I exhale sharply. “Oh, wow.”
He nods. “Yep. So…I mean, I wasn’t surprised, but she was dangling a foot out the door of a moving truck, threatening to throw herself out if I didn’t promise to stay with her, so I promised.”
“God, Ryder.”
He takes a sip, finally, but a tiny one. More for something to do to cover his emotions than anything. “Part of her sentence for the crash was court-ordered mandatory rehab, the kind you can’t just check yourself out of when you feel like you’re all better. The rehab…that was the last straw for me, financially. I ended up having to sell my business to keep from going bankrupt, had to sell the house, my truck, everything except my tools and this old, beat up, rusted-out piece of shit antique I’d salvaged as a project. I’d been fixing it up on the weekends, and I had it running, sort of. It wasn’t worth anything, so I couldn’t sell it, and it ended up being my only mode of transportation. The tools, the truck, and my personal effects were all I had left. I had this month-to-month lease at a dumpy apartment while I figured shit out, and that’s when everything blew up.”
“What do you mean, blew up? How much more blown up could things get?”
“Right? Broke, unemployed, all but homeless, my wife in rehab? Couldn’t get any worse, huh?” Another bitter laugh. “I got divorce papers in the mail.”
I rear back in shock. “What?”
He nods. “That was my reaction. I thought it was a cruel joke or something. Until I got the letter the next day—she’d sent the letter at the same time as the papers, but the papers arrived first for some reason. Her letter basically said rehab had shown her how much of a mess she’d made of her life and mine, and how she finally had to face the reality that she’d never be able to get clean if we were together because I’d keep bailing her out, keep fixing things for her. She apologized for everything, promised she was going to get better, and that if I had to move on, she’d understand, but she hoped I’d wait for her.”
I shake my head, struggling for words. “Wow. I mean just…wow. Was it real?”
He nods. “I called her. She told me it was the only way she’d survive, that she had to face her demons on her own, and she had to know she didn’t have me to keep fixing things for her.” He rubs his face. “And I realized she was right. I’d gone bankrupt—or all but—trying to save her. So…I signed the papers. The day the divorce was final, I got a call from Jesse saying that James’s wife had died, and that he needed us. Well, considering I was basically at a dead-end anyway, I packed my shit, put my furniture in storage, and moved in with James, Jesse, and Franco. I went to work for James and, eventually, put my life back together again.”
He tosses back his beer, and then glances at me.
“So,” he says. “Your turn.”
Chapter 3
I stir my drink with the little black straw—I’d been so wrapped up in Ryder’s story that I’d forgotten to drink it, and now the ice is melted and the lime is floating soggily on the surface.
“My story is sort of similar,” I say. “Just less…”
“Batshit crazy?” Ryder suggests.
I nod. “Yeah, pretty much. I dated some disasters in high school and college—mistakes and assholes, bad boys and bastards. Think of the girl who seems to have a nose for the worst possible guy she could pick…that was me. So then I met Paul. He was nice. Not a bad boy, not an asshole, not a drunk or a drug addict.”
“Sounds great on paper,” Ryder says with a grin. “What was wrong with him?”
I poke at the lime in my drink. “It kind of sounds lame, now that I’ve heard your story.” I laugh. “I should’ve gone first.”
Ryder chuckles. “Let me guess: mood swings?”
I nod. “Yep. The official diagnosis, obtained during our belated and ill-fated attempt at marriage therapy, was bipolar disorder with narcissistic tendencies.”
Ryder winces. “Ouch.”
“Yeah. So basically, everything was about him. When he was depressed, it was my fault and my responsibility to make him feel better, and when he was feeling good, he was invincible and perfect and expected me to go along with all his crazy ideas or I was a bad wife.”
“What was his brand of crazy?” Ryder asks.
I laugh—bitterly, yes, but with amusement gleaned from hindsight. “Oh man, you name it. He woke up in the middle of the night about six months after we got married and decided he needed a tattoo, so we drove through the night into Chicago and got matching tattoos.”
