After You

by Sam Mariano

  Henry is quiet for a moment, then he assures me, “You can have all that, Nicole.”

  I wait for him to say, “but not with me.” Henry doesn’t even have time to make dinner dates, so how is he going to find time to have a family?

  He doesn’t say it, and I don’t ask. It was hard enough to get all that out, and my emotional stores are just about depleted. Even though I don’t think going our separate ways would devastate me, I don’t have the energy left for it tonight.

  Seeming to understand this, Henry reaches one arm beneath me and drapes one over me, wrapping me up in his embrace and pulling me against him. It’s the same way Derek held me earlier today, but this feels less natural. Maybe just because I’m more vulnerable than I usually am around Henry right now. I just don’t want to waste any more of his time. Especially after today, if I want things he doesn’t, I think it’s time we end the romantic aspect of this relationship. Since we haven’t had sex, it wouldn’t be impossible to revert back to friendship.

  I need to stop thinking and go to sleep.

  It has been a taxing 24 hours, to say the least.

  Hopefully tomorrow will be easier.

  ---

  Henry woke me up before he left, pecked me on the lips, and left to start his day. I rolled back over, enjoyed having the bed to myself, and muttered about how he’s never spending the night again.

  When I woke up again, it was time to start my work day. My general routine is wake up, work, go to sleep. There are breaks in the day for things like showering, occasionally eating, and peeing, but that’s about it.

  Since I took off time for Alex’s wedding and my phone was dead when Derek had me at his house, I have to pull double duty to catch-up.

  In addition to all the work I have to get done, I can’t get that blue-lit bar out of my head. It has merged with the scene of the groom and his blue-haired bride who jilted each other at the altar. That bar has become the bar they found each other at when they reconnected, and scenes are falling into place, lines of dialogue running through my mind. It has been a long, long time since I have opened one of these for myself, but as I munch on carrots—since those don’t require time to cook—and stare at the blank document in front of me, I decide to write the scene. I know it won’t go anywhere, I know I’m not a writer, but the characters lend me not only an escape, but a chance to work out some of my feelings from yesterday. As I write, they evolve, picking up ticks and quirks, histories and aspirations.

  All of a sudden, it’s evening, I haven’t gone back to working, and I’m 9,500 words deep into something tentatively titled Dreamcatcher.

  I finally push away from the desk, my back aching, my hands a little sore, and my stomach empty. I’m so hungry.

  Because I always text Henry when I’m hungry, I pick up my phone. “I know my scarlet A precludes me from food privileges, but OMG, I am wasting away over here. I’ve only eaten carrots today. I’m basically a rabbit.”

  “You really need to take a cooking class,” he informs me.

  “I would probably just bang the cooking instructor,” I reply.

  “I swear to God, I just laughed out loud. You are a soulless monster.”

  Grinning, I type back, “I tried to tell you.”

  I put the phone down and open up my web browser to do some work, but a couple minutes later, my phone lights up.

  It’s Henry saying, “I ordered you take-out. It will be there in 20 minutes.”

  “You are the best cheated on boyfriend I’ve ever had,” I tell him, attaching several red heart emojis.

  “You are a cruel woman,” he replies.

  “Hey, take your compliment and be happy.”

  “Am I the ONLY cheated on boyfriend you’ve ever had?” he sends back.

  “No. I kind of cheated on my first boyfriend with Derek, too. In high school.”

  “Gotcha. So, keep you far away from Derek.”

  “It should be effortless now,” I assure him. “Derek isn’t all about working for things, and I already shot him down multiple times yesterday when he asked for my number.”

  “Before or after fucking him?”

  “After.”

  “At least you’re not just cold to me,” he replies, really owning the bright side. I almost admire it.

  “Nope, I’m an equal opportunity ice queen,” I assure him.

  “I can’t believe that bastard looked in my eyes, shook my hand, and then fucked my girlfriend,” Henry replies.

  “He really is a bastard. I can’t dispute that. That’s actually something I would completely expect him to do.”

