Love at First Fight

by Carrie Aarons

But more than that, I thought what had happened between us really meant something. To hear him speak about what happened in the privacy of his bedroom last night like that, it crushed me.

  Possibly even more than my breakup with Justin. Which not only made me feel sick, but terrified me more than I could even admit.

  24

  Molly

  Midweek, Smith and I travel back to the city together.

  Oh, don’t get me wrong, he doesn’t drive me straight from the Hamptons house to my apartment. No, I have to take a cab to the Jitney station, where he then picks me up so none of the roommates see that we drove back together. Not that anyone would question that. They’d think Smith was finally doing something nice out of the blue for me, but I don’t think any of them would say to themselves, “yeah, Smith and Molly are totally jumping each other’s bones.”

  I suppose I’m just getting tired of the sneaking around. For the last week, we’ve been tiptoeing around the house after hours, texting each other while we all sit in the same room, and having to pretend like we still mildly loathe one and other.

  After sulking in my breakfast for an hour outside by myself that morning Smith and Peter had the one-night-stand conversation, I gathered my confidence back up and headed to my room to change. While up there, Smith knocked on my door and let himself in. He’d kissed me with the intensity I’d imagine exists on the surface of the sun, and I was a goner. I feel weak for not addressing things, yes, but …

  It all just feels too good. And for someone who had her life turned upside down and shattered just months ago, I deserve to feel good for a little while. Even if I’m deluding myself.

  It’s getting harder and harder not to tell Heather. She’s my best friend and has watched me go through probably my most brutal breakup ever this year. Night after night, she encourages me to dance with random guys at bars, or take one of them home. And I know she thinks I’m not doing it because I’m still pining for Justin, which I kind of was. Up until two weeks ago. But now? The reason is because I’m totally falling for Smith Redfield and that sounds absolutely insane to say.

  Isn’t there that saying? It takes you half the time of the relationship to truly get over someone. With that logic, I still have another three or four months to mourn Justin and I before moving on. Everything before that would be considered a rebound, right?

  Except, nothing with Smith feels like a rebound. When we’re together, it feels like so much more. That realization both scares and excites me. He’s not the man I thought he was, well, not entirely. I always knew he was hardworking and dedicated, that he’d come from a big family and humble roots. But I didn’t know how sensitive he was, how hard it is for him to open up. Before, when he was a sullen, taunting menace, I thought that Smith Redfield was an egotistical prick who treated women like his disposable sex objects. Now, I knew the truth.

  When we were up on the cliffs, he told me he hadn’t slept with anyone in months, hadn’t dated since before Stephanie died. His playboy image was just that, an image to keep others at arm’s length.

  I also saw how caring he was with his friends. He changed the oil in Marta’s car last weekend and went out of his way to pick up Jacinda’s favorite meal from in town when she wasn’t feeling good. Peter had let it slip that he’d stayed in the city an extra day last week to help out one of his nephews in a basketball tournament.

  Sometimes, I wonder how I never saw this? Was I just so enamored with Justin that I couldn’t recognize the defense tactics Smith was putting up? No. He was pretty damn convincing that he loathed me. But the minute he told me how he felt, it was like a switch flipped inside me. My heart tilted its gaze and thought, “oh, there he is.” I don’t know why I couldn’t see it before, but with each passing day, conversation, and intimate moment, it’s becoming clearer that there may truly be a lasting relationship between me and him. One that could surpass any I’ve ever had before, including the one I had with his best friend.

  He invited me over to his apartment tonight, said he’d be cooking me a gourmet meal. Just in case, I brought a side of my garlic scalloped potatoes, a carrot cake with cream cheese frosting, and well, I also made my mother’s famous corn casserole. I just couldn’t help myself, a man had never cooked for me, and I also hated showing up places empty-handed. It’s against my nature.

  Smith’s building is much fancier than mine, he even has a doorman. I checked in and he sent me up in the elevator. I find his door and knock, my heart imitating my fist.

