Nailed

by Jasinda Wilder

  I snort. “That’s stupid.”

  “Okay, well then, you go first. Who have you been talking to and what did they say, and why were you asking them about me?”

  I arch an eyebrow. “Nice try. You go first.”

  He huffs in annoyance. “You promise you’ll actually answer if I do?”

  I nod and hold out my hand, and we shake. “Promise,” I say.

  “All right, but before I answer I gotta know how much of the unvarnished truth you think you can actually handle without getting mad?”

  I wrinkle my nose. “How am I supposed to be able to gauge that without knowing what the truth is?”

  Ryder’s brow furrows, which shouldn’t be attractive, but is. “Oh. Good point.”

  “But let’s assume I can handle the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

  “So help you God?”

  “Nah, this isn’t court.”

  He laughs. “Fine, the whole truth, then.” He takes a long, fortifying drink of his beer, and then levels his eyes at me. “I had a couple of reasons. One, you’d made it clear from before the first date that if we had sex, it’d be well after you’d gotten to know me, and that things would be moving slowly. So, no sex on the first date or even the fourth or fifth. Which was fine—seriously, no big deal. But four dates in, I knew I couldn’t keep my end of the bargain.”

  I frown. “What do you mean?”

  “I just couldn’t do it. I’m too fucking attracted to you. When we kissed after that fourth date, it took literally everything I had to not pressure you into sex.”

  I blink at him. “So you just stopped answering my texts and calls?”

  “It wasn’t just that.”

  “But wait, pressure me? What does that even mean?”

  “It means—”

  “Were you worried I couldn’t resist the pressure? That I wouldn’t be able to say no if I wasn’t ready? Seriously, I don’t see how that leads you to just vanishing on me.”

  Ryder sighs. “I told you, it was more than that.”

  “Then do elucidate, please.”

  Ryder frowns. “Elusi-what?”

  I roll my eyes. “Don’t act dumber than you are.”

  “For real, I don’t know that word.”

  Elucidate,” I say, pronouncing it clearly: el-OO-sih-dayt. “Explain. Make clear.”

  He nods. “Got it. Elucidate.” He hesitates. “That kiss sort of freaked me out a little.”

  My heart thumps. “Me too.” I meet his eyes. “Why did it freak you out?”

  “It just…it felt…weird.” He sighs, waving a hand. “I don’t know how to put it. More intense than I’m used to? I don’t really know.”

  “Like there was a connection between us just from the kiss.”

  He nods. “Yeah, pretty much. And just to be honest, Laurel, I’m not sure I’m ready for anything with a connection that strong.”

  I snort. “You’re forty-something years old, Ryder. If you’re not ready now, when will you be?”

  “Forty-three. And…never?” He grins, though, and I’m not sure if that’s a joke.

  I tilt my head. “You’re not covering the truth by pretending it’s a joke, are you?”

  He sighs. “See? You’re not supposed to be able to see through my bullshit that easily.”

  “But I can,” I say, smirking. “So don’t bother bullshitting me.”

  He grunts in amused annoyance. “Today is kind of an anniversary for me, which is why I’m here alone—I’m drowning my misery.”

  “Anniversary of what?”

  “My divorce.”

  I nod. “Ah. That I totally understand.”

  “Yeah, I guess you would.”

  I smile sympathetically. “So, was it a messy one?”

  He lets out a sarcastic bark. “Are they ever not messy?”

  “Good point,” I say.

  He eyes me. “You don’t really want to hear this story, do you? Isn’t it bad form to talk about exes?”

  “On first dates or early in the relationship, yes, but this isn’t a date, and we don’t have a relationship because you ghosted me.”

  He heaves a sigh and then takes a long drink of his beer. “I didn’t ghost you.”

  “Not sure what else you’d call abruptly cutting off all communication without warning or explanation.”

  “I just did explain.”

  I frown. “Yeah…because I stalked you here and demanded one.”

  He snorts a laugh. “So you admit you stalked me?”

  “Well, if you must know, I asked Audra and Imogen to ask Franco and Jesse where I could find you, and they told me. So, it wasn’t that hard.”