  “No honor, I tell ya.”

  “Absolutely none,” I agree.

  Derek plays dirty; I could have told him that.

  Chapter Twelve

  Monday morning means my muffin ban is lifted, the weekend of my father’s wedding is behind me, and my life returns to normal.

  Well, normal except that I’m writing another book. I’m 26,000 words in now, and I’m having a hard time pulling myself away from it to focus on work. I don’t check in on my old trilogy much anymore. It served its purpose in my life and I filed it away, but as I’m writing, Derek’s words from breakfast come back to me. He faked me out, giving me an example from my own books as a fake memory. That means he read all three of my books. Read them and paid so much attention that he could pull an example from his memory to feed me, the creator of said memory, and be convincing.

  My trilogy still provides a nice little passive income, but since I’ve entirely stopped promoting it, nothing like it used to. People have to find out about it from other readers or stumble across it. Today I decide to give Janie a little bit of attention, setting up a sale on book one and emailing some of my promo companies to see if they can squeeze me in for a summer sale. I wrote the trilogy under a pen name—Nikki Reid—so they’ll just think I need it for one of my authors.

  Once all that is taken care of, I eat cereal for lunch and pound out another 1,200 words before getting back to work.

  I need to text Bethany and ask if she would consider being my cover model. She could wear her wedding dress, and I could have a photographer take some shots of her from behind, since her blue hair and dreamcatcher tattoo represent the heroine she inspired.

  I’m just about to text her to ask when the doorbell rings. I frown, putting my cereal down. That’s strange. It’s after lunch time, and if Henry ordered in, he probably would have told me it was coming so I didn’t eat on my own.

  “Want me to get it?” Louise asks from her station, since she’s closer to the door.

  I push back my chair and stand. “No, I’ll get it. Just in case it’s an axe murderer.”

  “Best boss ever,” she tells me, eyes trained on her screen.

  I pull open the door, and standing on the other side is a stranger with an armful of flowers. His gaze flickers to me. “Nikki Harmon?”

  I blink, staring at the bouquet of red roses. “Um… yes?”

  He smiles and holds them out. “These are for you.”

  I’m dumbfounded as I take the flowers, my eyes moving from the long stems wrapped in paper, to the aromatic, silky crimson petals at the top.

  I’ve never been sent flowers before.

  The delivery kid nods at me and says, “Have a nice day.”

  Words are stuck in my throat, so I can only manage a nod. It doesn’t occur to me until he’s backing out of my driveway, maybe I was supposed to tip him. Are you supposed to tip flower delivery guys? Is it like food? I mean, I didn’t order these, but he still had to bring them. Does the flower orderer pay the tip? There’s a lot to this I didn’t think about.

  “What’s that?” Louise asks with interest as I back into the living room.

  Blinking up at her, I ask, “Are you supposed to tip flower delivery men?”

  “I would,” she states.

  “Dammit.” Glancing at the door, I offer a useless, “Sorry, flower guy.”

  Standing and coming over to sniff my
bouquet, she says, “It’s okay, he’ll survive without your two bucks. They charge for delivery, so I’m sure plenty of people don’t.” Then, with a teasing smile, she says, “Did you finally let Henry spend the night?”

  Well, I did, but I didn’t do anything to warrant a flower delivery. This must be part of our relationship relaunch. He wants to start taking the romantic element of our relationship more seriously, so he’s starting off on a romantic note. “He really is the best, isn’t he?” I ask her.

  “Yes,” she says, without hesitation. “Is there a card?” she asks, fingering the delicate heads as she searches for one. “Nope. No card.”

  “God, he’s so sweet.” I shake my head, walking over to my desk so I can grab my phone. I never thought flowers were much to get excited over, but maybe that was just because I’d never received any. This feels really nice.

  “You are the best. Thank you so much,” I type out, attaching a heart emoji for extra oomph.

  He doesn’t respond right away, so I go to the kitchen, thinking to put the flowers in water, but it occurs to me that I don’t have a vase. I’ve never had a reason to buy one.