  “Hi.” I smile, almost shyly, as he opens the door to his apartment to let me inside.

  It’s the first time I’ve been over to his place, or either of us has visited where the other lives permanently. Now that I’ve seen his building, I’m not sure I’ll ever let him come to mine. Not that my impression of Smith hasn’t changed; I used to think he was a pretentious snob, but now I see it’s all been an act.

  “Hi.” He gathers me in his arms despite my hands being loaded down with bags, and kisses me like we’ll do it forever.

  I think that’s what gets me most about this thing we’re doing. It doesn’t feel temporary. With every kiss, every touch, the more we fall into bed together, it feels like we’re creating something to last a lifetime.

  “Did you bring the entire food selection of Manhattan to my apartment? I told you I was cooking.” He takes the bags out of my hand as I try to calm my erratically beating heart.

  “I’ve seen you cook at the beach house, and the extent of your arsenal is cereal. I thought I’d just help out.” I smile sheepishly.

  Smith turns his head, my gaze following to his stainless steel and gray-cabineted state-of-the-art kitchen. “Well, that’s probably a good thing because the only thing I’ve managed to do well is roast the chicken.”

  “Good, I brought everything else.” I laugh. “I still appreciate you cooking for me. You did not have to do that.”

  “I wanted to challenge myself … for you. You deserve to be treated well.” I swear, Smith Redfield is standing in front of me, blushing.

  A timer goes off on the stove, and Smith all but jumps. “Let me grab that. Make yourself at home! I’ll pour you a glass of wine.”

  He’s adorable sprinting off to the kitchen to tend to his chicken, which I feel like he probably worked all day on. A warm, tickling sensation steals over my cheeks and chest, because it’s sweet the way he wants to impress me. Justin never did anything like this, it was all fancy gifts and wining and dining but never something that actually caused him physical effort. He used his credit card to impress me, which now that I look back on it, was only temporarily impressive. If I was honest, the schmoozing and new money act was getting old even before he took off on me.

  Speaking of Justin, that’s the first time he’s crossed my brain in weeks. I’ve barely thought about my ex with all of this Smith stuff going on, and with the way he makes me feel, I’ve barely noticed the usual twinges of a broken heart. In fact, I’d say my heart is the least broken it’s ever been. Smith has taken it, repaired it, and made it his.

  I glance around his apartment, which has to be the size of my parent’s ranch in Linden. The whole great room is open concept, which is unheard of in New York on my, or a lot of people’s, salary. The front door opens into a large room with a flashy kitchen to the left, a living room with a massive black leather sectional to the right, and a hallway with more doors off to the side. And on the back wall, well not a wall, is a floor-to-ceiling window view of one of the harbors in Manhattan. The water below is inky black, but the lights from the boats and street illuminate it.

  Smith’s place is beautiful in a manly way, all clean lines and dark colors. His hardwood floors gleam and there aren’t many personal effects, but it smells like his sandalwood cologne and there is a big framed picture of Frank Sinatra on stage to the right of his flat screen TV. Now that I listen, Frank is crooning softly in the background, and it makes everything feel more romantic.

  “Your place is really nice,” I tell hi
m, moving into the kitchen.

  “Thanks. I know it’s not exactly homey …” Smith trails off, handing me a glass of white wine. “But it does the job.”

  “I’d like the full tour, before or after dinner.” I can’t help but stare at him, he’s just so freaking hot.

  “Oh, I’ll show you all the rooms.” His eyes flash with something devilish.

  I shouldn’t be surprised by that each time I see him, but he really is drop-dead gorgeous. And tonight he’s in jeans and a T-shirt, the most relaxed version of himself. His raven-black hair is messy, like he’s been running his fingers through it, and there is at least two or three days’ worth of stubble on his cheeks. Sometimes I have to pinch myself that this is the guy I’m sleeping with.

  Not that we’re doing much sleeping. We’ve been going at it like animals or horny teenagers; the minute the bedroom door closes, we’re all over each other.