He looks me over. “So where’s yours?”
I snicker. “I managed to talk him into letting me get a tiny little infinity symbol on my left hipbone. By tiny, I mean it could’ve fit on my index finger.”
“Can I see it?” Ryder asks with a smirk.
“No, because I got it removed the day the divorce was finalized.” I angle my left hip upward, shove down the waistband of my skirt and point at the faint outline where it had been. “That’s all that’s left.”
“That’s not all that crazy,” Ryder says. “So far, I win.”
I cackle. “Oh, you’re gonna win, no question about that.” I wave a hand. “He bought a motorcycle, once. We were all but broke, because he was between jobs and I was working three jobs to make ends meet. He was on one of what I called his wild hair swings, where he would get a wild hair up his ass about something. That time it was thinking he’d…I don’t know, become a motorcycle racer or something. So he takes the money we’d saved—I’d saved—so we could afford a down payment on a modest house that didn’t have a leaky roof and wasn’t surrounded by crack dens, and bought a crotch rocket.”
Ryder tries unsuccessfully to suppress a laugh. “Wow. What a dick.”
“Yeah, and he’d bought it used from some guy he’d met at a bar, so there was no returning it.” I sigh. “He crashed it two weeks later and broke his leg.”
“That sucks.”
“Yeah, and he totaled the bike, and we didn’t have insurance, so we were out the money I’d saved, the motorcycle was trashed, and we owed a bunch of money for his hospital bill.” I shake my head. “That’s about average for Paul on his wild hair part of the cycle. He’d get a crazy idea and spend money we didn’t have on something we didn’t need. He’d drag me out of bed in the middle night, get himself hurt, and put us more into debt.”
“And his downswing?”
I take a long sip of my watery drink. “Basically he became the most morose, depressed, verbally and emotionally abusive asshole to ever walk the earth.” I pause. “And, if we’re telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth…he was also insanely sexually demanding during his downswing. When he was manic, he rarely even thought about me or sex—he was too excited about whatever his latest cockamamy idea was. But when he was depressed, he became convinced the only thing that could make him happy again was me…only, it never worked. It just made him more depressed and angry—usually because I’d done something wrong. I came too soon, or too late, or I failed to read his mind about what position he wanted…” I blush, trailing off. “I shouldn’t be telling you this.”
“Amy was the same way,” Ryder says. “On a depressive cycle, she was the neediest person alive. I couldn’t keep up—honestly that’s hard to admit, as a man, but it’s just the truth. She…needed me more frequently and more intensely than I was capable of sustaining. I mean, sex four times a day every day for a month straight sounds like fun, especially when you’re in the middle of a dry spell, but the reality is…”
“Exhausting? Mentally, emotionally, and physically draining?” I suggest.
He nods, looking grateful that I understand. “Exactly. I’m totally capable of keeping up with that for a week, two weeks, but after three weeks I start to need some breaks, and maybe some snacks.”
“So, you’re not an inexhaustible sex machine?” I joke.
“I’d rather you know the truth now than find out later,” he says, going with it. “I’d hate to disappoint you.”
&nbs
p; “All joking aside, I get it.” I find myself unable to look him in the eye as I say this. “Paul was the same way. And…I always thought I revved pretty high in the libido department. To be honest—I always struggled with feeling like my previous boyfriends didn’t want me as much as I wanted them so, at first, Paul needing me like that was refreshing. But when it turned into weeks and months of him wanting sex two, three, four times a day, I just…I got burned out. But if I turned him down, it would…” I trailed off.
“Make the depression and anger even more vicious?” Ryder suggests. “Turn it on you. Make it your fault.”
“Exactly.”
Our eyes meet, understanding and empathy shuttling between us.
I smile. “I honestly never thought I’d meet anyone who would actually be able to understand the whole thing.”
Ryder laughs. “You didn’t?”