  “I mean, I am here pretty much every night.”

  I lift an eyebrow. “Every night?”

  He shrugs. “Billy serves good burgers, and cooking ain’t really my thing.” He lifts the pint glass in his hand. “Most nights, I have one or two, sometimes three. I’m not a heavy drinker, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

  I lift both hands palms out. “I wasn’t judging.” I laugh, then. “Nicely done, by the way.”

  He makes a face that’s somewhere between a puzzled frown and an amused grin. “What?”

  “Avoiding answering my question.”

  He blows out a breath. “Fine. Yes—it was messy. From start to finish, the whole fucking relationship was messy. The way we met, hooking up, dating, getting engaged, getting married, getting divorced, the whole thing was an unmitigated fucking disaster.”

  I blink, eyes wide. “Wow. Okay.”

  He gestures at me with his pint glass. “You asked.”

  I nod. “I did.” I roll a hand. “Continue.”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “Curiosity?”

  He laughs. “Morbid curiosity, then.” He pauses for a moment, thinking. “All through high school and trade school, I had a weird nickname: Bob Vila.”

  I laugh. “Like, the guy from the tool commercials and This Old House?”

  He snorts, nodding. “That’s the guy. You know why they called me that?”

  “Because you were into construction?”

  “Electrical work is not the same as construction, FYI. And no. Jesse was the first to call me Bob Vila, back in…tenth grade? Eleventh? Somewhere in there. It was because I was always dating these girls who were, according to James, Jesse, and Franco, fixer-uppers.” He uses air quotes around the phrase. “Meaning, the really messed-up girls from shitty backgrounds who I thought needed me to save them.”

  I grimace. “Oh. That’s…fun.”

  He laughs. “It’s a complicated psychological thing. I guess I just wanted to feel needed—at least that’s what the therapist I saw after my divorce told me.” He shrugs. “It was a series of train wrecks, to be honest. One girl after another was messed up somehow and would get needy and clingy and weepy and I’d end up breaking up with them because I’d realize they needed more fixing than I could provide, and I’d promise myself the next girl I dated wouldn’t be needy.”

  “Yet they always were,” I suggest.

  He nods. “Exactly. And then I met Amy. I was freshly single, coming out of another relationship with a girl who was…well, let’s just say popping Norco like Tic Tacs was the least of her issues.”

  “Yikes.”

  “Yeah. So I met Amy at a bar, and we hit it off. Flirting, lots of back and forth, I thought she was hot, she seemed to like me, seemed fairly normal, no obvious signs of crazy. And trust me, I was getting good by that point at seeing signs of crazy.” He concentrated on his glass. “So, we, uh…hooked up. I was determined that’s all it would be—remember, I was less than two weeks out of a relationship that had really taken its toll on me. Only, I messed up—I stayed the night. Not intentionally, but still. We’d been drinking, and it got late, and I meant to get up and go home, but ended up passing out instead.”

  “Let me guess, she had a boyfriend.”

  He smirks. “Not quite. We’d
gone back to her place after the bar—again, seems normal, right? Only, I wake up, and she’s not there, and there’s a chick standing over me, staring down at me looking pissed, and it’s not Amy.”

  I frown. “Huh? Like, you slept with the wrong girl?”

  He laughs. “No, god no—I wasn’t that drunk. The girl was totally different, brunette to Amy’s blond, tall to Amy’s short—a totally different person. And she was seriously pissed off, because she’d stayed the night at her boyfriend’s house, came home to get her books for class, and found a random dude naked in her bed.”

  I break out into laughter. “What? How does that happen?”

  He shakes his head. “It turned out the girl whose bed I was in—Shelly, her name was—realized I had hooked up with Amy…her former roommate. Shelly had kicked Amy out because she kept stealing money, not paying rent, and doing other crazy shit.”

  I blink. “Wow. Quite an impression. So…how did you end up in Shelly’s bed?”

  “Amy was still between apartments, and needed somewhere to bring me so we could…you know. And apparently she’d kept a copy of Shelly’s key, and somehow knew Shelly would be at her boyfriend’s that night, and figured Shelly wouldn’t mind us using her bed.”

