WE ARE US

by Leigh, Tara

  “You’re lying. Why are you lying?”

  He knows. Of course, he knows. “I’m not. And you have to leave.” Before I give in and cause us even more pain, even more heartache.

  Gavin’s shoulders slump, his military bearing failing him as sadness pulls at his features. “Do you remember that day in the woods? The spring of our freshman year, and we were choosing our electives for fall. I told you I wanted to become an FBI agent…”

  I cross my arms warding off the memories. No. Don’t do this. Don’t take me back into the woods. Don’t make me remember us.

  But Gavin continues anyway. “A thunder storm rolled in and I walked you home. Do you remember what you said to me?”

  Yes. A shudder goes through me as I exhale. “No.”

  “You said, ‘I might need you to rescue me one day.’” Unshed tears sting my eyes and I bite down on the inside of my cheek until the taste of copper fill my mouth. Do not cry. Do not break down. “That day is today. Let me take you away from all this. Let me rescue you.”

  The question is like a trip wire, flipping a switch deep inside me. Gavin has no idea how many times I prayed for him to do just that—to appear, like some kind of mythical knight on a white horse, and spirit me away from the clutches of a nightmare.

  When he finally did, it was just for a short visit. A few hours. Long enough to catch up. But not long enough to be my hero.

  And now, he’s too late.

  A sudden, bitter laugh rips from my throat. “You want to be my hero… now?” I spin away from him, striding toward the floor-to-ceiling windows framing the impressive architectural sprawl of Manhattan. But I’m not really looking at the view. My eye is still turned inward, remembering a time when I did need rescuing, desperately.

  “Yes. If you let me, yes. But you can’t— You can’t marry him, Poppy.”

  I swallow a scream of regret and turn back around, facing Gavin once again. Maybe for the last time. “I can and I will.” There is more distance between us now, though the room is crowded with hurt and recriminations. “When I needed you, you weren’t there. So you don’t get to wear a cape now, show up at the last second and save the day. You’re no hero, Gavin. Not mine, anyway.”

  Chapter 33

  New York City

  Three hours later

  After Gavin left, I changed into workout gear and went to the gym, my body a lightning rod of adrenaline and anger. I was too furious to cry, too worked up to sit still.

  When I finally return to the apartment, my body is depleted and weak. I need a hot shower, a gallon of water, and a good night’s sleep. The security guard on duty is still the same one who saw me with Gavin, and I tell myself his judgmental glare is just my guilty conscience nagging at me.

  I know Tucker is in our apartment the second I open the door. I sense his anger as I cross the threshold, like a drop in barometric pressure just before a storm.

  I hesitate to close the door, reluctant to trap myself inside with Tucker, but he rises from the couch and closes it for me. “Where have you been?” Tucker is still in his suit, but he’s unbuttoned his shirt and loosened his tie. In his hand is a tumbler filled to the brim with amber liquid. Scotch, or maybe bourbon.

  Despite being “the boss’s son,” no one could ever accuse my fiancé of relying on genetics to get ahead. He leaves for the offices of his family’s private investment firm before I wake up and rarely comes home until I’m itching to change into pajamas and binge-watch Netflix. I don’t though. Because I discovered that Tucker doesn’t appreciate coming home to find me sprawled on the couch with a bag of popcorn and a can of soda. And why shouldn’t he deserve my full attention after a long day? Why wouldn’t I greet him with a happy kiss when he walks through the door?

  Noticing the clench of Tucker’s jaw, the tight grip of his fingers on the crystal, my fingers fumble with my coat. “The gym,” I answer, talons of anxiety clawing at my neck. Does Tucker know Gavin was here?

  “Bullshit,” he spits out, crossing the room before I’ve managed to get my arms out of the sleeves.

  I recoil as Tucker reaches behind me to grip both of my wrists, pinning me to the wall. “Hey— Stop!”

  “Where were you?” he repeats.

  “I was at the gym.” My sneakers squeak on the hardwood floor as I squirm against him.

  “How do I know you weren’t with him?” His eyes flash with anger. Just inches from mine, they’re bright and the slightest bit glazed.

