All Stirred Up

by Brianne Moore

  Susan jumps, but Rufus just raises an eyebrow and says, “All right. Moving on …”

  “I came back home to Scotland,” says Chris. “Not much for me in London. I was in very poor shape, not sleeping, not eating, couldn’t figure out what to do with myself, sure my whole career was over.” He shakes his head. “Twenty-something drama. Feels like the whole world’s coming to an end. I stayed with my best mate. We grew up together, he and I. He lived next door to us, and his mum was sort of a mum to me after mine left. But he’d fallen in with some rough types. He was getting away from it when I came back. He’d gone legit, was learning a trade, seeing a nice girl, all that. But I, uh …” Chris blinks very hard, glances away, clenches his hands. The silence stretches, long and painful. “I felt like I needed something to help me. I was in a lot of pain.” His lips thin and he looks deeply disgusted with himself. “I knew that he knew people. I asked him to get me what I needed.”

  Susan, too, blinks hard, and turns her head away. All this, at least in part, because of her. Because she hadn’t had the decency to have an honest talk with him. To answer her goddamn phone.

  “He went to meet with a dealer, and he didn’t come back,” Chris finishes, wiping a hand across his mouth and blinking quickly. “There was some dispute—something about the price, I think. They stabbed him and then buried him on a farm out in Fife. His mother was frantic, searching, and then two months later they found him. What was left of him.”

  Susan emits a low moan.

  “Did they catch who did it?” Rufus asks in a surprisingly gentle tone.

  “Yeah. He was arrested for something else and led them to the body,” Chris answers without looking at him. “He’s jailed for life now, so there’s that at least.”

  “And what did you do after that?” asks Rufus.

  “I escaped. My sister came and dragged me off to the Highlands and kept me there for a while, straightening me out. She put me to work on her neighbor’s farm, and I just channeled everything I felt into that hard, hard work. And then I traveled, picking up jobs along the way, learning what I could, and I wound up in New York, where I was lucky enough to get noticed and … that’s how it went.”

  Another long, heavy silence. Both Rufus and Susan are frozen, feeling as if it isn’t their place to break it. Chris refuses to meet either of their eyes, turning instead to look out the French doors into the misty garden.

  At last, Rufus lifts a finger, stops the recorder, and says, “Well, I’m afraid I’m not going to publish that.”

  Chris very slowly turns to face him. Susan inhales sharply, relieved for Chris’s sake, but fearful for Lauren’s. With a flick of Rufus’s thumb, the interview is deleted. “Calm yourself,” he says to Susan. “For heaven’s sake, I run a gossip blog, you two! A bit of fun, a place for people to blow off steam and have a laugh. This is”—he grimaces—“not fun. It’s sad. And sordid. And nobody needs to read that.” He looks up at Chris. “Least of all your poor friend’s mum, right? I’ve a mum myself, believe it or not, and I wouldn’t want her reading this sort of thing about me. Dredging up all those sad memories …” He shakes his head. “It’d be a shame, too, to lose your restaurant if people took against it. Not that they probably would—everyone likes a good redemption story.”

  “So what about Lauren’s photos?” Susan demands.

  “I was never going to publish those. I mean, talk about sordid. Also, distributing intimate photos without permission is extremely punishable nowadays, and I don’t fancy five years in prison, thank you very much. Oh, and I wouldn’t worry about that little shit Liam sending them to anyone else either. I put the fear of God into him, believe me.” Rufus smirks. “If you’re looking for a way to thank me, some free dinners wouldn’t go amiss.” He holds out his phone to Susan. “All deleted. You can see for yourself.”

  She gives him a wary look, then takes the phone and checks. No photos. “So, this whole thing …”

  Rufus shrugs. “I thought I might get a story. Can’t fault me for trying, right?” He tucks the phone away and stands. “Gotta get back, and”—he points to the pair of them—“I think you two should talk. Love your house, Suze!”

  Once he’s gone, Susan and Chris stare at each other for several seconds, not quite sure what to say or where to begin. Then, Chris’s phone starts buzzing.

