by Elle Maxwell
He gently sets me down so my feet are back on the ground but keeps his hands at my waist.
“Call him and cancel your date,” he demands in that gruff alpha male tone he brought out earlier. It triggers my irritation enough to clear the rest of the fog from my brain.
I place both palms flat on his chest and push. I might as well be trying to move stone, but he follows my lead and takes a step away. I remain leaning heavily against the wall that has most likely left permanent imprints on my back. I take in deep gulps of air trying to regulate my breathing.
“I’m not going to do that,” I tell him, quietly but firmly.
He frowns and looks like he wants to say something else, but then he just nods stiffly.
“Dinner tomorrow, then, and we’ll talk.”
“Coffee,” I counter.
“Lunch.”
I roll my eyes but give in, not wanting to continue this any further.
“You tell me where and when, and I’ll be there.” He digs in his back pocket, pulls out a pen and one of the crumpled notes I threw at him earlier, and writes something on it before handing it to me.
It’s a phone number. Though different from the one I remember, nostalgia assaults me all over again at the sight of those digits in his familiar scrawl.
He takes one step forward, our bodies not all the way flush but close enough that his warm breath coasts across my face.
“And Kenz? Don’t sleep with him.”
Then he turns and walks away, driving off in his Range Rover while I’m still frozen against the wall.
What. The. Hell. Just. Happened?
09. LOW FAT YOGURT
Mackenzie
I twirl my little cocktail straw and watch as the ice cubes dance with a slice of lime. I got here early so I could do exactly this—grab a drink and sit at the bar by myself decompressing before Jim arrives.
I feel a little tipsy, and it has nothing to do with the half-empty gin and tonic in front of me. That kiss. It was more potent than a shot of tequila, and I still haven’t regained my equilibrium. And similar to the aftermath of complete inebriation, horror over my actions has been slowly settling in. When he touched me, I basically lost my mind. All my noble proclamations of independence and strength went MIA. I climbed him like a tree and dry humped him right in front of my house, for goodness sake!
With that thought, I drain the last of my cocktail. I give the cute bartender a polite smile and head shake declining his offer for a new one. Graham has caused a serious increase in my alcohol intake, and all the extra sugar, liquid calories, and toxins I’ve been putting into my body lately are going to catch up with me soon. I promise myself I’ll make it to an extra yoga class this weekend. And take a break from drinking … once I’m on the other side of all this daily drama and heartache.
Jim walks in and waves, spotting me immediately. My gaze travels down to his legs and gets stuck there. His pants are bright orange and covered in a pattern of giant emerald green palm leaves. They might be the most hideous things I’ve ever seen. When he’s standing right in front of me, I’m forced to redirect my eyes to his face, though it’s difficult to break free from the pants’ hypnotic spell. He smiles widely and leans in to give me a quick kiss on the lips.
“Nice pants,” I find myself saying. Then immediately berate myself. Don’t be a passive-aggressive bitch, Mackenzie!
But if any hint of irony slips out in my tone, he doesn’t hear it. His smile grows and for the next ten minutes, he tells me all about them in a narrative that doesn’t pause as a hostess leads us to a table and continues even as we begin to peruse the menu. These pants are not his only pair. Apparently, he collects them. They are all “limited edition” designs from his favorite brand—he even pulls up photos on his phone to show me. I focus on keeping my face politely interested, even though the urge to cringe grows with every swipe of his finger. He’s so proud of his collection, oblivious to anything but his enthusiasm for these dreadful pants (which cost $150 per pair!)
I give myself another internal slap. Stop being so shallow! Who cares that he loves gaudy expensive pants? He’s a good guy!
After a while, my mind wanders of its own volition to the pants Graham had on today … black jeans that were perfectly worn without being grungy, the fabric so soft when I slipped my hands around his waist to run them over his beautiful ass.
“You know what you want to eat?”
I blink back to the present to see Jim and our waiter staring at me as though they’ve been waiting a while. Blushing, I quickly order a burger with a salad and take gulps of my ice water, hoping to lower my body temperature.
The rest of the dinner is nice and easy. The pants are safely hidden under the table, where they can’t pull me back under their spell, and I’m able to focus on Jim. Jim is also nice and easy. Talking with him is always painless, and he generously makes sure to turn things back around to me so he doesn’t monopolize the conversation. He asks intelligent and interested questions about the research I’m doing on neuropsychology for my internship and tells me about the newest projects going on at his biotech firm.
It’s boring.
I try to focus on all the things I like about him. Jim is an adult with a steady job. He has excellent table manners and is always respectful. He’s good-looking, in a very safe way. Six feet tall, with an average build he maintains with twice-weekly workouts to combat the effects of sitting at a computer all day (he’s explained this to me in detail). His eyes might be a little too close together, but they’re a pretty color blue, and though his hair appears to have a pound of gel in it, it’s styled in a trendy uppercut I’m sure he paid a stylist a lot of money to choose for him.