  “Who… ?” My voice trails off. Tucker is drunk. The small hairs on my forearms and at the back of my neck rise up in alarm. Drunk Tucker cannot be trusted.

  “Don’t make me say his name, Poppy. There are security cameras all over this building, including one aimed straight at our front door.”

  Could he recognize Gavin from that one time he saw us together, all those years ago? Is that even possible?

  But it’s Tucker questions that are most disconcerting right now. I don’t like his tone. And I definitely don’t like the feeling of being cornered, caught. “Then you know he didn’t stay long.”

  “He stayed too damn long. And he never should have been here at all.” Tucker pulls at my wrists so that my back arches away from him and my hips jut forward, pressing against his. “Why the fuck was he here, Poppy? Tell me that.”

  “He heard we were engaged. H-he wanted to congratulate me,” I stutter over my words. “To wish us well.”

  The angry creases at the corner of Tucker’s eyes cut even deeper, and he rubs against me, hard enough to feel evidence of a desire I don’t yet reciprocate. “Really? And just what did you say?”

  I search for a response that would soothe the hard edges of Tucker’s temper. “I—”

  “Did you thank him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Invite him to our wedding?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “Did you fuck him? One last taste of his dick before our wedding?”

  “Tucker!” I fight against his grip, twisting away from him, but he’s too big, too strong. Too drunk. “Stop it. Let go of me, right now.”

  “After everything I’ve done for you, for your family. Look where you live, look how far you’ve come. Because of me, goddamn it. Everything you are, everything you have, is because of me.”

  I ignore the barbs he’s throwing my way, purposely trying to provoke me into a heated exchange. But I refuse to give it to him. Instead, I try another tactic, pushing the tension from my body and forcing myself to relax into his hold. Tucker can be temperamental, but he’s never physically hurt me before. At least, not since that night. “Tucker, please. This isn’t who you are. I love you. I’m marrying you.” I feel tears gathering and I let them fall, staring right at my fiancé as they slide down my cheeks. “You’re scaring me.”

  He drops my wrists, his expression one of surprise and shame as he backs away. “Shit. Poppy, I—”

  “It’s okay,” I reassure him, just wanting this moment to be over. There’s no point talking about it when he’s been drinking.

  And, truth be told, I would be pretty rattled myself if Tucker’s first love, the woman he thought he’d spend the rest of his life with, showed up the week before our wedding. But there’s never been anyone in Tucker’s life who compares to what I had with Gavin.

  Not even Wren, though she would definitely disagree.

  “Come on, let’s go to bed.” I finally step away from the wall and put my arm around Tucker, leading him into our bedroom.

  “I had a shit day, Poppy.” He drops onto the mattress with a groan. “Nothing like spotting an opportunity and watching it go down in flames. Too risky, they said. Too speculative, they said. Well, want to know what I say? A bunch of fucking pussies, all of them. My father included.”

  “They’ll come around,” I say, keeping my tone light and soothing as I bend down to help Tucker with his shoes.

  I showered at the gym, so it only takes me a few minutes to change into pajamas and brush my teeth. When I r
eturn, Tucker is sprawled across the mattress, his face relaxed and at peace. I take a moment to stare at him, at his broad forehead and aquiline nose and the cleft in his chin. His dark hair is messy against our pristine white sheets and my hand itches to smooth it away from his face.

  Of course, Tucker wanted me home after he’d had a bad day. And I shouldn’t blame him for losing his temper. Not only did he arrive home to an empty apartment, he discovered Gavin had been here.

  If anything, I’m angry at the stupid security guard. I can’t imagine Tucker checks the video footage every day. He must have been tipped off.

  Tucker loves me so much, and he counts on me. We’re a team.

  But when I close my eyes, it’s Gavin’s face I see. Gavin’s touch I crave. And Gavin’s hurt that coils through me, pulling so tight I can barely breathe.

  I need him to believe what I said. Every word, especially the vicious ones.

  Almost as much as I want him to read between my wounded accusations, root out every single lie.

  Tick tock, tick tock. One week until my wedding.