  “Aw, bollocks,” he mutters. “My publicist,” he explains apologetically. “My event’s starting soon.”

  “Right, you have to get back,” Susan agrees.

  “Yeah.” He hesitates, then stands and moves toward the door.

  Susan springs to her feet and grabs his arm. “Look, I don’t expect us to be friends or anything—I don’t think I even deserve to be a nodding acquaintance with you because I fucked up so completely, even worse than I realized, and I am so, so sorry, and I completely understand why you acted the way you did toward me, and I get it if you never want to see me again—that’s fine—it’s fine! I understand! I shouldn’t be asking anything of you, ever, but if you could just know that I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I acted like such a shitty child, and I swear, I had no idea that you’d been fired. I didn’t know about that or the drugs or what my aunt did, not that that excuses my behavior.” She pauses long enough to try to breathe, but her heart’s hammering and her stomach’s twisting and her lungs refuse to fill. “I know you’re with Lauren now, and you must really love her to stick your neck out like this, so obviously I have no expectations or anything, but I was just wondering if maybe, someday, you could just … not hate me, at least? I don’t expect more than that. I just want you to know that I’m sorry and please, please don’t hate me!”

  Chris is staring at her in some shock, trying desperately, it seems, to sort through this avalanche of words, but at that last he cups her face and says, urgently, “Susan, I don’t hate you! I don’t hate you. I—” His phone buzzes again, and he releases her face, dropping his arms and throwing back his head. He lets out an animalistic roar of frustration. “All right!” he barks at the phone, without bothering to answer it.

  “I thought I hated you, okay?” he says to Susan, his words now pouring out, tumbling over one another in their rush. “I thought you’d just used me when you needed support, and then dropped and abandoned me when I needed you, and I resented that. All these terrible things happened in one big messy mass, and I stuck a face on all of it, and the face was yours, and that was completely unfair. But you’re not … you’re not this … person I thought you were. I built up an idea of what you were, this angry, bitter idea, but everything I’ve seen and known since we both came here made me remember that you’re not this uncaring bitch—you probably care more about people than almost anyone else I know. But that anger was still there, in some form, so I kept lashing out, and I felt horrible about it, and I’m sorry. So maybe you could not hate me too?”

  Susan laughs, a strange, garbled half laugh, half sob.

  “And Lauren and I,” he continues, “it’s not … We’re not … She’s a nice girl, and I didn’t want her to be hurt by some little rich kid shite with a grudge, but she and I—it was just my sorry attempt at a distraction. And maybe, yeah, another dig at you, and I’m so sorry about that, Susan. I’m sorry. I’m sorry!”

  The phone again. And again.

  “You should go,” Susan says. “It’s okay—we can talk later.”

  He pauses. “You’re sure?” He looks a little scared, as if he’s afraid she’ll disappear in the interim.

  “I’m sure.” She squeezes his hand. “It’s okay. Go. I’ll follow after. I just need a minute.”

  He nods, squeezes her hand back, and leaves.

  * * *

  As soon as he’s gone, Susan leans against a countertop, drawing in deep, ragged breaths, trying to slow her hammering heart. He doesn’t hate her. He doesn’t hate her! He might even—could she hope? Is it possible that all is not lost?

  Her palms are sweaty, and her hands shake as she fills a glass with water and gulps it
down. Her mouth is dry, knees gone to jelly, stomach still rebelling. What will she say when they speak later? What will he say? Can she hope to fix the damage she’s done?

  Can she hope?

  Her phone buzzes, and a text message from Chris flashes up.

  I’ve been a total asshole to you, and I’m sorry.

  I’ve been unfair. Judged you. Thought you were cruel, even though I knew, deep down, that you weren’t. Were never that. Never could be.

  I thought you’d just stopped caring. Or never cared. I thought I was the only one who got hurt. And kept hurting.

  Wasn’t going to say this, but I heard you with Philip. Realized I was wrong.

  I’ve lived in this agony too, knowing I did things that pushed you away. I didn’t want to face it, but I know I did.

