At the Brink (18 page)

Chapter Twenty

Lily

I woke up early the next day to find six emails from Josh, asking me to text him.

Awake
, I wrote as I got dressed.

Good night?
He texted back.

Yes, you?

@meeting. TTYL.

I gulped down some mediocre coffee on my way to visit Mom. She looked like a queen on her throne, lying on a state-of-the art bed in her private room at Parkview. After a thorough inspection, I decided she was impeccable. Her hair smelled like shampoo, her sheets were crisp and her pillow was nice and firm. Her drawers fully stocked with new stuff. Her IV, feeding tube and catheter were working properly and the chart showed thorough annotations.

My phone chimed.
Location?

@Mom’s.

Stable
, Josh texted, meaning he had already checked on her.
Breakfast?

Done.

Liar.

I frowned.
Keeping track?

Eat something.

I sat with Mom for a while. I told her about the cove, the Caribbean Sea, the reef. I even told her a little bit about Josh, although not nearly everything. After all, she was my mom, and she wouldn’t have approved of her daughter’s moral dissolution.

On the other hand, it had been worth it. Looking around the room, I smiled. The only thing that would’ve made the visit better would have been a reaction from Mom, a squeeze of the hand, a blinking of the eyes, a whispered word of advice.

None came.

“Maybe next time,” I said, kissing her good-bye.

It was mid-morning by the time I caught the bus back to Somerville, but the rush was still on at the coffee house.

Bree squealed when she saw me. “Lily Bee!”

“Bree Cheese!” I reached over the counter and hugged her. “Do you need help?”

“Do I ever.” She tossed me an apron “Get back here.”

I took over the massive coffee maker station.

“Where have you been?” Bree said, working the register. “I got worried when I got your email. What’s this about a leave of absence? I’ve been trying to call you for days!”

“My old phone is gone.” I loaded up the filters. “I’ve got a new number.”

“You’ve got some explaining to do.”

“Let’s work on catching up with the orders first.”

It was good to be back in familiar territory and not trying to figure out Josh Lane or my confused mind. But how to explain my sudden absence to Bree? She knew me too well.

At first look, we were opposites in every way. I was tall and long-limbed. She was short and stout. She was gregarious and outgoing. I was shy and reserved. I was academically inclined. She liked to party. I was an only child. She was one of seven. She liked girls, and abundantly, while I liked boys, but only sparingly. And yet we’d overcome all kinds of labels to become best friends.

The phone vibrated in my pocket through most of the morning. I waited until the coffee line dwindled to check my messages. I had a several texts from Josh asking the same question.

Location?

Coffee house

You took too long to answer
, he wrote.
Food?

Coming.

What color panties are you wearing?

Josh!

Tell me.

Basic black. GTG.

I turned to find Bree staring at me with a piercing blue gaze capable of extracting whimpers from Al Capone.

“That’s quite the new cell.” She plucked the phone right out of my hand and scrolled down my messages. “Who were you texting?”

“Give me my phone back right now, Bree Sanderson, or I’ll never speak to you again.”

“Fine.” She tucked the phone in my pocket and crossed her arms, cocking a brow. “What have you done with my Lily and what the hell is going on?”

“What makes you think there’s something going on?”

“First, you email me requesting a leave of absence.”

“I’m available on Tuesdays.”

“You don’t call, come, or explain, you simply disappear and show up days later with an expensive cell and a fine tan.”

“Tanning salon?”

“I don’t think so,” Bree said. “You’ve got news and you’re trying to keep it from me.”

I blushed. “Can you please, don’t ask?”

“Why not?”

“It’s a secret.”

“Oh, my.” Bree’s eyes glimmered. “At last, you’ve regained your senses. You’ve ditched Martin and you’ve found someone else.”

“It’s not like that.”

“You didn’t ditch Martin?”

“He’s in Ohio.”

“But you’ve met someone?”

“How can you tell?”

“There’s the tan and the phone, plus the text about your panties.”

My face steamed like a hot plate.

“There’s also a whole lot of blushing going on, even for a girl who blushes easily. There’s something changed about you. I can’t tell what it is, Lily, but I like it, and therefore, I like him.”

“Him?”

“Your lover.”

I hadn’t thought of Josh as my lover. Until now. If I had to give him a title, lover wasn’t a bad one, especially considering the options.