  Chapter 34

  The Metropolitan Club, New York City

  Wedding Day

  “See you soon, Mrs. Stockton.” Sadie’s bridesmaid dress swishes around her legs as she slips through the door, taking the last shred of my composure with her.

  Mrs. Stockton. In a few minutes, that will be me.

  I wish I could take a deep breath, but my Monique Lhuillier gown is not constructed to accommodate more oxygen than absolutely necessary. Tucker will be so embarrassed if I faint in front of everyone.

  Wren regards me with a sour smile plastered to her face. “Last chance to cut and run,” she trills, her voice high-pitched with strain. It’s probably taking everything she has not to rip off my dress and walk down the aisle herself. Wren is my maid of honor at Tucker and his mother’s insistence. We’re not friends, not even close. Although, even I can’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy for her today. Our families have been planning our wedding for years. Don’t get too attached, he’s only on loan.

  I’m about to be as attached as it’s possible to be.

  “I don’t think I’d get very far in this dress.” I run my hands over my sides, keeping my voice even and non-confrontational.

  There’s both anger and pain shining from Wren’s icy expression, but when Xenia taps lightly on the door, she lifts her chin at a haughty angle, pushes her shoulders back, and walks through it like she’s on a Paris catwalk.

  The chords of the premier harpist from the New York Philharmonic Orchestra filter into the small chamber where I’m waiting with Tucker’s father. He offers me his arm. “I guess it’s now or never.”

  “I guess so.” My stomach flutters nervously as I slip my hand through the crook in Mr. Stockton’s elbow. He’s told me to call him Hewitt, but I haven’t quite gotten used to it yet.

  This is it. My wedding day. I keep reminding myself to take it all in. To enjoy every moment.

  But it’s going by so fast.

  Mr. S—Hewitt is walking me down the aisle. My mother asked if I wanted her to attempt to contact my father, but I said no. He left when I could barely walk myself, so asking him to give me away felt more than a little disingenuous.

  But no more so, I realize now, than asking Tucker’s father. Thankfully, both he and his wife have warmed up to me since the day Tucker surprised us all with his proposal. Once they realized I was here to stay, and that I wasn’t some flashy gold-digger out to mine their family vault, the Stocktons seemed to accept that I would one day be their daughter-in-law.

  For the first time in over a year and a half, there is no ring on my left hand. It’s been temporarily displaced to my right, to make way for the wedding band Tucker will soon slip onto my finger. More diamonds, of course.

  I’d suggested a simple ring to the salesperson at Harry Winston. She’d looked at me as if I was a traitor to our gender, and placed an eternity band of flawless, emerald-cut stones on a velvet-lined tray. For women who prefer an understated look, she’d said to Tucker.

  Xenia’s minions make a few last-minute adjustments to my appearance, smoothing out the train of my dress and straightening my veil. Someone thrusts a bouquet at me, with the reminder to keep it at hip-height. Any higher and it will conceal the intricate beadwork sewn into the bodice.

  These are my last moments as Poppy Whitman.

  For the rest of my life I will be Poppy Stockton.

  One of the most venerable names in the country, the Stocktons represent safety and security. A life of privilege and invincibility.

  Soon the Stockton name, with everything it entails, will be mine.

  Xenia waves us forward. “Remember, better slow than fast. And,” she tugs at the ribbon-wrapped stems in my right hand, “don’t forget to smile. This is the happiest day of your life.”

  The doors open and all six hundred of our guests, most of whom I’ve never met, rise in unison.

  We step out onto the balcony and I hold tightly to Tucker’s father as we make our way down the grand staircase and into the Great Hall with its walls of white marble.

  Tucker is waiting for me at the end of a long aisle, along with my sister, Wren, and several Stockton cousins. Tucker’s side is filled with a matching number of fraternity brothers.

  For a moment, it feels like my feet, in their Louboutin stilettos, have grown roots. Tucker’s father looks down on me seriously, his cocoa-colored eyes exact replicas of Tucker’s. “Welcome to the family, Poppy.”