  “Loverboy is calling,” Louise tells me.

  Still holding the flowers in my arm, I run back to the living room, smiling like an idiot.

  “Put him on speaker, I want to gush about how amazing he is,” Louise says. “Give him lots of positive reinforcement so he’ll do it again.”

  “Hang on,” I tell her, grabbing my phone and answering it first. “Hey, you.”

  “Hey. Sorry, I just left court. Ran a little long. Heading to lunch now.”

  “How’d court go?” I ask, running a finger over the satiny petal of one of the roses.

  “Went all right. It’ll go better tomorrow when I get to tie up this case and kick all their asses.”

  Grinning, I tell him, “I wish I could watch. That sounds sexy.”

  “Sexy, huh?” he asks, a little more interested. “I’m liking your mood today.”

  “Yeah, well, you deserve it. The flowers are absolutely beautiful, Henry. Thank you so much.”

  The line goes so silent for a moment, I think I dropped the call. Before I can pull it back to check, he clears his throat. “Flowers?”

  My smile droops. “The… roses?”

  “Roses.”

  Looking down at the bouquet, I swallow. Fuck. If they’re not from him… “You know what, maybe they’re from Bethany,” I suggest, searching the roses more thoroughly for a card. “I assumed they were from you, but maybe they’re a ‘thanks for being in my wedding’ sort of gesture. I can see Bethany doing that.”

  “Or maybe they’re from him,” he states. “Does he have your address?”

  My stomach twists and falls. I shake my head in denial, not able to even consider that. “He’s not the kind of guy who would send me roses, Henry.”

  Louise spins around in her chair so fast, I feel a light breeze. Her eyes are wide as she stares at me and I grimace. Shit, she doesn’t know anything about this weekend.

  “Which is exactly why he did,” Henry states. “He’s fucking with us.”

  Well, this took an unpleasant turn. “He is not fucking with us,” I murmur, but now I’m aware of Louise, so I don’t want to talk about this. “I’m sure they’re from Bethany. I can’t find the card. I’ll text her and ask. I was just about to text her anyway, actually.”

  “They’re from him,” Henry states, no doubt in his tone. “You said you refused to give him your number. Do you have his?”

  “Nope.”

  “What’s his last name? Where does he live? I want to have a little chat with him. Give me his full name and location; I can get his phone number.”

  “Henry, no. If it is him, this is just a fluke. You’re probably right; he probably did send them to fuck with us. He’s an asshole. It doesn’t matter. I’ll throw them out if they’re not from Bethany. If he wanted to get a rise out of you, then you calling him in a fit of rage is exactly what he wants. If we ignore him, he’ll go away.”

  “Sends you fucking flowers without a card,” he mutters. “He knew you’d assume they were from me. This is exactly what he wanted. To make me look like an asshole.”

  “You do not look like an asshole.”

  “The dickhead who fucked my girlfriend over the weekend just sent her flowers. Yes, I look like an asshole.”

  “If anything, I look like an asshole,” I inform him. “It’s my fault this is even an issue, not yours. Look, let’s just forget about it, okay? I’m sure they are from Bethany.”

  “Yeah,” he mutters, unconvinced.

  “I’m going to text her as soon as we hang up.”

  “And then lie to me to try to make me feel better. No thanks.”

  Sighing, I walk into the kitchen and drop the flowers into my trash can. “They’re in the garbage, all right? I don’t have a vase to put them in anyway.”

  “This guy needs to be punched in the fucking face,” Henry states.

  “With a hammer,” I agree.

  My easy agreement seems to mollify him, and after a few more heavy sighs and death wishes for Derek, he tells me he has to go. I feel bad, but I don’t even know what to do about it. Even if the flowers are from Bethany, he won’t believe me now without proof. Hoping to get some, I text Bethany and ask if she sent me the pretty roses. I have my fingers poised to take a screenshot, but instead of giving me the proof I’m seeking, she sends back, “What pretty roses?”

  So, yeah. I guess they’re from Derek.