“Spill it,” Bree said. “Who is he?”

“I won’t lie to you,” I said, wiping down the counter. “But I can’t tell you either.”

“Please tell me he’s not married.”

“Of course he’s not married,” I said. “I’m not like that.” I was a lot worse. I just couldn’t tell my best friend.

“If he’s not married,” Bree said, “why the secrecy?”

“I can’t tell you that either.” I rinsed the rag in the sink and gave Bree an imploring look. “Can you please forgive me?”

“No.” Bree wasn’t about to give up.

“We better prep for the lunch crowd,” I said, looking through the cabinets. “I’ll restock the flavorings.”

“I’ll take care of refilling the condiment station.” Bree got to work across from me. “Come on, Lily. What can you tell me about this guy? Is he hot?”

“I happen to think so.”

“And he’s rich too,” Bree said.

“How could you know that?”

“The cell, remember? And the trip. He took you somewhere warm where you can tan in October. You’ve got to have some dough for that sort of thing. There’s also the time off. You wouldn’t be able to afford it on your own. You know I worry about you. Give me something here.”

“He’s very interesting and intriguing,” I said, “but he also seems to really like me. You know what I mean? Me.”

“You mean as in he likes being in bed with you?”

“Bree!”

“That’s great, Lily. Your sex life needed help. He’s just what you need to get over the Martin bump.”

“Don’t be spiteful.”

“I’m telling the truth,” Bree said. “Does Martin know?”

“I’m not keeping it from him, if that’s what you mean.”

“Maybe the SOB will agree to give you a divorce now.”

“I’m working on that.”

“So this new guy likes you a lot.” Bree stacked up the cardboard cup holders. “Details, please?”

“He’s not someone I might have chosen on my own.” I poured the vanilla syrup from the carton in the funnel and into the bottle. “He’s actually kind of blunt and clueless.”

“Now you’re talking about the male species.” Bree laughed. “When do I get to meet him?”

“Never,” I said a bit too sharply. “He won’t be around for long. This is a short term thing, a temporary hookup. We’ve talked about it and we’re both cool with it.”

“This is so unlike you.” Bree’s fiery curls quivered when she shook her head. “But I’m glad, even if he’s a short termer. Anyone is better than Martin. I’m happy for you.”

“How’s Clare doing?” I asked.

“Oh, so now we’re changing the subject,” Bree said. “Clare’s fine, really stoked about her upcoming conference. As to the rest, triple A rating for the triple X stuff. Now let’s talk about
your
triple X situation.”

“Oh, come on,” I said.

“Is he like, hitting your mark?”

Was he ever. “Yes.”

“Are you getting lots of exercise?”

“Plenty.” I flushed.

Bree stared. “Are we talking like an everyday kind of thing?”

“Maybe.”

“More than once a day?”

I shrugged.

“More than two or three times a day?”

I didn’t say a word, but my face was on fire.

“Oh, my.” Bree flapped her hand, fanning her face. “I really want to meet Mr. Frequent.”

“Do you think that’s, you know, normal?”

“Normal?” Bree scoffed. “There’s no such thing as normal, Lily. As a mental health counselor-in-training, I know that frequency is a personal thing. Does he please you?”

“He’s intense,” I confided reluctantly, “but he does please me. A lot.”

“There’s your answer,” Bree said. “If you like it and he likes it, what could be wrong?”

Many things, like the fact that I was usually blindfolded, on my hands and knees, or restrained during the act, but I wasn’t going to tell my dearest friend in the world about that.

“I think he—we—might be a little obsessed, you know?”

“Oh, come on. Is the prude in you exaggerating?”

I didn’t think so.

“Don’t you dare feel guilty.” Bree placed her hands on my shoulders and shook me. “Repeat after me: Sex rocks and orgasms rule.”

“Oh, my God, Bree, pipe down!”

“And you, girl, you need to catch up with your orgasm allowance. The way I see it, you’ve got the right to a whole pile of mind-shattering orgasms.”

“Hush!” I shook off her hold. “Everybody is looking at us.”

“Chill,” Bree said. “They like their orgasms too.” She addressed the woman sitting closest to us. “Hey, lady, don’t you like your orgasms a lot?”

