Liar (16 page)

“Is he not someone you want to be indebted to?” the receptionist asked, suddenly suspicious.

“Not really,” I said. “I know for a fact that this hotel isn’t owned by the Bly Group. What note popped up on your screen when you typed in my name? Peter Bly couldn’t hold much sway in getting you fired if you didn’t follow his instructions.”

“That the person who gave Gemma Ryan the nicest room in the hotel would get a $500 bonus.”

It was so pathetic that my shoulders sagged. The guy looked so excited — though it was now tinged with doubt — that I knew what I had to do so at least one of us could come out of this on top.

“You know what? Book it. Fine. Get your $500.”

“You said it wasn’t good to be beholden to Mr. Bly,” the receptionist said doubtfully.

“You won’t be beholden, I’ll be beholden. You’ll be 500 bucks richer.”

The receptionist leaned closer. “Ex-boyfriend?”

“Yep.” I smiled. “Enjoy the money. He has enough of it to spare.”

Because it sounded a lot like Peter had called every hotel in the city and reserved its nicest room for me.

I had no intention of staying in that hotel, or anywhere. I flirted briefly with the idea of a hostel, or a stab at a service I’d heard a little about that connected weary travelers to residents willing to host them on their couches. But I knew what I really needed to do was confront my problem head on.

I needed to see Peter.

I approached the manager on the ground floor of the Bly Group building, still angry. What was supposed to be a trip to the city to celebrate my renewed passion and drive and hopefully career was quickly spiraling into comic disaster

“I need to see Peter Bly,” I said, slightly out of breath from flitting from hotel to hotel, being told the same thing at all of them, and marching down here to confront the problem at its root.

“Do you have an appointment?” she asked. “Mr. Bly is a very busy man.”

“Yes, he has been very busy,” I spat. “I don’t have an appointment, but try putting my name in your computer. Gemma Ryan. See if anything special pops up.”

The manager looked at me as if I were a lunatic, but did what I asked, her eyes widening with surprise. “Looks like you have a pass to be admitted upstairs to see Mr. Bly whenever you want.”

“Wonder what that would be worth if I sold it,” I muttered, stalking away toward the elevators.

I had to admit that it was strange to be back in the building. I’d left it in such anger, and I’d returned in equal rage. That spoke, on many levels, to the effect Peter had on me.

In spite of my fury, it was oddly nostalgic to march across the floor of the office when I got up there, wondering if the ground floor manager had at least called up to Peter to alert him I was on my way up. I nodded grimly as former coworkers looked up at me, many of them surprised to see me again after the way I’d departed. I hadn’t given notice, hadn’t said a thing to anyone, had simply grabbed my purse from my desk and never come back. I glanced over there now, puzzled that Peter hadn’t filled the position or at least taken the empty piece of furniture away. It fueled my suspicions once again that he’d created a fake position and paid me for superfluous work just to keep me near him. To have sex with me whenever he pleased.

I entered his office without doing him the courtesy of even knocking. He deserved to be as uncomfortable as I’d been all day, caught off guard at every turn.

But Peter, leaning back in his chair, his feet propped up on his desk, his hands behind his head, smirking, didn’t look caught off guard at all. I guess I’d been so angry downstairs that the floor manager had called him, after all. He’d had time to prepare himself. I imagined him hurrying to assume this position of relaxation and leisure just to prove that he was as cool as a cucumber about me charging up here. That he didn’t care it was the first time we’d seen each other in weeks. That he was nowhere near as affected by me as I was by him.

Asshole.

We stared each other down for what seemed like whole minutes of agonizing silence, the door easing shut behind me, pulled by my own hand, out of helpless habit. I’d come into this same office so many times — albeit for very different reasons — and closed that door to give us privacy, to keep our trysts away from prying eyes. Part of me wanted to fling it open again, to let my former coworkers know just how big of a jerk their employer was, but it was respect for those same people that made me leave it shut. They had actual work to do. I didn’t need to distract them from it.

Peter looked well. Well, he looked handsome. That was the truth of it. We’d been broken up for several weeks, and he looked tanned, well fed and well groomed, and happy. That vexing five o’clock shadow was still there, dusting his otherwise smooth cheeks. It was that stubble that had unmade me the first time we’d crossed paths. I’d wanted to rub my face against it then, and I wanted to rub my face against it now.

I hated to admit it, but I was still attracted to him. I’d been able to block him on my phone and ignore him for a few hours, but the old feelings had reared their ugly heads immediately upon seeing him.

I couldn’t imagine that I looked anywhere near as good as he did. That was probably the reason he was smirking. I was sure I was red-faced with rage at the turn today had taken, not to mention all the running around I’d done. My hair was piled on top of my hair in a messy bun — an effort to cool down. It might’ve been autumn already, but physical toil took its toll. I’d gotten more exercise today than I had in the weeks I’d been living with my mother.

I had dressed up for my trip into the city — well, as much as I could’ve — in black ballet flats and dark skinny jeans and a pretty tunic sweater, but it was all disheveled now. And I was sure I was simultaneously puffy and gaunt from my period of mourning, away from the city. If this was going to be a war of looks, I’d already lost.

