by S. M. Shade
How could he think that? I have to swallow a lump in my throat. “I don’t have one good childhood memory without you in it. I didn’t just lose someone I loved, I lost my closest friend.” Peeking up at him, I ask, “Did you miss me at all? All these years, did you ever think about me?”
“Of course I did. I was so heartsick that first year I could barely function. And when I did finally ask your brother about you, he told me you’d moved, went to college. You were doing well and I had nothing to offer you. My mother was an anchor around my neck. I regret the way I left and not getting in touch before now, but I don’t regret keeping you out of that mess. You deserved better. But there’s nothing keeping us apart now.”
But there is. My brain is telling me to run, that this is how it happened last time, the only time I’ve ever been in love. I don’t want to set myself up for a fall like that again. Maybe we’d have a few good months before he got bored, then he’d move on and I’d be left in pieces again. My life may not be perfect, but I’m happy. I just need to get back home and into my routine to remember.
“I’m sorry. I want to stay in touch, but I can’t promise any more than that. I’ll always care about you, but I’m not the same person you left in that bed.”
He sighs again, tightening his arms around me, and I turn to give him one last kiss before getting to my feet and heading back to the mansion. I shouldn’t look back, but I can’t help myself. The sight of him sitting on the gazebo steps with his tie in his hand, his sad gaze pointed at the ground makes my tears overflow. It’d never work. I’m doing the right thing.
Aren’t I?
Chapter Sixteen
Kasha
“Give me that back!” I snap, fighting amongst the bird-pocalypse to pry my purse from the stubborn, relentless, vicious seagull.
It tugs. I tug. Jill tugs. And two against one finally wins, but when that winged beast releases its hold on my purse, the momentum tilts against my favor. A scream bubbles through my lips as I sail backwards, sliding across the ground in the eight-thousand dollar dress my mother bought for me overnight—one that actually fits.
I really like this dress too, damn it!
“I was sexy, you asshole!” I yell at the bird that is… “Is that motherfucker laughing at me?” I demand to no one in particular, pointing an accusatory finger at the offending asshole bird.
Roman is suddenly lifting me from the ground by my arms until my feet are touching firm soil again. He’s trying to speak through his guffaws of laughter, but failing miserably. I glare at him when he finally gets his untimely outburst under control, and he doubles over, losing it again.
“No!” Mom shouts, wrestling for the ring bearer’s pillow—that still has the rings tied to it—with a particularly shady gull that has an eye for fine jewelry.
Heath dives, tackling the bird and making my mother swoon with his heroics.
“This is not my fault!” I yell to her, just to make damn sure she knows it.
Totally Henley’s fault. And the Mulder brats. Not my fault at all. I’m mostly innocent. I only aided in her quest to swap doves for seagulls.
It seemed like a good, harmless plan at the time…
Roman grabs me at the waist, saving me from being slammed into. It’s like these things are starving, and they just keep pouring in. And Roman can’t save me in time from the next attack.
Jill—I freaking love her—jerks up to guard my face, and the bird that crashes into her falls to the ground, stunned.
Roman takes my hand—obviously not Jill’s—and starts tugging me through the throngs of frenzied people who are fighting for their lives. Okay, so maybe they’re just fighting for their hairpieces, jewelry, and clutches, but this shit could always escalate!
As we weave, dodge, and stumble around, Roman continues to laugh like this is his first trip to the playground. Damn sheltered man.
Gretchen and Jane are still pulling hair as we round the corner, and Anderson is drinking a beer with two of his groomsmen. All three are watching the fight, though Anderson seems to be a thousand miles away.
“It was you!” Jane shouts, slapping Gretchen’s hand like they’re playing a game of hot-hands. Gretchen slaps her hand back, only cementing that observation.
“Of course it was me! That was the dress I wanted, and you bought it! You didn’t deserve to wear it!” Gretchen roars.
“Where were you going to wear a wedding dress to? He let you suck his dick, but he didn’t put a ring on it!”