  Louise waits ever so patiently, but when I sigh and lean back in my chair, staring up at the ceiling, she says, “I think you’ve been holding out on me, boss lady.”

  “Alcohol turns me into a whore,” I tell her simply. “I cheat, I lie, I ruin lives—mostly my own. It’s a long story, believe me.”

  “I want to hear it. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

  “Trust me, I did nothing admirable,” I assure her. “Anyone can be an inconsiderate, selfish asshole. It’s nothing to be impressed by.”

  “And yet, you have the boyfriend sticking by you and the other man sending you flowers,” Louise states.

  “The other man is an asshole. Trust me, he did not send them as a nice gesture. After he fucks with me, he likes to scare off any other man who might paw at me. He made me break up with the last boyfriend I cheated on with him. This time he doesn’t have any ammunition to use against me, so he had to get creative.”

  “He sounds hot.”

  “He sounds like a sociopath,” I reply.

  Shrugging, she says, “I’m doing dark romance over here today, it might be getting to me. If only he’d kidnap you and whisk you away to his elegant mansion, where he would gently imprison you until you fall desperately in love with him. Then he’d be perfect.”

  “He’s not above kidnapping, trust me,” I mutter.

  “Well, now I have to turn on some Lady Gaga while I work. God, here I was thinking you’re an agoraphobic workaholic, and you have this whole secret life with sexy, sociopathic suitors and the hot lawyer determined to rescue you from his evil clutches and keep you for himself. It’s hard not to hate you right now. You don’t even appreciate any of this.”

  “Too much excitement for me. I like my boring life. Derek can sweep Henry off his feet and they can both leave me to my work,” I tell her.

  Louise shakes her head at me as the sounds of Lady Gaga’s Bad Romance fill my living room. “You are not normal.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  On Wednesday, another dozen roses arrive on my doorstep. The first draft of Dreamcatcher is pouring out of me. I’m approaching the halfway point, and I do not have time for Derek’s drama.

  This time, there is a card tucked between the silky soft flowers.

  Can I have your number now?

  Here’s mine.

  And then he gave me his number, because he’s an asshole. He thinks he must have sufficiently scared my boyfriend off now, though why he
thinks that would make me any more eager to talk to him, I cannot begin to imagine. Refusing to give him my number had absolutely nothing to do with Henry. It’s not “I don’t want to talk to you because I’m not single,” it’s “I don’t want to talk to you because you do bad things to my life, and I don’t want the chaos you’re peddling.”

  I’m working by myself today, otherwise I would give the roses to Louise. I take them straight to the garbage can, but before I toss them, the sliver of stupidity that occasionally takes possession of my brain convinces me to pluck the card with his phone number on it out of the flower arrangement. I stare at it for a moment, my thumb running over the ink that reveals his phone number.

  Shaking it off, I go back to my desk, open up a drawer, and drop the note card inside. Then I get right back to work.

  Not interested in another fight, I do not tell Henry about the second flower delivery.

  Instead, I conserve my energy, reach out to the editor who worked on my Nikki Reid books with me to let her know I might have a standalone soon, if she’s interested, and reach out to Bethany to see if she can model her wedding dress for me before she and my dad leave for their honeymoon trip this Friday. Bailey doesn’t see her biological father, so Bethany and my dad have her all the time. Bethany’s mom has to watch her for their honeymoon, and she couldn’t do it the weekend of their wedding, so they had to push it a week.

  It occurs to me that Bailey and Cassidy are around the same age, and both only children as far as I can tell. I know Derek and Kayla must not have any other kids or he would have had the other one for the weekend, too.

  God, just thinking about that level of contact with Kayla makes me feel bitchy. This is one of the 8 million reasons Derek and I can never work. If I were some sweet little daffodil ready to forgive and forget, to swallow down my bitterness twice a week when he has to pick Cassidy up and drop her off—and inevitably see Kayla, the evil bitch whose demise I legitimately desire—then sure, maybe Derek and I would have a shot.