Peter broke the silence first, though, so at least there was that. “I’m surprised,” he said. “The Stay Inn? Really, Gemma? I thought you would’ve taken a little more care with your accommodations.” The words were angry, but the tone wasn’t. The tone was amused. I’d missed his voice, I realized, but not his attitude.

“It was the first place I found that didn’t threaten to fire its employees for helping me avoid you,” I said. “It was a matter of principle.”

“I only wanted to make sure you were comfortable when you came into the city,” he said in a weak attempt to quell my anger. “My father mentioned in passing that you were looking for a job and were going to stay here until the wedding. Why don’t you move back into the penthouse?”

“I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

“It’s not like anyone’s using it right now,” Peter reasoned. “It’s still there, waiting for you. All of your clothes and things.”

I peered at him and cocked my head. “Why haven’t you gotten rid of that?”

“I guess I always sort of hoped you’d come back to it,” he said, and smiled broadly. “And here you are.”

“I’m not coming back to it,” I informed him. “I'm starting fresh. And you need to step aside.”

“What do you mean, step aside?”

“I mean that you can’t continue to interfere in my life. I don’t want your help. I want to do this on my own.”

He laughed derisively. “Gemma, the last time you tried to do something on your own, you were scooping dog poo and slinging drinks. Let’s be honest. What do you think you are going to achieve?”

“You are such a jerk,” I raged. “I would much rather clean up after animals than accept a single favor from you.”

“I’m just trying to help.”

“You’re not. You’re being offensive. I can do this. And I’m going to do this. You can’t stop me.”

“Fine.” Peter leaned forward, out of his pose of relaxation, and rested his chin on his fists. “How about one more fuck for the road?”

“Excuse me?” I was sure I hadn’t heard him correctly.

“Oh, don’t be a prude,” he laughed. “People do it all the time. Breakup sex. One last romp in the hay, so to speak, before parting ways for good.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” I sneered. “You’d like to use me one more time before you throw me away.”

He shrugged. “You’re the one who’s leaving me. Not the other way around.”

“You made it awfully easy.”

“I don’t know why you resented the penthouse and the money and the job and the sex,” he said. “I honestly don’t. Most people would be grateful.”

“You’re rubbing it in my face, even now,” I said. “That’s why. That’s why it’s easy to leave you. Because you give something and there are strings attached. I can’t enjoy anything without knowing that you’re going to use it against me in the future, manipulate me somehow with it. When you were angry with my mother, when you thought she was using your father for money, you were taking it out on me. With sex. You were using sex to punish me.”

“Oh, that’s rich,” he said. “Do you mean to tell me that you didn’t have a good time? I know I wasn’t taking you against your will. You were all too willing. Always were.”

I blushed in spite of my anger, felt the old pull toward him, like a magnet. I couldn’t stand it. If we kept on like this, we’d end up having angry, hateful breakup sex over every surface in this office. As physically tempting as that was, it would shatter my confidence, and my spirit. It wasn’t the right way to do things.

I took a deep breath and switched tacks.

“Let’s just be honest with each other,” I tried. “It’s time to end this, to cut ties. We’re from two different worlds, Peter.”

“Britain and the States?” he asked, clearly being obtuse on purpose.

“Different upbringings. Different approaches. Different people.”

“I hope we’re different. Makes things a little more interesting when it comes to sex.”

“I’m sure you think you’re being very funny, but I’m being serious. We’re not getting back together, Peter. The things we said to each other… We were being honest.”

“We were being angry,” he said, exasperated. “We were trying to hurt each other. People can move past that, Gemma. You don’t have to be so ruddy dramatic. People fight and break up and get back together all the time.”

I lifted my chin. “I don’t want to get back together, Peter. Not with you.”

He laughed. “You’re not being honest at all. You’re lying, now.”

“It’s not funny, and I’m not lying.” I trembled as he approached me, stopping just inside of my personal bubble, too close for a platonic conversation. I didn’t want him this close, and yet I did. I hated the paradoxical nature of my attraction to him. I’d come into his office to tell him that he needed to leave me alone, to tell him that it was really over, and I was here, trying to fend off my own desire for him.

Life wasn’t fair, and it was confusing as hell. I didn’t know what I was doing.

Even worse, Peter smiled as he saw my obvious distress — my cheeks flushing, my teeth biting down on my lower lip, my breath quickening — and took yet another step closer. We were nearly nose to nose, and I could smell his cologne even stronger now.

“Tell me you don’t want me,” he said. “I’ll know whether you’re being truthful or not.”

I would’ve done anything in my power to lie in that moment, but I couldn’t. I never could lie to Peter.

“Of course I want you, idiot,” I said roughly, and he kissed me, pressing our bodies together, his erection pressing into my side. It would’ve been so easy to give myself over to lust, but it would’ve been too difficult to put myself back together again afterward. I pulled away from him, both of us panting and staring at each other.

“Mixed messages, Gemma,” Peter warned me.

“I want you, but it comes at too high a price,” I told him, my eyes filling with tears. “I can’t afford it, Peter. I can’t afford what loving you does to me. It tears me apart.”