So Gretchen was the saboteur? She dyed the dress pink? She spiked the champagne? Speaking of which, I have pictures of my mother I need to delete from my phone and Henley’s. Yes, I sent all those stripper pics to my phone.
Since my mother went and opened her iron-clad chest to prove there’s a heart inside, I feel bad about those. Damn conscience. I wanted those as blackmail.
Jane’s face is still red and blotchy from yesterday’s allergy outbreak, and the more she fights, the more the makeup gets smudged, revealing just how bad that rash has gotten. I take a step back like it’s contagious.
“You like that salad dressing last night?” Gretchen taunts, slapping Jane in the face.
This is the most pathetic fight in history.
“You! It was you!” Jane screams like a banshee after a cursed soul.
From there, they dissolve into another slapping fight, which is still nothing more than an enthusiastic game of hot-hands.
Roman and I sneak by, but my eyes flick back to Anderson. He did this to himself. But the far-off look in his eyes actually has me worried about him. No. He’s a dick. And a big boy. He made his own decisions and he can fix his own mess.
Just as we reach the house, Roman tosses his arm around my shoulders. “And to think I would have missed all this if you hadn’t been here to keep me interested all week,” Roman says, chuckling under his breath.
Interested enough to maybe see after the wedding?
I don’t say that aloud.
We hurry up the steps, and I groan when I pass a mirror that shows this dress is full of dirt and grass stains. Stupid barbaric birds.
“Get changed and meet me outside in five,” he says, pressing his lips against mine in spite of his grin.
“Why?” I ask, grabbing his shirt and pulling him back to me, forcing him to resume the kiss when he tries to break away before I’m done.
His tongue dips in, and I tilt my head back more, giving the tall bastard the room he needs. His greedy hands slide lower, clutching my ass with a possessive grip that has me arching toward him all the more. I’m like a cat in heat, and he’s perfection and ruination with every single touch of his tongue against mine.
“Because I said so,” he murmurs against my lips when he finally breaks the kiss.
I only allow the space so I can catch my breath, and he winks at me before ducking into the room next door, abandoning me to wrestle with my mindless stupor on my own.
Change.
Go outside.
Right.
Lydia is in the room when I walk in, and it looks like she’s close to finishing up with her packing. Henley is face down on the bed, her bags open and half-packed as well.
“What’s going on?” I ask them.
“We thought we’d leave tonight instead of in the morning,” Lydia tells me, her eyes darting a glance to Henley who doesn’t lift her head.
A heaviness settles on my chest. I thought I had a full night left with Roman.
“I can pack for you if… you need more time,” Lydia says with a sympathetic smile.
“Yeah… um… thanks.”
It sucks, but if I try to speak more, I’m afraid I might cry like an idiot or something. Roman still hasn’t mentioned the future. To him, this still seems like just a wedding fling. I was hoping to have one more night… Hoping he’d be compelled to finally confess he wants to see me again… Now it feels like I’ve run out of time, and the harsh reality is that I want to keep living in this week’s bubble, to hell with
the real world.
Lydia pats my shoulder, and I blow out a heavy breath.
“How’d you know about Anderson cheating?” I ask Lydia mildly, less intrigued than I was five minutes ago.
I change quickly into some sexy jean shorts with all the rips and things and a T-shirt that has a pair of lips on it, removing the ruined sexy dress that I planned to keep forever and ever.
“Saw him and Gretchen together a couple of months ago. I only assumed she wouldn’t let him walk down the aisle with Jane. I came to bear witness, needing to see them fall apart after what they did to me, bad as that may sound. I needed to know karma existed on some level. I got worried for a minute. Then Simon sort of spilled the beans about Gretchen’s plan. So… yeah.”
Nodding like that makes all the sense in the world, I change again, this time selecting a short denim skirt instead of the sexy shorts. Roman needs a memory seared into his brain, and a skirt holds more promise than shorts any day.
