by Katy Evans
I stare at him, breathing hard.
And then his words sink in, and as usual, they have a way of piercing me right through my center.
Because as usual, he’s right.
I don’t want to do it. He hates me enough as it is. But I can’t help it. My face crumples, my eyes twitch and cloud over, and I know what’s coming.
But I can’t let him see me cry. I can’t let him get to me. He lives to get to people, to worm his way under their skin and make them uncomfortable.
Without a word, I skip into a run and go back outside, where I throw my back against the brick wall and sink down in a heap on the snow-covered ground.
This time, I don’t care about the wind or the cold. Let my feet get frostbitten and fall off. Let a gust blow me off the mountain. It’s got to be better than being here, with him.
A second later, the door opens a crack. “Hey. Come back in.”
I bury my face in my knees, wiping the tears from my eyes with the fabric of my leggings. I harden my voice. “No. I’m good. Just got some calls to make…”
He walks until he’s right in front of me, his big hiking boots toe-to-toe with my bare feet. He crouches down and lets out a sigh.
Then he shrugs out of his flannel shirt and lays the big, thick fabric over me, like a blanket, tucking it under my freezing toes.
I can’t meet his eyes or he’ll know I’ve been crying.
“Look…I might have spoken out of turn back there…” he starts, scratching at the back of his neck. “I don’t know what else to say.”
“You’ve said enough,” I mutter, more too my knees than to him. “And you know what? You’re absolutely right, Mr. Know-it-All. Mr. Genius. But there’s one thing you don’t know. You can’t know what it’s like to be me. To be completely ordinary, because you’re so special in so many ways. But I’m not. And this wedding? It’s my whole life. Call it pathetic, but that’s what it is. I don’t have an amazing career or an amazing talent like you. I’m just boring old Dahlia Ripley. Yes, I guess I’m hitching all my hopes to this wedding. So call me Bridezilla. I don’t care what you think.”
He doesn’t say anything for a long time.
Then he says, “And then what? What happens after the wedding?”
“Well…then I’ll be married to Aaron. I’ll be Mrs. Aaron Eberhart.”
“So…what? You just give up your own identity?” He looks a little disgusted at that prospect.
“No,” I mumble. “But together, we’ll form a new one. A better one than when each of us is on their own. And maybe we’ll have kids, and raise them, and all that. And maybe I’ll learn that my talent is in being an amazing wife and mom. I can’t wait for that. It means…I mean, Aaron’s everything to me.”
“You really do love Aaron? For better and worse?”
I meet his gaze, my thoughts flashing to the future I’ve always thought we can have. “Of course. I’m marrying him, aren’t I?”
“Right,” he mutters. He straightens up and starts to walk to the door. “Yeah. Come on in. Your feet are going to get cold.”
9:06 PM, December 6
Let me just get this out right now: Truth or Dare is actually not that fun when you’re sober.
And when you’re trying to forget that you slept with the only other player in the room.
Somehow, though, we’ve been playing it for an hour. We’ve been sitting on that same wooden bench, sipping our coffees, pretending to be interested while keeping the game as PG-rated as possible, for obvious reasons.
I’ve been gradually slumping over on the bench, trying to make myself comfortable, using my cardigan as a pillow and wrapping my lower half in Miles’ flannel. I’m trying to ignore that it smells like his aftershave, so masculine and clean I want to bury my face in it. “All right. Truth or dare?”
“Dare.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s all you keep asking for! I’m running out of ideas.”
He shrugs and looks around. “Goddamn. I wish I had a chessboard. Maybe I can make one?”
“God no. So you can beat me again?” I stand up and start to rub my hands together, thinking. “You’re doing this dare, and you’re gonna like it.”
In the interest of keeping the game PG-rated, I haven’t asked him to do anything that requires stripping, cursing, lewd gestures, touching me, or thinking/talking about/imitating sex. Thus, basically, we’ve discovered how to suck the fun clean out of the game. So most of my challenges to him have been athletic stuff, like running around the building three times.
His haven’t been much better. He actually had me alphabetize the brochure rack.
I look around, and an idea strikes.
“Okay. Drop and give me twenty push-ups.”
He smirks like, That’s all? Then rolls to the ground and gets on his knees.
“But,” I announce, standing in front of him. “every time you go down, you have to kiss my feet and say, You are not a Bridezilla.”
He sits back on his haunches and shakes his head. “Fuck. Truth, then.”
I clap my hands together. “Really? Okay!”
Actually, that makes the game more interesting. There are a lot of little mysteries in Miles Foster’s world. When I was a freshman in college, all of my friends in the dorm whispered about him like he was some kind of celebrity. They all wanted to know what made him tick.
As big an ego as he has, he’s surprisingly mum about his background. I’m not even sure Aaron knows much about it.
So here’s my chance to get to know him better. I’m grabbing it by the horns. “Okay. You keep making fun of my wedding. If you were going to get married, how would you do it?”
He smirks. “That’s a big if.”
“You never saw yourself married?”
“No, I have not,” he says automatically.
I lean forward. “So you don’t agree with the institution, or you don’t want to tie yourself down to one woman, or…?”
“All of the above.”