  It’s only ever been you. No one else will do. I tried to get away from you, but couldn’t. Tried to pretend you didn’t matter. Couldn’t.

  You are everything.

  And I’ve done everything I can to push you away! So stupid!

  Please, please. I

  Nothing more. He must have arrived and been hustled into his event.

  Susan only realizes she’s been holding her breath when her lungs begin to ache. She lets the air out in a great whoosh, shaking all over, not sure if she wants to laugh or cry or dissolve into a puddle right there on the hated slate.

  “You are everything.”

  She bursts out of the house, so consumed she forgets to even lock the door. Her only thought is how vital it is to be with him, to eliminate the distance between them. She runs through the rain and presents herself, a damp and disheveled mess, at the Festival’s largest tent.

  “I’m sorry,” the employee sitting there tells her, with a sympathetic grimace. “We can’t admit anyone after the event’s begun.”

  No!

  Susan wants to scream or cry or do something, she’s not quite sure what. All she knows is that she’s let him down again. She promised to be here, and she’s not. What will he think when he scans the audience and doesn’t see her there? Will he think she just read those texts and chose to step away? God forbid! To lose him again—now! After he poured his heart out like that!

  Now she knows what she wants to do: she wants to burst into tears.

  Instead, she draws in as deep a shuddering breath as she can manage and shuffles back to the café to wait.

  She’s barely through the door when she hears someone calling for her.

  “Oh! Susan! Suuuuuusaaaaaaan!”

  Susan looks up, frowning, and sees Kay, standing near the bar at the back, smiling and waving to her.

  “My, Susan, I’ve been waiting here for ages! Where have you been?”

  The hysterics evaporate, replaced with a harsh, raw anger. Steeling herself, Susan straightens her spine, sets her face, and heads toward her aunt.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Half Agony, Half Hope

  “I had the most wonderful lunch at this little place down the street,” Kay announces, setting aside the gin and tonic she’s been sipping. “With my director and one of the producers for the play. They’re thinking of pairing me and Philip up again. But don’t you worry—my matchmaking days are over.” She nudges her niece playfully, only to receive a stony face in return. “Oh, dear, what’s put your nose out of joint?”

  “Did you fire Chris from Elliot’s and then try to blackmail him into staying away from me?” is Susan’s blunt response.

  Kay purses her lips and gets a look on her face that seems to say, “Ah, we’re finally having that conversation.”

  “Yes, I did,” she admits. “It seemed like the best thing at the time. It probably was.”

  Susan folds her arms over her chest. “Would you care to explain yourself?”

  “Oh, Susan, darling.” Kay reaches out and strokes her niece’s cheek. “You were such a mess. We all were. I should have stayed around after your mother died, instead of leaving. I felt terrible about that, and even worse when I came back and saw the shape you were in. Don’t you remember? Oh God, I hope you don’t.” She retracts her hand and grimaces. “You were leaning so heavily on that boy, so when your father came to me and told me the restaurant manager heard Chris had an issue with drugs—and before you ask, no, I don’t know who told the manager about his habit—I knew something had to be done. The situation wasn’t healthy for either of you. But of course my main concern was for you. You’re my flesh and blood, Susan, and I will always fight in your corner. So, yes, I persuaded you to take some time away from the relationship. And I handled the situation with Chris. I knew Bernard certainly wasn’t up to the task.” Her lips tighten again, seemingly at the mere thought of his uselessness.

  “You threatened him. It wasn’t bad enough that you fired him; you threatened him so he would stay away from me!”

  “I did. I said we’d blackball him in the industry. I didn’t want him disrupting your recovery, and I thought the situation might help him clean up his act. And it did, apparently. He got his life sorted out quite impressively.” She takes a deep breath. “At the end of the day, Susan, you were out of your mind with grief. You were slipping away from us, and I really didn’t think that a junkie was the best person to have in your life at that time. I am sorry that I hurt you both—truly I am. I did what seemed to be the best thing at the time, which is really all any of us can do. I had no way of knowing how splendidly he’d turn out. Good for him, I say. Who knows? Perhaps my intervention was the making of him, in a sense.”

