to the hotel, said I went for a long walk. I bold-faced misled the man I’m about to marry.”

  Jesus . . . I am such a piece of work.

  My hands start to tremble and I can hardly focus on the article’s words. Which, honestly, might be a good thing.

  Andrew squeezes my hands. “I’m sorry, honey.”

  Turns out our beloved matchmaker is too good to be true. Take a look at these pictures captured shortly before print time. First we have Bree hugging Nick . . . or do we say Nixon Voss?

  With utter dread, I glance at the photo of Nixon and me clutching one another outside my front door. My suitcases from the wedding rest beside us.

  So tell us, Bree. If you’re hopelessly in love with Nixon, why are you sipping wine with Sean (yes, that Sean . . . uh-huh . . . THAT Sean) at the romantic La Valencia? And isn’t that an engagement ring on your finger?

  The second photo shows Sean and me standing on the balcony with our wineglasses. An inset snapshot zooms in on my shiny diamond ring.

  “How’d they get these photos?”

  Sources confirmed, the two are engaged.

  “Sources? What sources?”

  Sara, the duped client, says, “I am done with Bree Caxton. First she sets me up with a felon and I spent the evening in a jail. Jail. But the goodhearted person I am gave Bree a second chance. And what did that get me? She stormed into my workplace, demanding that I host her drunken cocktail party at my brand-new art gallery at which someone spilled red wine on my new floor and I’m yet to be compensated for.”

  “I didn’t storm into her gallery. Or demand anything,” I snap. But the jailhouse bit is true.

  “And, a few weeks later, I catch her and Sean acting all chummy at Bree’s office. He held a diamond ring in his hand and I mistakenly believed the ring could be for me. Ha! But the two cast it off, having the nerve to lie to my face, claiming it was his mother’s ring. Playing me for a fool. I am not a fool. Then I come to find out she’s not only fake-dating a man she set me up with, but she’s engaged to the other man she set me up with. A man that I fell in love with. Yes, I may look ridiculous falling in love so quickly, but at least I’m not a liar. Honestly, who the hell does she think she is?”

  The paper falls from my hands. “Christ, Andrew, this is bad. Unbelievably bad. I’ve disappointed so many people. Anyone else I can hurt? Any puppies’ paws I can step on? Old men whose canes I can sweep out from underneath their feet? How did all of this happen?”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You thought you were doing the right thing.”

  “I don’t deserve your sympathy.” I shake my head. “I am a fraud. Everyone knows it. How did they find out we were at La Valencia, anyway? It’s like they have little moles, sneaking around in my business. I mean, no one even knew we were going to that hotel except . . . you. Andrew . . . my God . . . did you tell Candace?”

  “No.” He shakes his head, staring at his lap. “I told Scotty. I’m so sorry. We were making conversation, it just slipped out.” He gasps at my laugh. “This isn’t funny. I feel horrible.”

  “I know you do. And you should.” I keep giggling. “But think about it, your lying boss who’s in love with the man America thinks she’s dating but actually is engaged to Sean, who America thinks is dating Sara. Jesus, what a joke.”

  “I’m sorry, Bree.”

  “I know. Thing is, I’m a bit relieved the truth is out.” Panic sets in as Jo’s face comes to mind. “Oh, shit. Jo. Her house. This means . . . Oh, God. I gotta go. I need to see her.”

  “How about I drive you?”

  “No, I’m fine.” Not wanting to waste another minute, I slip into flip-flops, disregarding the coffee stain on my white T-shirt and the hole in the knee of my gray sweats. “I’ll see you later, Andrew. Lock up when you leave.”

  “Yeah, I’m right behind you. Take care of you.”

  “Take care of you.”

  I drive toward Jo’s, hoping to suppress my growing worry. I fear my stupid decisions will smash the framework we’ve rebuilt like a wrecking ball and dissolve all possibility of saving her house. Her house. What is she thinking right now? Is she confused? Mad? Disappointed? Oh, God. Will she hate me?

  Fifteen minutes later, I’m knocking on her door. “Hey.” I muster an optimistic voice and a wide smile when she answers the door, trying to pretend my world isn’t collapsing all around me.

  She doesn’t unfasten the chain lock and welcome me inside. She doesn’t scoop up her barking four-legged friend and protect me from his hungry canines. All she does is say to Martin, “It’s just Bree.”

  Just Bree. We’re back to that. My fears are confirmed.

  She stands there with a rigid look in her eyes as if I’m a door-to-door salesman peddling discount oil changes at Auto World.

  “Is it true?” she asks.

  “Is what true?” A silly question. She’s obviously seen the article. But I ask anyway, buying time, uncertain how to explain.

  “The article, Bree. Did you do what they claim?” Her voice is curt. But I hear a familiar quality in her speech. It’s the same clipped tone as Mom’s on the night of my parents’ accident when she pulled me from the party and asked why I disobeyed their rules.

  Tears dampen my eyes. “Yes, it’s true. But please let me explain. Let me come in and I’ll tell you everything.” I pause. “I know it sounds stupid to say at this point, but I didn’t mean for this to get so out of hand. I never intended for anyone to get hurt. But obviously, I didn’t think things through.”

  “If that’s all.”

  “No, Jo, please don’t shut me out. Let me explain. You have to understand that I did this for us. I know it seems crazy, but everything I did and said—”

  “You lied for us?”

  God,
it sounds so much worse when she uses that voice. “Yes, I did. All I want, all I’ve ever wanted, is to be your granddaughter, to have a relationship with you. I thought if I reached the bestseller list you’d be proud of me. You’d forgive me. You wouldn’t . . . hate me.”

  “All this shows is how little you think of me. You don’t respect me or you would’ve told me the truth. You sat at my kitchen counter and let me read these articles, week after week, and all the while they were a bunch of garbage. You say I’m special to you? You fooled me just like everyone else.” She starts to close the door.

  I press my hand against the wood panel, stopping her. “Jo, please.”

  “Caxtons don’t lie. I’m disappointed in you.”

  It’s as if she punched me in the gut. “Without a bestseller, without the escalator clause, I can’t save the house.” But my desperation bounces off a closed door.

  She’s gone.

  I spend the next couple of hours wandering the beach, picking up sand dollars and wishing I could jump back in time. It’s a beautiful day: warm, cloudless, crisp air. At least God isn’t mad at me.

  I pass Antonio’s, and staring at it from the shoreline, I think of Sean.

  For four years, he’s all I’ve known. We’ve spent Thanksgivings, birthdays, barbecues, and long weekends together. We’ve picked up one another from the mechanic’s shop when our car needed new brakes or if we were loopy from a dentist visit. We’ve played numerous games of Scrabble and strip poker, filled a vase with shared wine corks, and shared knowing glances in a crowded room for as long as I can remember. He’s been my everything.

  “This is great, actually. We won’t have to sneak around anymore,” he said. “And you gotta admit the picture of us is good. Come to think of it, we’re going to need a wedding announcement photo. Maybe we can use this one?”

  I appreciated his attempt to cheer me up but still turned down his invitation for lunch. I want to be alone.

  My mind stays focused on Sean. Yes, I accepted his apology and promised to wear his ring, and yet I can’t help but think his actions started this mess. Would I be in this position had he not ended things?