With each thought, my mind rebels, summoning contrasting images of Graham.
… his defined pecs and abs …
… his perfect hazel eyes …
… the way his hair looked pulled back in that little bun…
Stop thinking about him, you hussy! You’re on a date with Jim right now.
Fortunately, Jim is in the middle of explaining something engineer-y that I don’t understand anyway—I just nod and smile, and he never notices my mind has left the building again.
When he invites me back to his place in the Back Bay for another drink, I accept. I usually wouldn’t; it’s too early in my dating timeline, but I desperately need to prove to myself that lust is not a commodity exclusively owned by Graham Wyatt. At the very least, I need to overwrite Graham’s name in my internal records under the heading “Last Guy I Kissed.”
* * *
My eyes sting with tears that blur the passing lights so they become nothing but amorphous stars. I blink them away before they can leave evidence on my face and continue focusing my gaze outside the cab’s window. A heavy cloak of disappointment surrounds me, weighing me down. Not disappointment in Jim—he was a consummate gentleman when I made my hasty excuses and left his apartment. No, I am the monster in this scenario, because in a day or so I’ll have to call and to tell him we’re done.
Every second we kissed, I couldn’t turn off my awareness of how different it felt from earlier when I was with Graham. As unsatisfying as trying to curb a craving for Häagen-Dazs ice cream with low fat yogurt. And I hated myself for even making that comparison, for thinking about someone else while kissing Jim. For being stuck in my mind at all, unable to relax and be in the moment with him. Jim was so into it, his hands running over my body eagerly, whispering sweet words about how sexy I am and how much he likes me.
And I felt … nothing. Nothing as he ran his hands underneath my shirt and cupped my breasts over my bra. Nothing as he kissed my neck in a spot where I’m usually extremely sensitive. Nothing as I desperately twined my tongue with his in an attempt to awaken my lust. Every glimpse of those pants was a shot of kryptonite to my already anemic libido. I couldn’t even take his hard-on seriously encased inside those things. But I didn’t want him to take them off, even to get them out of my sight.
&
nbsp; I burn with shame for being so superficial. But more than anything, I seethe with fury toward Graham. He got inside my head on purpose and like a tragic cliché, I fell right into his trap. So much for my delusions of enlightened modern womanhood.
I focus on that external anger to avoid the overwhelming thoughts about my internal failings.
And I am angry at Graham. So, so angry.
Angry at him for showing up out of the blue and turning my world upside down.
Angry at him for reminding me how real passion feels.
Angry at him because he was able to reduce me into a puddle of lust with no effort at all.
Angry at him for bringing back all the chaotic emotions from five years ago I thought I’d moved past.
Angry at him for being annoyingly persistent when I’ve asked him to go away.
Angry at him because in my innermost self I don’t want him to go away.
In the big scheme of things, Jim isn’t that important. In fifty years, I’m sure I won’t even remember him. But it’s the undermining of what Jim represents—my pragmatic rules for dating, my vow of independence, my search for someone safe who will never hurt me like Graham did—that really has me shaken. I’ve grown strong over the past few years on a foundation rooted in those principles. What other critical flaws exist in the structure if its foundation is defective?
* * *
This time, I see Graham immediately—he’s once again waiting on the steps of my front porch. He’s sitting directly beneath the hanging light, centered within its glow almost theatrically.
“How was the date?”
The flames of my anger climb higher, fueled by the presence of their designated target.
“How do you think?” I snap.
“Well, it’s almost midnight and you’re just getting home, so I don’t know. You tell me.”
There’s a rough edge to his voice. As though he has any right to be pissed at me about this situation.
“Seriously, you might as well write the restraining order paperwork for me! What are you even doing here, at almost midnight?” I mock his words. “Shouldn’t you be at your house instead of lurking outside of mine?”
“It’s hard being there,” he says in a different tone of voice. The strength and confidence of a moment ago are now absent. “All of those empty rooms, full of reminders …”
My rage cools a few degrees as I’m hit by the raw, honest sorrow in his face. I hadn’t considered what it would be like for him going back to the house where he spent a happy childhood with his parents.
“How was Jimmy Boy?” he repeats in an obvious attempt to move away from those deep waters.
“You got what you wanted—you messed with my head and ruined my date. Happy now?”
I wish I could say I throw these words at him with ferocity, but they come out lacking any bite. I’m so very tired. Seeing him human and lonely somehow makes this all even harder.
“So, you didn’t fuck him?”
I see red all over again.
“That’s not any of your business.”