  I sip on my wine, watching as Smith tries to get dinner wrangled. He’s so cute, but I can’t help that something has been nagging at me since we got home from the beach house.

  We’ve not talked about the way Peter keeps teasing him about his conquests, but it’s starting to weigh on me. The more Smith brushes it off with some playboy comment, the more I feel slighted. The more he acts like this is his MO, the more I start to wonder if what we have is truly genuine.

  “That stuff you’ve been telling Peter,” I start, because I don’t want to mask my feelings anymore.

  Smith turns around, oven mitts on his hands, and cringes. “I’ve been meaning to apologize for that. I should just tell him to shove it, that it’s none of his business, but I thought that acting like it’s just random hookups would protect us from any scrutiny. I thought that maybe he’d accept the answer more if I fed into, if I acted like—”

  “Like a bro who was just banging random chicks?” I say, completely failing at keeping the hurt out of my tone.

  Smith is in front of me in a second flat, those denim blue eyes searching mine. “I’m sorry. Shit, I should have seen this. I hurt you with that stupid crap, didn’t I? I should have just kept my mouth shut, or told them? Is it time that we told them?”

  I shrug, feeling vulnerable for bringing it up but also comforted that he realizes he did something wrong.

  “I don’t know. I like how things are right now, I just don’t love that you need to cover it up that way with Peter.”

  “I won’t do it again. Shit, I’m sorry, Molly. I just didn’t want anyone to catch on and thought I’d sacrifice my own image to keep yours intact. I know you feel weird about people finding out …”

  Smith keeps rambling on, but I’m caught up in my own thoughts. On one hand, I don’t want to tell the others. It’s less complicated how it is right now, and then we’d have to explain about Justin, and what if he somehow found out? Not that I should care what he thinks, and he has no say in who I date now, but it would still be strange.

  And on the other hand, I kind of do want to go public. I want to be able to hold Smith’s hand without sneaking off into a corner. How nice would it be to not get heart palpitations each time I sneak down the hall to this room?

  “Okay. Okay, it’s okay.” I touch his arm, trying to soothe him. “Let’s just eat dinner, yeah? We talked about it, and now I want to have a nice night.”

  He blows out a breath of relief. “Okay, yeah. That’s all I want. I even cooked the chicken properly, or at least I think I did. It might collapse on itself when I cut into it, like Clark Griswold’s turkey, but aside from that.”

  “It looks delicious. What can I help put on the table?” I try to move us past the awkwardness of the Peter conversation.

  “Nothing, you sit. I’m supposed to be waiting on you, that’s how tonight goes.”

  “And what? I’m supposed to wait on you if you ever come over?” I chuckle as I move to the dark, circular wood table with a view out the wall of windows.

  “No, you’re supposed to sit there looking gorgeous and then let me get you naked after dinner. Don’t you know how dating works?” Smith winks at me as he brings the first tinfoil-covered bowl over to the table.

  “That’s your version of dating.” I smirk at him.

  “And it’s the only version of dating you’re doing, so get with the program.”

  He bends to kiss me, slipping his tongue in and surprising me. A warm feeling spreads over my chest and abdomen, and I kind of want to skip right to the naked part.

  Yes, this is the only version of dating I’m doing. What shocks me more is that I’m completely okay with being a one-man woman again, so quickly after ending a relationship.

  But with Smith, it just feels right.

  25

  Smith

  All of the telltale signs are there.

  Her shrugging me off last night and sleeping in her own bed alone. The way she’d blinked too many times when I chose to sit at the other end of the table at the restaurant all the housemates ate dinner at last night. How she’d side-eyed me across the dance floor at the bar we went out to after. I could practically feel Molly wishing I would acknowledge her.

  It’s been a couple weeks since we started our secret little tryst? Affair? Fling?