  The tremulous smile I’ve plastered to my face falters as grateful tears threaten to overflow my lashes. “It’s an honor… Hewitt.”

  He glances over at his son and then back at me. “Shall we?”

  Yards of white duchesse satin whisper as I take one tentative step, then another, along an ivory runner liberally sprinkled with soft pink rose petals.

  But for one blinding moment, it all disappears, replaced with an image of poppy petals scattered outside the entrance to an abandoned cave. Flickering candles and a pile of mismatched pillows. And Gavin.

  I stumble slightly, the tip of my heel catching on a wrinkle in the satin runner. Tucker’s father tightens his arm, and I doubt anyone even notices. But I do. The slight misstep brings me back to reality.

  Gavin isn’t here. I have to leave him where he belongs. In the past.

  It’s an arcane habit, a bride donning a veil to hide her face on the day of her wedding, but I am grateful for it now. It allows me a few extra seconds to compose my features into a serene mask that reveals nothing of my inner turmoil.

  Unnecessary turmoil.

  I am the luckiest girl in the world to be marrying Tucker Stockton and I know it. I do, really.

  By the time Tucker lifts my veil, I’ve found my equilibrium again. I am the perfect bride he deserves.

  Chapter 35

  Bora Bora, Tahiti

  Honeymoon

  It is a long flight to Tahiti, thirteen hours, but from the minute we land, I know it was worth it. French Polynesia is like nothing I’ve ever experienced. Translucent water, the most perfect shade of aquamarine, sprawls like a glistening blanket below an endless azure sky. The air is sultry and tropical, fragrant with the scent of gardenias, hibiscus, and the faintest hint of vanilla. Coconut palm trees stand like soldiers, their leaves gently swaying in the breeze, a quiet whisper on the wind.

  Our home for the next ten days is a luxurious, glass-bottomed villa. It perches on stilts driven into the ocean, and a staircase connects our terrace to a breathtaking lagoon. Everywhere I look is sun and sky and sand and sea.

  It is, truly, paradise.

  “Do we really have to go home in a week? Can’t we stay here forever?” I exhale a contented sigh, staring out at the most breathtaking sunset I’ve ever seen. Vibrant pinks and purples are smeared across the horizon with the restraint of a toddler’s finger painting, shards of color reflected onto the serene surface of the ocean.

  Sitting beside m
e on the deck of our villa, Tucker glances at me with an indulgent smile and takes a sip of his post-swim, pre-dinner cocktail.

  It’s a moment. Not a moment in time. But a moment.

  The slow blink of Tucker’s inky black lashes, the relaxed slope of his shoulders, the way he holds his glass with barely enough pressure to keep it aloft. Everything about Tucker in this moment conveys happiness and comfort. That I make him happy and comfortable.

  That I am loved.

  And in this moment, our moment… everything that happened between us feels preordained. As if we’ve been pushed together by the hand of fate herself.

  The chirp of Tucker’s phone interrupts my musings.

  “Who was that?” I ask after he ends the call. It’s an unnecessary question. Tucker and Wren still finish each other’s sentences, still laugh at the same inside jokes. I know it was her on the phone.

  “Work.” His voice is nonchalant.

  “Since when do you and Wren work together?”

  The vein that runs along his temple pulses, his jaw clenching as he reaches for the sunglasses he’d idly tossed on the table earlier. “Since always. Wren’s an art consultant, I’m an investment advisor. We both hunt the same whales.”

  “We’re on our honeymoon,” I remind him.

  “Business is business, Poppy. And there are people I’d like to meet while we’re out here. People Wren has known for years.”

  “Here, in Bora Bora?” I hate how needy I sound.

  “No. But we’ve already been here a week. You’ll love Indonesia, too.”

  My head twists so fast I hear a crack, followed immediately by a jolt of pain. “Indonesia?” I repeat, rubbing the ache just below my ear.

  “Yes. I’ll probably only be busy for a day or two. I’m sure there’s plenty of sightseeing tours for you to enjoy. I’ll have the concierge look into it.” Tucker’s lips arrange themselves into a satisfied grin beneath his mirrored sunglasses.