Henley mutters something into the pillow about dolphin problems, and I feel torn. It’s obvious she needs a friend, but now I only have a couple of hours left with Roman. And now I sound like a selfish, shitty friend.
Just as I move toward the bed, Lydia steps in front of me. “I’ve got this. Go. We have an entire road trip for us to vent our frustrations.”
She’s right. It’ll take forever to get home. That alleviates some of my guilt for bailing right now.
I start to walk into Roman’s room via the connected bathroom, opening the door, but I see him on the phone. His back is turned as he talks, and I pause, my hand still holding onto the doorknob as I remain in the bathroom.
“I’ll be back tomorrow… Yes. Positive… No, I’m not leaving you hanging. You knew I was off this week, and I have a shit-ton of vacation time left… Nothing worth talking about.”
I decide it’s totally wrong to keep listening, especially since I’m vain and worry that last comment is about me… about this week. Nothing worth talking about? Was that about me?
I mean, I thought I was so crazy that he couldn’t ever forget me. A one-armed girl who has fucked you in numerous positions, fought alongside you in a battle against demonic ducks and psychotic seagulls, and scarred you for life by making you a voyeur to her father’s perversion is certainly someone who leaves an impression of some kind. Something definitely worth talking about, right?
I walk away, swallowing down the nonsensical insecurity. It’s stupid to even dwell on a one-sided conversation that could have been about anything else.
“I’ll be back soon,” I say absently, not even hearing whatever Lydia says to that as I walk out the door, still mulling over what I heard.
It sounded like he was frustrated and talking to his boss, and a boss that was frustrating him wouldn’t be asking how his week was or anything.
A smirk crosses my lips. I’ll give him something worth talking about, alright.
As I strut down the stairs and form my devious plan, my eyes shift through the windows at the end of the foyer. Anderson is walking, head down and hands in his pockets, and I frown. Anderson never looks like he’s upset. It’s one of the most infuriating qualities about him. Mad? Yes. Bored? Too often. Cocky and arrogant? Almost always. But devastated? Never.
I jog out, looking around, and I spot him taking a seat at the gazebo from my last heart-to-heart conversation. Mom went there last night when I found out she’d visited Oz and hid her fabled heart all these years.
Groaning and silently cursing that bothersome angel on my shoulder that is louder than the devil on the other, I head toward Anderson. He’s slumped in the chair, his eyes on the wooden ground beneath him.
As I step up, he doesn’t even move or acknowledge me. When I sit down, he blows out a long breath.
“Not now, Kasha. Just… Just not now.”
His voice is tired and strained, and I actually feel like shit. Though I shouldn’t. Sure, I didn’t want him to ride off into the sunset with Jane after the way the two of them did Lydia, but I was actually giddy to see it ruined. And now I feel guilty.
“I hate having a conscience,” I grumble.
He snorts derisively. “Then share it with me. I could use one,” he says with a harsh exhale before sitting up and staring blankly in front of him.
Our shoulders brush, and I recline back, staring at nothing with him.
“Why do you do it?” I ask quietly.
“Cheat? Fuck shit up? Offer to marry girls I don’t love?” he deadpans, his eyes not moving from their spot on the yard. “You’ll need to be more specific, Kash.”
“All the cheating,” I say, considering most of that other stuff is woven around that.
“Hell if I know. I keep thinking I’ll be missing out and always wonder ‘what if’ if I pass something up that I really, really want. Then things get complicated, messy, confusing, and… I end up not knowing what I want. Then it feels like I’m stuck, and nothing I do makes it any better, so I don’t do anything at all. Things carry on until they finally blow up in my face, sort of like the shit with Lydia and now with Jane.”
“So it’s not just the thrill of doing something wrong? I’m genuinely trying to figure you out right now, and this is my non-judgey tone for once.”
After mom’s upheaval of insight, I realize I’ve been too judgmental and only seeing things on the surface. Cheating is wrong—and I’ll never waver on that—but what compels someone to cheat? Could it happen to anyone?