  Susan shakes her head. “You have no idea what your actions cost him,” she says. “And mine.” No one is blameless. After all, she’s the one who broke up with him.

  “I’m sorry,” Kay repeats sincerely. “And I’ve told him that I’m sorry too.”

  Susan frowns. “When?”

  Kay smiles and shakes her head. “Doesn’t matter.”

  She looks over Susan’s shoulder, and Susan follows her gaze. Chris’s event has let out, and people are flooding into the tent. A peppy-looking blonde leads him to a seat at the signing table as fans, clutching crisp copies of his book, form a line.

  Chris is pretending to smile and pay attention to whatever his publicist is saying, but at the same time he scans the crowd. Susan, standing frozen beside the bar, wills him to look her way, at the same time trying to force her legs to move. But even if they do—what? Will she run onto the dais and throw herself into his arms?

  His eyes seek her out, settle on her, and his relief is visible in the sudden unstiffening of his posture. His smile becomes genuine, a warm beam that finally melts the ice in her legs, so when Kay gently nudges her and whispers, “Go on, then,” Susan can move forward.

  “Oh, oh, the line’s this way,” the peppy blonde informs her, steering Susan to a spot behind two women in flowery Joules jackets, already discussing which of Chris’s recipes they’ll make first. Susan looks helplessly up at Chris, and he returns the expression, and she wants to laugh hysterically at the absurdity of it: her, waiting in a line for what, exactly? And him trying to focus on signing books and politely answering questions and smiling for pictures, all the while darting glances her way, as if he thinks she might disappear.

  And then she’s in front of him, unable to speak, realizing she’s on an actual stage, with people behind her still waiting for their books to be signed, and oh god, she doesn’t even have a book!

  “Oh, you’ve not bought your book yet,” the blonde observes.

  “It’s fine—this one’s hers,” Chris says, plucking a display copy from a Pyrex stand near his right elbow. He scrawls something on the title page, closes it, and holds it out. “I hope you like it,” he says, swallowing hard.

  Susan accepts the book, still tongue-tied, and scurries off to the side. She closes her eyes, opens the book, and looks at what he’s written.

  I love you. I’m sorry. Have I ruined it?

  And then Susan does laugh. A choking, relieved, nearly hysterical giggle that she can’t
control any more than she can control the tears stinging her eyes and pouring down her cheeks. She doesn’t care that people are staring at her, some even backing away, apparently thinking she’s crazy (which is fair enough). She only cares that Chris is looking at her, ignoring the hovering blonde and the poor man waiting for his signature. His face has an open, yearning expression that begs her for an answer. She grins, shakes her head, and mouths, “I love you too.”

  A massive smile erupts across his face, and she feels that flood of warmth again. Her own grin widens in response until she feels like her face might split, but she doesn’t care, and she can’t seem to stop smiling. Almost without looking, Chris signs the last book; then, ignoring his publicist’s pleas, he leaps off the dais and grabs Susan’s hand. Together, they duck through the side door and find themselves back where Susan last spoke with Lauren. Tucked away, among the tarpaulin-draped crates of books, slick with rain.

  “I know we need to talk about things, lots of things,” he chokes, “but I just—”

  Susan grabs his face, pulls his head down, and devours him.

  And that kiss is everything. It’s love and regret and apology. Passion and sex, friendship and promise. It’s want and need and yearning and heat and shivers that they both feel shuddering through their bodies. It’s ten years’ worth of kisses, all crowding into one embrace as the pair of them rediscover each other: the curves of their mouths and bodies pressed close, the insistence of hands and tongues, the hearts hammering in concert, and the silent, mutual promise that there is more—so much more! and better!—to come.

  When they finally part, Susan looks up at him with a teasing smile and says, “You’re not just doing this for the brownie recipe, are you?”

  “Ah, you caught me!” He laughs, then kisses her again and again and again, and when they pause once more, she notices the flush creeping up his neck, the mixture of frustration and desire in his eyes.

  Clinging to him, she says, in a throaty voice: “Your place or mine?”