He unfolds his legs and stands to his full height. For a second, he is nothing but a dark silhouette backlit by the porch’s single bulb; then he’s right in front of me where I can see every nuance of his stupidly handsome face.
“Seeing as I plan to be the only guy you ever fuck again, I’d say it damn well is my business.”
Oh. Well.
I shake off the momentary stupor.
“Go home, Graham.”
“Wait! You didn’t send a time and place for lunch tomorrow.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea …”
“Please, Kenz. Give me fifteen minutes. We’ll do coffee! I just want to talk.”
I press my fingertips against my forehead, where all of today’s emotions have coalesced into the beginnings of a headache. His ping-ponging between infuriating alpha male and vulnerable boy is tearing at my sanity.
“Fine. There’s a coffee shop on campus. Meet me there at 1:00 PM after my last class.”
“Thank you,” he says.
I walk through the door and lock it behind me without saying anything else. I am worn too thin by this day, this whole week, to handle another second of his earnest face or his tender voice. I might do something idiotic, like invite him inside so he doesn’t have to go back to that house alone.
10. 1:02 PM
Graham
By the time Mackenzie walks through the coffee shop door at 1:02 PM, I’m about ready to jump out of my skin.
I’ve been here for an hour and a half because I was too on edge to wait, and I still don’t have anything else to do with my time. (My resume is going to be stellar … short and sweet, a line for “MA State Prison Inmate, Accessory to Murder” followed by “Mackenzie Thatcher’s Stalker.” Who wouldn’t hire me?)
I barely slept last night, or any of the nights prior for that matter, so at this point I’m hoping to absorb the shop’s coffee-infused air particles directly into my pores. I’ve also already had two Americanos, so I’m shaking slightly as sleep deprivation and caffeine wage war using my body as their battlefield.
Mackenzie starts drifting toward the line to order, but I wave her over to my corner table instead. Before she can say anything or even take off her coat, I hand over the still hot skinny vanilla latte I ordered her a few minutes ago. Maybe I can avoid making an ass out of myself with another horrible opening line by not saying anything?
“Oh!” she breathes out in surprise as she accepts the drink. “Thank you.”
She tries to be surreptitious about sniffing at the lid’s opening. I can see the minute she realizes I’ve ordered her favorite drink when her eyes widen in pleased surprise. I’m grateful she doesn’t ask me about it, though. Because, really, how many times can a guy be expected to cop to his creepy stalker behavior in one week?
No, this wasn’t her favorite when we were in high school.
Yes, I know her coffee order because I’ve been watching her.
No, I’m not fucking sorry.
She takes a small sip before placing the cup on the table so she can peel off her coat. Underneath she’s wearing a pink-ish turtleneck in a soft-looking fabric that clings to her curves and simple gray slacks. It’s the world’s least slutty strip show, but hell if I’m not half hard. If she thought that turtleneck would keep my mind off all the filthy and delicious things I want to do to her body, she was dead wrong.
Her hair is tied back in a loose bun that hangs low near the nape of her neck, and there are various loose strands around her ears and temple that have managed to liberate themselves from the hair tie. I’ll always prefer her hair down and wild, but I do appreciate having an unobstructed view of her face when it’s pulled back this way.
She seems anxious and kind of sad. One of the many things I’ve noticed during my weeks observing her is that she’s a lot more serious than she used to be. There’s a certain air of levity and mischief now missing from her demeanor, replaced by a layer of ‘don’t mess with me or I’ll stick my four-inch heel up your ass.’ And the badass babe vibe is sexy as hell, don’t get me wrong, but I mourn the loss of the girl who was always laughing and made every day seem like a fun, new adventure.
“Hi, Graham,” she says softly when she’s finally finished getting her coat and bag situated and taken her seat across from me.
Her eyes are completely void of yesterday’s wrath, the way she looked ready to breathe fire and scorch me down to a pile of ash. Now, she looks tired. Did she lie awake last night too, replaying that un-fucking-believable kiss and buzzing with nerves about today?
“Hi, Mackenzie.”
Her hands—so graceful, delicate and pale—wrap around the paper coffee cup. She breathes in a deep inhale and exhales it out, and I find myself following along the way I did in her yoga class.
Her eyes rise and lock on to mine.
“What did you want to talk about?”
Um … everything? Why don’t you sta
rt at the minute I last saw you and catch me up on the five years I missed?
I’ve wanted the chance to talk to her for longer than I can remember, but now that it’s here I’m awkward as hell. The weight of the moment is nearly paralyzing.
“I, uh, actually thought you might have some questions for me?”
“I did. I do. It seems like I have millions, but I can’t seem to think of a single one. I’m sorry … this feels a little crazy, right?”
I smile. She always did have the gift of verbalizing things I felt but couldn’t say.