  I make a disgusted face. “Um…gross!”

  “I know! I was mortified. But apparently Shelly was fairly familiar with Amy’s bullshit and wasn’t too surprised. She told me to let myself out and feel free to not come back. I’m assuming she threw away her sheets once I left.” He laughs.

  I shake my head. “Wow. So…you ended up marrying this Amy girl? The one who stole from her roommate, kept secret copies of keys, lied about being homeless, and brought you to her ex-roommate’s apartment for sex?”

  He laughs, nodding. “Yep, I did.”

  “Wow. Do tell how that happens.”

  “She was…convincing. I’m not justifying it, mind you. I knew it was a bad idea, I knew it was only going to get me into trouble, but I was…addicted, I guess. Because she really needed me. All the guys were like, ‘danger, danger, abort, abort—this chick is fucking nuts,’ but I just couldn’t resist.” He sighs. “She was a deadly combination of hot, good in bed, and needy.” He frowns at me. “Sorry, I’m just…telling the truth.”

  “No need to apologize—I did ask.” I laugh, shaking my head. “She must have been really hot and really good in bed for you to overlook that amount of crazy from the first hookup.”

  He nods. “Yeah, I guess she was. I don’t know if I can even explain it or rationalize it now, honestly. I just… I couldn’t help myself.” A pause. “That’s kind of par for the course, how things with her started. Only…it got worse. She was bipolar but refused to get diagnosed properly, refused any kind of medication, and insisted her self-medication worked fine…that being copious amounts of alcohol, pot, and whatever pills she could get her hands on, but mostly a lot of boozing.”

  I wince. “That never works out well.”

  He shakes his head. “No, not at all. We got married after dating for eight months—which again, all the guys pleaded with me not to do, and I ignored them. So, there I was, married at twenty-three to a bipolar, alcoholic, pill addict with a lot of emotional baggage. I never really knew much about her past because she’d never talk about it, but I knew it involved sexual abuse of some kind, probably physical abuse, chronic homelessness, and who knows what else. But she put on a good show, you know? When she was up, she was way up. Super bubbly, full of life and energy and joy and just…an infectious wildness. She made you feel like anything was possible. You never knew where the day would take you when she was on an upswing. She was totally unpredictable—which was part of the fun. She’d decide to go roller skating in the rain, or drive around topless at eighty miles per hour, or break into a YMCA in the middle of the night to go skinny-dipping. And she’d always get away with it, somehow. Looking back, it was miraculous we never got arrested, because she did some crazy illegal shit, and I was always right there with her. But when she was up, she was invincible, and she convinced you she was, and the facts seemed to agree with her—she never got hurt, never got arrested or caught, and the crazy shit we did was always a hell of a rush.”

  “I can see how that’d suck you in,” I say.

  “Right, well, the downswings were the polar opposite…thus the term bipolar, I guess. When she was down, the world was ending. Life was meaningless. She became, in her own mind, the most horrible, useless, disgusting, fat, ugly, sad sack of shit walking the face of the earth. When she was up, drinking and drugs were just icing on the cake, enough to loosen her up and add to the fun. But when she was down, she got vicious with it. She’d kill fifths like you and I would polish off a bottle of beer, and then she’d pop a handful of pills or smoke a bunch of pot. And she’d…” He sighs. “These benders would last for days. I couldn’t stop ’em, couldn’t slow her down, and couldn’t rein her in. She’d vanish for days on end, and after a year or two of living through the cycles I started to learn that she always ended up in the same places. There was this park which must have been near where she grew up or something, because she’d always crawl into one of those yellow plastic tubes that connect one part of a play structure to another. I found her there by accident once—I happened to be driving past the park looking for her, and just happened to look at the exact right moment to see this shape in the tube, wearing what she’d been wearing when she’d run off three days before. After that, I’d find her there eight out of ten times.”

  I wince. “Yikes.”

  “Yeah.” He’s quiet for a while, and I don’t rush it. “Those benders…man, they started taking their toll, and I’m talking financially, too. Eventually, her luck started to run out.”