“Ah. But hypothetically, if you did… ?”
He laughs and scratches his temple as he looks up at the ceiling, thinking. “Hmm. I guess I only want one thing for sure.”
“What’s that?”
I’m on the edge of my seat, as if this one answer will open him up totally to me.
“Snow. Lots of snow.”
I glare at him. “Ha ha. You’re a dumbass. Since you’re not being truthful, I get another chance.”
“I was being truthful.”
I cross my arms, still glaring at him.
After a brief showdown, he nods once, conceding.
“Okay. Truth. Hmm. Let me think.” I stroke my chin as I mentally sift through the possibilities. “Why did you rush D-Phi?”
He raises an eyebrow. “That’s the burning question you’re dying for an answer to?”
I nod.
“Why do you want to know?”
“Because there were the real frat brothers, the guys who really embraced being part of the fraternity. And then there was you. You never went to any of the sorority mixers, you spent more time playing chess with me than you spent in the basement for the parties, and the second you graduated, you left it all behind. So…why?”
He throws up his hands. “I don’t know. I didn’t get into all that. Not like Aaron. But you know Aaron’s been my best friend since fifth grade. He was doing it, so I did it, too.”
“Because you didn’t want to be left behind?” I make a little pouty face. “Poor baby.”
“I don’t know.” He yawns and blinks, like he’s starting to fall asleep. Yes, this game is dull as hell. “Maybe. It was a long time ago.”
“Aaron told me you guys met on the recess yard. He said you and he were the only athletic guys in your class so when they chose teams, you were always against each other. So at first, you hated each other. True?”
He nods, a little surprised I know this about him. “True. What else did he tell you about me?”
I wiggle my eye
brows mysteriously. Honestly, not that much, but I like that he’s interested. “That your dad moved your family to Boulder from New Jersey when you were ten, as part of the witness protection program or something like that.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Something like that.”
“So it’s true?”
He shrugs.
“That’s kind of badass. Did your dad witness a big crime or something?”
“No. Most of my family was involved in organized crime. My father wanted to get out, so he made a deal with the FBI that he would testify against them in exchange for our protection.”
My jaw drops. “Really? Wait…is Miles Foster your real name?”
“What do you mean? Sure, it’s my real name. Is it my given name? No, it is not.”
My jaw is now on the floor. “What?” I lean closer to him. “That’s interesting. So what is it?”
He shakes his head mysteriously.
“Wow. I get it, I get it. But should you be telling me any of that? Isn’t that supposed to be secret? Like, if you tell me, you have to kill me?”
He laughs. “Nope. I mean, I guess it is. But who would you tell? It’s not a big deal. Besides, the organization got broken up after my father’s testimony. Most of the big players are in jail. My grandfather, my uncles…I doubt anyone’s looking for me, and if they are, it’s not because they want to kill me. I’m blood.”
I lean forward. “But they’re looking for your dad, right? Since he got them jailed?”
His face falls. “My parents were killed in an auto accident when I was eighteen,” he says, shifting back against his seat. “Aaron never told you that?”
I shake my head, stunned. “I’m sorry.” I feel like an ass for bringing it up. And no wonder he was driving slow, back there in the snow. “But that means…you’re all alone.”
He nods.
“You don’t care?”
“Not in the least. Because I like myself. There’s nothing wrong with liking the company of yourself better than the company of other people. And I’m not completely alone. I have people.”
“No girlfriend, though.”
“No.” He shoots me a curious look. “Why are you so concerned about that?”
“I’m not. Just curious,” I say nonchalantly.
“Well, I have other people. I have Aaron.”
“Yeah, but you two barely get together anymore.”
He nods, staring at the ground pensively. “Like I said. I’m good by myself.”
“You don’t get lonely?”
“Rarely.”
“But in those rare moments?”
He shrugs. “I remind myself how annoying most of the human race tends to be.”
“Hmm. Oh, right. And you’re not annoying at all.”
“That’s right.”
God, he’s such a smug bastard. I want to smack that superior look off his face. I sit instead. “So… Why don’t you ever invite Aaron to visit you in Denver?”
He snaps his eyes to mine. “Hey. What’s with the third degree? I thought it’s my turn.”
I guess I did overreach my turn. But once I got started, I couldn’t help it. I mean, he’s Mafia! Every fascinating thing I find out about him only makes me want to learn more. He’s like my exact opposite. My backstory is the historical equivalent of watching paint dry.
I sit back and pull my knees up, digging my toes into the soft flannel folds of his shirt for warmth. “All right. Truth.”
He strokes his chin pensively. For my truths, all he’s been asking are these really deep questions that require me to think super-hard, which is probably why I have a little headache. “All right. Pretend Aaron didn’t exist. If you could date any movie or literary character, who would it be? Who would be your perfect mate?”
“Oh! That’s easy. Andy Dufresne.”
He lifts his brows, impressed. “Shawshank Redemption, huh? Interesting.”
“I totally ship that guy. In the movie? When he says that he loved his wife but she used to say he was a hard man to know. That he was quiet and kept things to himself and was this big mystery and …”
I stop. Because he’s listening attentively, nodding along, and I suddenly realize that Andy Dufresne is nothing like Aaron.
