Drift (Lengths) (9 page)

My natural inclination is to call him a bullshit artist. I hated the way he treated my mother, and equally hated watching him shed women like snakeskin, leaving a trail of weeping, forlorn ex-lovers so devastated he would rush us out of town to avoid seeing them unravel.

Much as I hate all his theories on love, there’s a voice in the back of my head that chuckles blackly, warning me that I can try to rebel all I want: I have too much of him in me to escape his fate. There have been so many gorgeous, amazing women I’ve
wanted
to love, but I’ve never managed to fall.

Maybe ultimate solitude is just my fate, passed through my blood.

I’m brooding over all of this when Whit’s voice breaks through my thoughts.

“That’s so cool that you know Lydia, Isaac. I just found out she’s swinging by with Cohen and Maren tonight. That’ll make us an even six.” She winks at me, and I feel like a horse-woman has trampled my heart and shot an arrow through it.

Lydia?

At dinner?

“Dude,” Deo says, his hand shaking my shoulder. “You okay? Seriously, I was joking about beating you up before. You’ve got nothing to be nervous about.”

“Deo!” Whit cries, then looks at me. “I apologize. My husband suffers from severe diarrhea of the mouth. Please ignore ninety percent of what spews out of it.”

“I do,” he admits as we watch Whit gather her books and flip off the lights.

“C’mon, you two! It’s getting cold.” She crooks her finger at Deo and strides out the doorway.

Deo looks at me, those eyes of his a strange gold color and lit like flames. “You’re cool right? Because I really was joking. Mostly.”

He flashes me a smile that seemed so friendly on the beach, but looks slightly predatory in the shadows of his shop.

Instead of feeling any sort of worry, I feel envy.

My father always preached to me about passion in my work, but it’s passion in
life
that I want. I want to feel an ounce of what Deo feels for Whit for a woman.

Or I think I do. The old adage about being careful what you wish for crosses my mind as I prepare to eat dinner across from Lydia Rodriguez, the mystery woman who I can’t figure out or stop obsessing over.

10  LYDIA

Now that Cohen knows about my jobless status, he and Maren have put me on some kind of unofficial suicide watch. My brother, notorious for ribbing me every chance he gets, is suddenly caring and considerate. And my lovely sister-in-law checks in on me every few hours with a cheerful text or phone call.

I’m going to go fucking insane if those two don’t
stop
!

At Cece’s urging, I did some digging into the
firm’s policies and drafted a firmly worded letter asking for the exact terms of my suspension in writing and a meeting in thirty days to decide on an outcome.

Funny. I never thought about using my law knowledge to take such simple precautionary steps before. I guess I was waiting for someone else to do it for me. For someone to need me so much, they called me back. I haven’t heard a damn word from the people who once told me I was the ‘goose that laid the golden egg.’

This entire experience has made it so damn apparent how expendable I am. And how truly alone.

Well, alone when it comes to coworkers.

When it comes to family, I’m so freaking smothered, claustrophobia is setting in.

“This is so nice of you guys, but I was planning a quiet night in with some sushi and a few hours of Netflix,” I say in my most cheerful voice.

Maybe Maren and Cohen heard “arsenic and a noose” instead of “sushi and Netflix,” because they exchange a worried look and have an entire irritating silent conversation—the kind couples who know each other inside out can do with just a few looks.

Earnest, worried looks.

Ugh!

“You’d really be doing
us
the favor,” Maren lies glibly.

“That makes no sense, Maren. Why in the world would coming to Whit and Deo’s be doing
you
a favor?”

She’s way less glib when she realizes she probably needs to come up with some reason
why
to support her ridiculous statement. I cross my arms and enjoy watching my sweet sister-in-law squirm, feeling more like my old lawyer self than I have in weeks.

Yes, maybe I am the evil queen who enjoys giving Snow White that poisoned apple. In my defense, I only enjoy it because I know for sure her prince will come wake her up with a kiss
—my brother’s chivalrous like that.

“Because...um, of course...well. Um, Whit makes so much chili when she cooks!” She looks hopefully at Cohen, who’s pulling some hideous sweater I haven’t worn since high school out of my hall closet and pushing it at me.

“Right. So much chili,” he says like this is the clear and sensible answer. “We can never finish it. She has this huge pot she makes it in. We need you there to help eat it.” He shakes the sweater at me, and I grab it and toss it on the couch.

He’s not even concerned with the lack of logic, and I’m way too tired to fight both of them off. Plus, I know how freaking bull-headed they are when they get together.