That’s not a fun thought to consider. I always labeled cheaters as cold and callous, uncaring and selfish… but Mom was just overlooked and starved for attention, desperate to feel as though she mattered to someone. What’s Anderson’s real story?
“I don’t know,” he finally says. It’s the quiet pain in his tone that has me worried for him.
It’s a first. I’ve never been an Anderson fan. It’s pissing me off that I now care.
The look on his face is vulnerable, as though he hates himself as much as Jane hates him. Even though, if there’s any merit to that gardener story, she has no right to hate him unless she hates herself too.
“So you didn’t love her?” I ask. “What about Lydia?”
He shrugs. “I keep thinking I have to love them, because why else would I want to see them more than once, right? Dad and Monica have been together for years, and he found her when he shouldn’t have. I just… I keep thinking I’ll miss something better if I stop looking.”
Underneath all that sliminess lies a hint of a romantic. It’s buried way under all his faults and indiscretions, but it’s there, collecting dust beneath the rubble.
“Can I make a suggestion?” I ask.
He snorts again. “Keep my dick in my pants when I’m with another girl?” he asks, though it sounds more hateful toward himself than me.
“Well, yeah. But I was thinking more about you just being single for a while. No sex. No women. Just focus on you and figure out what you want instead of trying to find it in someone else.”
He stays quiet for a moment, then finally looks over at me.
“Did you poison my beer?” he asks seriously, confusing the shit out of me. “Am I dying?” he adds.
There’s true concern in his eyes that proves he’s not entirely joking.
“Why the hell would you ask that?”
He narrows his eyes. “Why are you being nice to me instead of dancing around in circles, wagging your finger, and mocking me for being a cheating bastard again?”
I cringe. “You paint a really nasty picture of me.”
“I wasn’t trying to. I was saying that’s what I deserve, and you’re one of the few who actually calls me out on my shit. So why are you being nice?”
Blowing out a breath, I shrug. “Mom. Blame her. She went and fucked up all my inner rage, so deal with the gooey version of me for a minute. Consider what I said. It’s what I did after I lost my arm. It took me some time to come to terms with who I was and what I wanted in life. Dating someone during that
time was impossible. If you’re looking for some lost piece of you, you’re not going to find it in an endless string of vaginas no matter how many you wiggle into or how deep you root around.”
His eyebrows arch. “At least you haven’t lost your ability to paint a vivid imagery.”
“That, my fuck-shit stepbrother, will never fade.” I pat him on the shoulder, and he rolls his eyes, but I notice the small smile that cracks his lips.
“How will I know when I’m ready?” he asks. The question is so quiet that I almost miss it. “What happens if this is just who I am?”
It’s a depressing thought. I once believed Anderson was as deep as a teaspoon of rain during a drought. Now… Well, now I think I’ve been walking around with a veil over my eyes so that I only see things one-dimensionally. The truth is, I feel like I’ve only been seeing what I’ve wanted to see.
“My dad is a bit of a poet and romantic, as you’re well aware.” I don’t feel like mentioning his latest romance was with candlelight and a blowup doll in a hotel room. “He always says that the sick and depraved will sell their souls to evil. But the rest of us are just flawed souls looking for the redemption we don’t feel we deserve.”
His lips twitch. “I can picture him saying that with those fucked up magnifying glasses he wears.”
Laughing under my breath, I nod. “He says it every time I rant about someone who has pissed me off and he tries to tell me to give them another chance.”
“Like Monica?” he asks, getting a little too insightful for his own good.
“Yeah. Yeah. Enough with the gooey bonding stuff. In short, keep your dick on a leash for a while, and maybe once you figure out that missing piece, then you can find just one vagina to stick it in and be faithful to that vagina.”
“You’re so fucking crass.”
“Then you can pet the vagina. Show it all the attention it deserves. Be loyal to it. Take it on long walks on the beach…”