I wince. “Good point.” Another silence, this one less amicable and more awkward, more tense. “So. Now what?”
Ryder looks away. “Honestly, I don’t know if us sharing the whole bipolar ex thing makes me feel any better.”
I frown. “It doesn’t?”
He shakes his head. “The problem I’m having isn’t that I don’t like you or that I’m not attracted to you—the problem is, I didn’t need another reason to feel even more connected to you.”
I sigh slowly, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Ahhhh. So you’re like Audra.”
He blinks. “What? How do you mean?”
“Allergic to anything resembling a serious relationship.”
He scratches his fingers through his thick red beard. “Oh. I don’t know about allergic, but it’s definitely something I’ve avoided since Amy.”
“Which is why you only sleep with the crazy chicks?”
He chuckles. “I don’t only sleep with crazy chicks. It’s just what I seem to gravitate to, for whatever reason.”
I arch an eyebrow at him. “You can’t really be that lacking in self-awareness, can you?”
He’s silent a moment. “Meaning what?”
“Meaning you absolutely do sleep with crazy chicks by intentional design. They’re safe. A crazy chick burned you, broke your heart, shattered your ability to trust, and left you broke. Therefore, by sleeping with the crazies, you’re certain to be safe from falling in love again, because there’s no way in blue hell you’d fall in love with another one.”
He rocks back in the booth, staring at me through narrowed eyes, his jaw grinding. “You don’t play fair.”
I shrug. “I’m way past the point in my life where I’m gonna play games or mince words, Ryder.”
“I see that.”
“I’m not crazy, and you know it. I’m a risk—that’s why I scare you.”
He leans forward, eyes blazing. “I’m not scared of you, Laurel.”
I smirk. “Oh yes, you are. Have the balls to admit it, Ryder.”
Ryder’s hazel eyes crackle and spit sparks. “It’s not fear. Risk-aversion isn’t fear. Risk-aversion is prudence, and that’s it.”
I have to laugh at that. “Oh, that’s rich! Risk-aversion is prudence? You’re delusional.”
He frowns, truly upset, now. “Oh, and you’re not?”
“Risk-averse? Yes. Delusional? No.” I tap the table. “I fully admit my choice in men since Paul and I divorced has been less than stellar. Honestly, my choice in men my whole life has been abysmal. I know that about myself. That’s why I’m afraid to let myself really, truly like you—that’s why I went out of my way to find reasons not to like you. The answer to your initial question, by the way, is that I asked Audra, Imogen, and Nova for things about you that would make me like you less. I’m worried you’re harboring some inner asshole-ness that I’m not seeing. I didn’t see Paul clearly until it was too late. Like Amy, there are resources available to him to help manage his bipolarism, but he chooses not to use them—he refused to see anyone, refused to take medication no matter how I begged him. We both know using the term ‘crazy’ is unkind and unfair, and that what our respective exes suffered were illnesses they couldn’t control. But if Paul had been willing to try to manage his illness in a healthy and constructive way, it probably would have worked between us. He had moments where he could be wonderful—especially where Nate was concerned.”
I sigh. “And you seem rational and sane and interesting, and god knows I’m attracted to you, but I’m scared, and that’s why I’m being so cautious. I’m just terrified I’ll fall for you and you’ll turn out to be just as much a mistake as Paul and all the other guys I’ve dated since then. I’m embarrassed to admit it but, sadly, every one of them ended up being an asshole in one way or another.”
Ryder tugs on his beard. “Well, I think I can safely say I don’t think I’m harboring any inner asshole-ness.”
I point at him. “You did quit answering my calls and texts after four dates and a kiss.”
“‘All right, we’ll call it a draw,’” he says, in a fake British accent.
I laugh. “You can’t quote Monty Python at me and think it’ll win you enough points with me to get you out of this.” I’ve long since finished my drink, but don’t really want another one just yet. “Ryder, look—If you don’t want to see me, that’s fine. I can handle that. But at least say it to my face.”