“Okay. I’ll go and eat chili. But then I have to get back.” I stalk to my room, and Cohen calls out, “Great! Did you hear back from the firm? Do you have
work
to get to?”

I close my eyes and knock my forehead against the doorframe, praying to be hit with some instantaneous fever that will render me unable to leave my comfy little apartment.

I stand up straight, eyes wide, panicked images of Cohen and Maren providing twenty-four hour nursing care dancing through my head. I seriously need to be more careful what I wish for on the off chance that it comes true.

“No, Cohen,” I growl as I throw on my favorite leather jacket and run a brush through my hair. “You know damn well I don’t have my job back yet. I just got confirmation that they received my letter. I’ll have to wait for them to address all twenty-three of my bullet points. It would take a few weeks if they had nothing else at all going on at the office. Considering the amount of personnel they need on the case we were all working on, I’ll be lucky if I hear back in the thirty days.”

Cohen crosses his arms and looks down his nose. I never noticed how tall and broad-shouldered my little brother has gotten. Wasn’t he a sullen, gawky teen slumping around our parents’ store just the other day?

“If you don’t hear back from them, we’ll figure something out. Something more aggressive,” he says like he’s already decided.

Damn, my brother sounds aggravatingly like our father more and more these days. I sigh. “Cohen, this is a process, okay? It’s going to take time. And, while I totally appreciate your concern, you need to back off. I’m serious. You really do.”

He twists his mouth to the side and gives Maren a secret look that gets my temper flaring. “Back off? We had no clue what was going on, and you were locked up here,
nose-diving into a depression. We already made the mistake of thinking you were tough enough to deal with everything on your own. You don’t always have to be the strong one, Lyd. We’re here for you.”

Maren pats my shoulder and smiles very, very gently.

Deep inside me, I unleash a long, guttural, primal scream.

On the outside, I manage a tight smile and a, “Let’s just go,” through gritted teeth.

Deo and Whit live in a cute little house by the beach. I think he and Cohen were able to afford their homes and businesses based on some crazy treasure hunt that I was very, very skeptical about. But here they are, making their bills on time and living the lives they dreamed of. My fancy law degree might very well have me living in my gorgeous car until it gets repossessed or moving back into my parents’ house.

A chill races through me at the thought.

“Are you cold, Lydia?” Maren asks, her eyes sharp as a doting mother hen’s from the rearview mirror.

I would have driven myself, but gas is expensive and they practically held me hostage to get me in their sensible hybrid. I should have splurge
d on the gas and stood my ground about the ride.

“I’m fine, Maren. Just someone walking over my grave, I guess.”

Maren’s eyes flip back to me, wide with horror over my creepy pronouncement. Cohen notices her look and reaches a hand out, pressing his fingers over hers as he chuckles. “Sorry, babe. It’s just a creepy saying of our abuela’s. She’s crazy morbid, and Lydia always took after her.”

I have a thousand things I could say to my baby brother, very few of them nice, but I choose to keep my mouth shut. There’s a reason I always spent so much time alone. Family is irritating, even when they’re trying their best to help and be kind. I know he’s doing just that, Maren too. But I’ve lived in solitude, immersed in work for so long, it’s difficult to readjust.

I can’t help checking the clock a few times on the way to Deo and Whit’s. I keep doing all these calculations in my head, trying to figure out how long I’ll have to sit and eat and make conversation before I can crawl back in my hole and pretend no one else exists for a little while.

Cohen pulls up outside their house, we walk up the pebbled path dotted with creamy white and pink shells, and the door flies open. Whit holds her arms out, totally forgetting she’s still wearing oven mitts decorated with chickens and recipes written in curly French. “Lydia! It’s awesome to see you!”

She squeezes me in a tight hug. She has a glassy-eyed look that comes from a couple glasses of wine, but this is affectionate even for sauced Whit. I mean, she’s a totally nice person, but we’re not exactly at the bear hug stage of our relationship.

“It’s awesome to see you, too,” I say, my voice crushed out as she slaps an oven mitt between my shoulder blades. “I’m ready for some chili.”

She pulls back, and her eyes throw me. Whit’s dark eyes are usually sharp and shining, a nice match for her constant razor wit. Tonight they’re as sympathetic as Maren’s, and I feel a choked humiliation.

Whit knows I’m on suspension.

Damnit! My big-mouthed siblings
cannot
be trusted with a secret.

Before I can pretend I don’t know, she pulls me to the side and tucks a piece of hair behind her ear.