The woman’s lips turned up. “Nothing like a good orgasm to put a spring in your step.”

Bree smirked. “See?”

Geesh. I dipped my burning face in my hands.

“Okay,” Bree said with exaggerated resignation. “I’ll behave if you promise to tell me more. What do you like best about this guy?”

Anything to get her to stop shouting the “O” word at the top of her lungs.

“Let me think,” I said, putting away the flavoring cartons. “He’s capable, diligent, generous, decisive. He makes me feel safe. He’s a problem solver. He’s never hesitant, or afraid, or wishy-washy.”

“Far from Martin-esque,” Bree said. “What don’t you like about him?”

“He can be...a little bit...controlling?”

“A little?”

I pinched the air with my thumb and forefinger.

“A little is not too bad,” Bree said. “I read at school that controlling people are worrywarts. They just don’t know how to express their affection any other way.”

That tidbit was interesting. “Why would someone be controlling in the first place?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Bree said. “Maybe he’s insecure, or afraid, or anxiety stricken?”

“This guy is none of those things.”

“It could be the way he grew up,” Bree said. “Just yesterday, my sociology professor was talking about how someone’s upbringing can define an individual’s need for control.”

“Really?” I’d have to look into that.

“He could also be bossy because he’s used to being in command.”

“Bingo,” I said. “He’s former military.”

“There you go.” Bree smiled. “No need for an appointment.”

A couple of customers came in. Bree took their orders. They took a seat at a table by the window as I steamed the milk for their cappuccinos. Quarters clinked as Bree broke a packet of coins and added change to the register. I mixed the coffees, capped the plastic cups and delivered them to the women.

“What about me?” I said when I slid back behind the counter. “How come I seem to be comfortable with all of that?”

“You mean comfortable with this guy’s need to exert control?” Bree said.

“Am I delusional?” I said. “Do I have the self-esteem of a slug?”

“A slug?” Bree giggled. “Who knows if a slug has self-esteem?”

“Have you ever seen a smug slug?”

“Never,” Bree admitted. “Put it this way. If you were a slug, you wouldn’t be a smug one. There isn’t a hint of smugness about you. Zero. Nada. As to your self-esteem, assessing that would require several sessions.” She wiggled her brows suggestively. “Wanna be my Guinea pig?”

“No, thank you,” I said, lining up the sugar dispensers. “You know how I feel about that stuff and I don’t want to be the freak diagnosed with sudden attachment disorder.”

“Sudden attachment disorder?” She laughed. “That’s a new one.” She made an effort to straighten her lips. “Seriously now, if it helps, I don’t think you’re sick or delusional. You’re being you. You’ve always been kind and agreeable. As to the rest, I don’t need a PhD to explain why you’re so comfortable with someone willing to be in control.”

“Do enlighten me, Dr. Eminent Sanderson.”

“Can’t you see?” Bree handed me a huge bag of sugar. “You’ve spent all your life dealing with things that are completely out of your control. Your mom was obsessively overprotective and your dad was a womanizer, a gambler and a drunk. When he died your life was thrown into even more chaos. Then your mom gets sick. Top all that with Martin, who’s a manipulative, capricious ass...”

“I think you’ve made your point,” I said, funneling the sugar into the jar.

“No wonder you’re attracted to someone who has things under control, even if that includes you.”

“So you don’t think I’m screwed up?”

“Of course I do,” Bree said. “You’re majorly screwed-up. We all are. That’s the premise of life and the promise of my lucrative professional future. Your new guy? He’s probably screwed up too.”

“You think?” I moved on to the next dispenser. “How?”

“God only knows,” Bree said. “You said he was in the military. Did he go to war?”

“Afghanistan
and
Iraq.”

“No wonder he’s a bit obsessed with control,” Bree said. “Those guys have been to hell and back. Most vets suffer from some kind of post-traumatic stress disorder.”

“What exactly is that?”

“Girl, for someone who actively avoids shrinks, I should really charge you money for this conversation.” Bree smirked.

“Oh, come on,” I said. “Do share.”

“PTSD is an anxiety disorder caused by exposure to psychological trauma,” Bree explained. “It causes nightmares, flashbacks, anger, anxiety, hyper vigilance and other obsessive compulsive behaviors that can make it difficult for people to function in society.”