He sighs. “I apologize, Laurel. It was a childish decision and a dick move, and I’m sorry.”
I wait, but he seems disinclined to say anything else. “But?”
He rolls a shoulder. “I just…I’m not there.”
I nod. “I see. Well, so be it.” I slide out of the booth. “Thank you for saving me from Mr. Hairy Knuckles, for the drink, and for the explanation.”
“Laurel—”
I settle my purse on my shoulder. “I’ll see you around, Ryder.”
I make it to my car, and then I feel a strong hand on my waist. I don’t turn, because I know without looking that it’s him.
“It’s not that simple, Laurel,” he murmurs. “Even beyond my risk-aversion, the reason I vanished like I did is because I’m so attracted to you it makes me fucking crazy.”
“That’s backward to me, and I don’t buy it.” I arch an eyebrow. “If you’re attracted me, you wouldn’t vanish—you’d pursue me.”
He spins me around, presses me up against the door of my car, his forehead against mine, his nose beside mine, his lips brushing mine. “You’re determined to take things slow, and with my attraction to you being at a fucking eleven, that’s not an option.”
“Oh,” I whisper. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”
“Would it have made a difference?”
“Maybe.”
“What happened to being able to resist me pressuring you?
“Is this you pressuring me?”
“Not even close.”
“To be clear, when I said I wanted to take things slow, I didn’t mean we’d never have sex, or that it would take, like, a year of dating,” I murmur. “It’s just that I didn’t want you to expect it right away. I wanted to have time to assess what you were like before I let you that far into my life.”
“Because it wouldn’t be just sex, for you.”
“Is it ever?”
He nods. “Quite frequently, in my experience.”
“Well, my experience has been different.” My hands rest on his shoulders, roaming the mountainous curves of his heavy muscle. “I go into something telling myself it’ll be just sex, and then I end up with feelings, and the guy ends up being an asshole or needy or messed up somehow, and I get stuck in the same old cycle of dealing with a guy who needs me.”
“I don’t need you,” he murmurs.
“No?”
“But I sure as fuck want you.”
“That sounds refreshing. I wonder what it’s like?” I say, sounding like I’m joking when I’m not, not at all.
He laughs. “I have no idea—I’ve often wondered the same thing.”
He’s still kissing-cl
ose, but he hasn’t kissed me. “What are we doing here, Ryder?”
“I’m waiting for you to change your mind.”
“About what?”
“Me kissing you.”
I frown. “Why would I?”
His smirk is devilish and ravenous. “Because once I kiss you, I make no guarantees that I’ll be able to slow down.”
“But you’re not there yet, in an emotional sense.”
“Right.”
“So you’ll kiss me, and probably escalate things into a more serious physical territory, but you can’t promise me anything beyond that?”
“Exactly.”
“Can you promise me one thing?” I trail my fingers down through his beard.
“What?”
“Instead of vanishing on me, when you get too scared of the feelings I know I’m bound to develop for you, at least give me the decency of a heads-up before you dump me.”
He laughs, a quiet rumble. “I can promise you that much.”
“I can live with that.”
The need to kiss him has been percolating inside me since I got here, since he told me he’d ghosted me because he wanted me too much. And now, his hands on my waist, his lips brushing mine, the need boils over and I lift up onto my toes, slamming my lips against his. He grunts in surprise, and then his hands slide across my back and curl around my waist and gather me closer so my breasts flatten against his chest and our hips meet. I knot my fingers in his beard and tug him closer, opening my mouth to his.
I feel him thickening between us, feel him hardening against my belly. My nipples ache at the feeling, and my stomach flips and my heart flutters.
I pull away just enough that I can whisper. “I should clarify something,” I mutter.
“Hmmm?”
“I don’t take it slow because I don’t want you, Ryder. I take it slow because I do.”
“Can we go somewhere?” he asks, his palm skating across the small of my back.
I groan, resting my forehead against his. “I wish.”
“Fuck. I knew it.”
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