“Listen, Lydia. This may not be any of my business, but I want you to know, I think what your firm did to you is disgusting. I know you’ve been a total professional, and I respect that. I would have gone apeshit on them.” She holds up her hands and suddenly realizes they’re encased in giant mitts. She slides them off and smiles. “I’m just so glad you came tonight.”

Oh shit.

Whit is nice. Really sweet. But I don’t know if I can stand a whole night of all these people—all these good, sweet people who love me—giving me pitying looks like the one she just gave me.

Not one of them understands what it’s like to have a high-powered career like I do. They’re just beginning their professional paths. They don’t know that one very clear risk of climbing high is, sometimes, falling far down
—very far and very hard.

I know if I try to explain that, I’ll come off as a jerk. As an egomaniac. As a condescending older sister type.

Ugh. What I need is a nice glass of—

“Cabernet Sauvignon? It’s from Chile. It’s very good.”

Isaac holds a wine glass over-filled with burgundy liquid.

Wine he’s not legally old enough to drink in this country.

Also, what the hell is
Isaac
doing at Deo and Whit’s dinner party? Is this some kind of horrible set-up? It can’t be. Cece didn’t even know I was heading here. I don’t think.

Ugh! My family is giving my chronic migraines.

“Isaac? What are you doing here?” I ask, glancing back at the door. I could ask Cohen to take me home, but he’d want to know why, and I am
not
explaining sexy-as-hell nineteen-year-old Isaac to Cohen.

I could fake a stomach cramp, but I’d have to accept being clucked over by the two of them all night.

That’s not even a possibility.

“It’s a long story. It has to do with trying to catch a perfect wave, having a surf expert find my missing family heirloom, and winding up trying some very, very spicy chili.” He takes a long pull of his bottle of Do
s Equis.

“Ah. What you’re trying to say is that you met Deo. Yeah, he’s kind of like the Mad Hatter. People fall down rabbit holes and come through looking glasses when they run into him, so I’ll just take your weird story with a grain of salt.” I eye the wine in his hand and then glance at the beer. “How do you know the wine is good? You’re drinking beer.”

“The beer is good too. I’m not picky, and I love sampling.” His smile is so wide and white. He really doesn’t look nineteen. Or maybe lust is just blinding me. “I guess I could drink both of these. But I think you’d regret not at least trying it.”

I want it. I’m glad to see him. And I’m tired
—so damn
exhausted
—trying to play a role. Be who I’m not. Control every damn thing I do to make sure it’s all perfect. Pretend that this gorgeous, brilliant man in front of me is not still technically a teenager.

I take the glass and smile back at him. “Thank you, Isaac.” I swirl the wine in the globe and take a sip. It’s warm, rich, and velvety. “Mmm. I’d put down that beer and switch if I were you.”

He nods to the other guests. Maren and Whit sip wine, Deo and Cohen drink beer.

“Ah. Like girls playing hopscotch and boys playing soccer in school?” I run my fingers along the rim and find a place with a lip-printed dried wine spot. Is this where he snuck a sip?

I’m not sure if it is, and I’m less sure why I do what I do next, but I find myself flipping my brain off and turning the glass so my lips rest in that exact spot.

I feel full of possibility that might amount to nothing at all.

“What’s hopscotch?” he asks, angling his body closer with an easiness that makes it seem unintentional.

I’m not sure if I want it to be or not. I
am
sure that I love him being this close.

“A nice, sweet game that involves a lot of skipping on a board you draw on the ground with chalk.”

I take another sip and swallow, loving the warm and fuzzy rush that tentacle past all the worries and hang-ups in my brain, blotting them out and pressing them far, far back into dark, quiet corners.

“Did you enjoy this game? Hopscotch,” he says, trying the word out on his tongue like it’s an inside joke between the two of us.

I shake my head. “I loved soccer. I played with the boys and a few other girls.” I raise my eyebrows and link a finger around the cool neck of his beer bottle. I let my finger slide down the condensation on the glass and don’t stop until my skin bumps against his. “The point is, no one else cares if you play hopscotch or soccer. Do what
you
want.”

His eyes are bright and burn against my skin. He turns, puts the bottle off to the side on the counter, flips a wineglass over, and pours some for himself. He comes back, never taking his eyes off of me.

“I like your advice.” His words are low enough that no one else can hear, though I notice Maren and Whit trying hard to pick up on what we’re saying. They’ll report back to Cece, who’ll no doubt email Gen. Tongues will most definitely wag.