And almost everything like Miles. Right down to being crafty as fuck with figures and a chessboard.
Blushing, I find a loose thread on my cardigan and start to pull on it. “Anyway… Truth or Dare?”
He straightens and stretches. “All right. You want the truth as to why I never ask Aaron to visit me?”
I pull the hair tie out of my hair and shake out my hair, nodding.
His gaze sweeps over my hair as it tumbles in my face, and for the briefest of moments, I wonder what it would be like to have him reach over and push it out of my eyes. It’s been a long time since he’s gazed at me like he wanted me; five years, in fact. And yet, up to that moment he first looked at me like this, I’d never experienced anything so thrilling.
Before him, sex was awkward. With him, I learned that it could be pleasurable, intimate, fun. It was like he’d opened up a whole new chapter in my life that night. I wonder if he realizes that.
I’m studying his lips and imagining them on me when out come the words, “I guess you can say I’ve moved on.”
I’m thinking about the way he’d put a finger under my chin and lifted my mouth to his, when his words suddenly register. “What do you mean?”
“I gave him some time, after college. I thought he’d get past it when he finally got out, almost two years ago. But look at me. I’m twenty-five. I’ve been out of college almost five years. I’ve spent five years waiting for him to grow the fuck up. It hasn’t happened. And rather than letting him drag me down to where he is, I’m happy where I am. Being an adult.”
My eyes widen. “But he’s getting married. That’s adult.”
“Yeah. Maybe it’ll change him. And if it does, you two are more than welcome to stay at my place downtown. But right now…I don’t want to have to ask my maid to clean up vomit in my guest bathroom from a night of hardcore partying. I’m not there anymore.”
I blink. I suppose it makes sense, now, why I’ve been seeing Miles less and less. “Have you told him that?”
He rakes his hands through his hair. “Yeah. Often. He calls me an old fart and tells me I need to loosen up.”
“Is that what he said the night of the bachelor party?”
“Yeah. And hell, maybe he’s right. Maybe I’m living life the wrong way. But I’m happy with my choice. That’s me. I’m not him.”
Right. I know that. They might be best friends, but they’re nothing alike.
He’s eying me curiously. “Obviously it doesn’t bother you.”
“Well…no, it—”
“You’re still young.”
He says it like I’m a toddler and he’s some ancient, wise elder. “I’m three years younger than you, dude. And yes, it does bother me.”
“And yet you don’t tell him that. You never told him that. You went along with it.”
“I have.” Not that it did much good. “Um… What…happened the night of the bachelor party? Why did you guys get back so late? I mean…how much did he loosen up, exactly?”
He presses his lips together and shakes his head, wagging his finger in front of me. “I think you’ve asked way too many truths, Shorty. It’s my turn.”
Right. Anyway, even if he isn’t on the same wavelength with Aaron, I know Miles wouldn’t betray his trust. But then again, Miles is not a liar. He’d tell the truth if I asked him straight out. I just need to wait my turn.
But maybe I don’t want to know the answer.
“Okay.” I look around. “I’m feeling adventurous. Dare.”
“All right.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a dollar bill. “I need a blindfold.”
I raise an eyebrow and lift my hat. “If I put this over my eyes, I can’t see.”
“All right. Do it.”
> I slip the hat on and pull it down over my head.
“Stand up.”
I stand cautiously, fanning my hands out in front of me. As I do, I feel him flick the pom-pom. “Stop. Where do I…”
I feel his hand on the small of my back suddenly, nudging me ever so slightly ahead. I take a couple of steps. We’re heading down the hallway toward the restrooms and the vending machines. I can hear the soft hum of them, in front of me, when he tells me to stop.
“All right. Put your hand out and pick one.”
“But—”
“That’s the dare. Whatever you choose, I’m going to feed to you.”
I frown. “You jerk.”
“So make sure it’s extra-fattening. You have a dress to fit into tomorrow.”
I’d go back like he did and ask for a truth, but I am kind of hungry. I wish I remembered where the popcorn was. I put out my hand and it collides with the glass faster than I expected, making my knuckles ache. “Ow.”
“Good choice.” I hear the sound of the dollar bill being fed into the machine, buttons being pressed, and the buzz as the item is released. It sounds suspiciously heavy, rattling down there in the bottom drawer.
He guides me back to the bench. I sit down, having absolutely no idea what is going in my mouth. I’m kind of picky when it comes to food. Especially since I’ve been on my diet, I’ve pretty much sworn off all junk food—
“Open up.”
I hear paper ripping as I open my mouth. I’m oddly scared as I feel something hard pass between my lips, and he pops it in.
I chew.
Then I gag. I bring one hand to my mouth and rip off the hat with the other. “Ew. Ew! Good and Plenty? Really?”
“What? You don’t like licorice?”
“No!” I rush to the garbage can and spit it out, then rush and take a sip of coffee to kill the taste. “That’s vile!”
He pops one into his mouth and chews. “It’s not bad.”
“You’re weird.”
“I am not weird.”
“Sure you are. You know, all the girls my freshman year were always whispering about you, asking all these questions. They thought you were pretty damn looney tunes.”