  “Uh, oh,” I say, hearing the heaviness in his voice.

  He nods. “Yep. She got in a car wreck—totaled the used Hyundai I’d bought her, and miraculously didn’t hurt herself or anyone else. That was the beginning of the really ugly period—I told her that she had to get help. She agreed, tried to cut down on her drinking, promised she’d see someone. And she did, a couple times. And then she started feeling better—the upswing of her cycle, and was convinced she was all better, and quit seeing the doctor, quit taking the meds she was prescribed to manage her mood swings.”

  “That never ends well,” I say.

  He shakes his head. “Nope, but it’s part of the cycle. You hit an upswing and mistake it for being fixed and decide you can manage without the meds, and then the next time you shift to a downswing, it’s a huge crash, and it’s nastier than ever. She got trapped in this cycle. I refused to buy her a new car until I was sure she was clean and stable, and it took about two and a half years, but finally she convinced me she was okay.” He’s not drinking his beer, just swirling it, staring into it. “So, like an idiot, I believed her and bought her a car. A used Wrangler. I guess in the back of my mind I sort of knew she wasn’t fixed, because the Jeep I bought her was older, and not in great condition, but I’d had to pay the fines for the wreck, and my insurance premium went up, and business was getting a little sketchy for reasons outside my control, so things were tight, but she wanted a job and she really seemed to be more stable than I’d ever seen her.”

  “It didn’t last, huh?”

  He barks a laugh, a bitter sound. “It lasted six months. And, to be honest, those six months were the best of our relationship. She was working, she was fairly level, didn’t drink all that much or smoke or pop pills, she was happy, she was affectionate, business started to pick up again.” He sighs. “And then she got a DUI. She was over twice the limit, in the middle of the day. I took care of it—paid the fines, bailed her out of jail, got her car out of impound, went to court to get her fines reduced, which cost a mint in lawyer fees. And then, bam, less than two months later—two months of her going to AA once a week, and I know she went because I took her and waited outside and picked her up—she got another DUI. This time, she took my truck in the middle of the night—she was
hammered and stoned and decided she needed food to sober up, and she went to Denny’s.”

  “Ryder, god…how much more could you have taken, at that point?”

  He sighs, a pained expression on his face. “I loved her, Laurel. We’d been together ten years by that point. How could I just abandon her? She’d get herself killed without me.”

  I winced. “God, that had to be hard.”

  “There aren’t really words for it, honestly. Yeah, I thought about leaving her all the time. But I kept coming back to the question of what would happen to her without me?”

  “So what was the breaking point?”

  “She led the police on a high-speed chase through a quiet suburban neighborhood, hammered off her ass. And then, while on a high-speed chase, she popped a handful of pills, threw them down with a slug straight from a bottle of vodka she’d bought with loose change, and OD’d. Behind the wheel. I think at this point she was trying to kill herself, she just didn’t have the…I don’t know, courage? That’s the wrong word, but I don’t know what the right word is, just that she wasn’t going to cut her wrists or shoot herself, so OD-ing behind the wheel was her way of trying to end things, I think. Only, her luck held out one last time—going ninety through an intersection she rear-ended a car. The other driver was seriously injured, but Amy didn’t have a scratch. The lucky part was that the other driver didn’t die, which was a miracle, considering how bad the wreck was.”

  “Jesus, Ryder.”

  He laughs bitterly. “Sorry you asked, now, aren’t you?” He sighs. “There was no avoiding jail time for her, this time. The costs piled up, my debt increased, and I was getting desperate. I knew it was only a matter of time before she killed herself or someone else. So, when she got out of jail, I gave her an ultimatum. She had to get clean and stay clean, or I’d leave her.”

  “Good for you.”

  The bitter laugh, this time, was painful to hear. “Yeah, if I’d only had the balls to keep it. I gave her the ultimatum in the car on the way home from jail. Mistake, that was—a big mistake. She opened the car door and unbuckled—and we were on the freeway doing seventy-five. Stone-cold sober, she told me she’d kill herself if I ever left her.”