  I know I was the one who suggested it, because I didn’t know how to deal with violating bro code or becoming the cliché in the group. I didn’t want to put Molly in the position of becoming that girl, the one who dated around a friend group. Because she was so far from it. But aside from Marta, no one knew my true feelings for her, or how long they’d been there. They would demonize me, say that I was some big bad wolf who’d shacked up with Justin’s girlfriend the minute he departed from the US. They’d think Molly was weak for succumbing to my charm. It was always the narrative that was painted on me, and I wanted to live in our bubble while we could. Get to know each other without the outside judgment.

  And if I was being completely honest with myself, I’m scared as fuck. I knew I was half in love with her before I got to feel her, kiss her, laugh with her into our pillows late into the night. Now? The enormity inside my chest felt impossible. How could I keep living with this big of an emotion lodged in my chest? I’d never been in love before, never told a woman those words. I didn’t know how to have a relationship that wasn’t built on surface-level attraction. If I went public with this, it would force me to examine the very real, forever feelings I have for Molly. I wanted to do that so badly, but I also know that I have no idea how to do that. What if I fuck it up? What if she … what if she didn’t want to be all in with me?

  But now I could see how it’s driving a wedge between us, keeping this a secret. No matter what the outcome is, whether we stand the test of outing our connection or it fell apart shortly after, I can’t do this to her anymore. I can’t do it to myself. Selfishly, I want everyone to know that I am the one she is with. That when the tenth guy came up to hit on her at the bar, I could feel free to put my arm around her waist. That I could be the one to sit next to her at dinner, that we could be free to go to bed together and not have to sneak around.

  Plus, Molly has basically told me as much. I can see how much it hurt her when I looked into those pretty hazel eyes at my apartment. I’ve become just another douche in her eyes, with the way I’ve been talking about my sex life to Peter.

  She’s had to endure Peter making comments about the women passing through my room. We’ve had to avoid touching when we go out to bars, or even being overly flirtatious.

  I’m done hiding us for even one more minute.

  We’re spending the afternoon at the beach, the whole house, just swimming and reading and relaxing.

  After diving into the water straightaway, I look back at the beach camp we all set up. It’s the same one we’ve occupied the beach behind our house with since the beginning of the summer. A big tent that looks like one of those ones a soccer mom sets up on the sidelines. Towels galore. Three coolers full of food and alcohol and soda.

  Peter and Ray are on the sand, thr
owing around a football, and Heather and Marta are sitting right where the waves come in, sunning their bodies. Jacinda is on a phone call, walking up and down the beach, and Molly is in her usual chair, reading another new book. I swear, she goes through five novels a week, and it’s damn impressive. I never thought I could be turned on by a girl’s reading habits, but here we are.

  Marching out of the water, I head straight for her. Peter motions to me and yells, as if he’s going to throw the ball, but I wave him off. My sights are set on my target, and she’s got her nose buried in a book.

  Two of the girls are walking back to our “camp” of sorts, but I’m still undeterred. My shadow falls over Molly, and she looks up, a genuine smile her first reaction. Then she catches my expression, and her face morphs into pure confusion.

  “Smith?” she says.

  The water droplets from my hair and body flick off onto the brim of her sunhat, and over the stark white coverup she’s got on.

  She’s about to push up from the chair, probably to ask me what’s wrong and why I look like a crazed animal, when I practically haul her up. I press my mouth firmly against hers and kiss her, in front of every single person on that beach.

  The kiss is tender, yet intense, a show of emotions and feelings that not only do I want to portray to Molly, but all of the housemates. I’m tired of hiding, and I want everyone to know that we’re dating. Seeing each other. Exclusive.

  Well, not that I’ve asked her that, yet, but for me, it’s exclusive.

  “What the fuck?”

  Jacinda’s voice comes from somewhere to the left of us, and she sounds stunned and genuinely confused.

  Releasing Molly’s mouth, and smiling at her like we’re both in on this hilarious practical joke, I hug her to me, not caring that I’m soaking her.

  “Wait, you two? What … what is going on? I … what!” Peter’s jaw may be somewhere down on the sand.