The day shot, my optimism about looking for a job over, I fled from his office, grateful that he didn’t chase after me. The only thing I had in mind was the bed in the seedy hotel I’d chosen for myself.

The scene in the basement at the church was frantic, but it was a good distraction for me. I had to stop thinking about Peter…at least in that way. The way where all I could picture was his arms around me, his mouth on mine, the press of his erection against my hip. That was the way I couldn’t stand. I couldn’t keep thinking about that because I would lose myself. I couldn’t be with Peter on principle. He wasn’t to be trusted. He only cared about himself. I was better than that.

“Gemma! My veil!” My mother fluttered around even though there wasn’t anything for her to do.

“You didn’t get a veil,” I reminded her, eyeing one of the employees from the dress shop balefully. While we had been there, settling on the dress my mother would wear, a veil had been suggested but refused. This employee had mentioned it, putting the idea in my frazzled mother’s mind.

“I didn’t?” My mother looked puzzled. She had too much on her plate. I was with Frank on this one. My mother should’ve gone with a wedding planner. It would’ve saved her a ton of stress. At least she’d agreed to the army of workers from all the various businesses that were coming together to put on this wedding. Florist’s assistants buzzed in the chapel space, securing bouquets of flowers to pews. The employee from the dress shop was steaming my mother’s skirt even though it wasn’t marred by any wrinkles I could see. And I knew, across town, that the caterers and bakers were busy in the reception hall, setting up everything there to ensure it would be perfect.

“We agreed that the veil would look silly with your thoroughly modern take on bridal wear,” I told her, shooting another glare at the employee, who jumped in to try to smooth things over, her steamer emitting hot clouds of water vapor.

“Mrs. Ryan, I just wanted to make sure we had all the pieces that needed to be steamed taken care of,” she said. “I didn’t mean to suggest at all that you needed a veil. I agree with your daughter. It would’ve distracted from your look.”

The look was a white tuxedo jacket atop a simple long white gown. I was wearing the same thing, but in black. I’d already put it on because it was comfortable and because I thought it was weird to undress and dress in front of this small army of workers.

I could hear the low roar of conversations above us. The chapel was starting to fill up, people eager to get a good seat.

It was going to be bigger than any wedding I would’ve imagined for myself, but it was a display of affection between Frank and my mother. That’s how they’d been explaining it this whole time. They wanted to throw a shindig big enough for their love, so everyone could see just how much they cherished each other. That included a ceremony in a rustic chapel whose arching windows overlooked a copse of trees, gorgeous with autumn color. They could only fit 200 guests in the pews, so the seating arrangements in the reception would have to allow for many more people.

“It’s time to put the dress on,” I told my mother, shooing the employee and her steamer away and trying to cage my mother long enough to get her out of her satin robe. “Could we have some privacy, everyone, please?”

The steamer departed, and the florist’s assistants left our bouquets in some vases filled with water so they wouldn’t wilt. The tumult of having too much to do quieted into a manageable list of things to be completed. Get my mother into her dress. Make sure her hair and makeup are intact. Try not to think too hard about what it means to walk down the aisle with Peter before the start of the ceremony.

As I carefully draped the gown over my mother’s head, making sure it didn’t come into contact with her wispy up-do or anything else on her face, I noticed that she was trembling.

“Mom? Are you okay?”

“Would you believe it if I told you I was nervous?” she asked, laughing a little as I tugged the dress down over her narrow hips and adjusted the straps at the top. It fit just as nicely today as it had when she first tried it on — depressed pizza binge be damned.

“It’s fine if you’re nervous,” I murmured, securing a stray strand of hair into a nearby bobby pin. Her hair was streaked with gray — she was too proud to dye it, her pride a sort of badge of honor protecting her against vanity — but it looked regal, beautiful, all the same.

“It’s just that so much has happened,” my mother said. “I’ve made so many mistakes in my life. Is this going to be another?”

“It’s natural to be feeling like this right before you make a big decision,” I reasoned, even though my mother had much more experience in the matter than I did. This was her second march down the aisle. I understood her anxiety, though. Her first trip to the altar had ended with my father, and that had been a disastrous union.

“This almost didn’t happen, you know.”

“I know. I was there.” I was the reason for it, I could’ve added, but didn’t.

“Maybe it was better that way, not happening,” she said. “Maybe that was a sign from the universe that I shouldn’t remarry.”

“If it was a sign from the universe, it was that the love you and Frank share can weather any storm,” I said. “That’s the lesson that you should take away from it. That, in spite of your children’s best efforts to sabotage your wedding, your love overcame the drama and reasserted itself.”

My mother sniffed, and I quickly grabbed a tissue, ready to dab away any tears before they could fall and ruin her makeup and her dress, but when I turned, she was laughing.

“I guess if we had a normal life, it would be boring,” she said, her shoulders shaking with mirth. I smiled at her. Laughter was better than tears.

“It would be boring. Think of how exciting your life is about to become.”

Frank had convinced her to finally let that old house go, the one where I’d grown up in, the one where all those terrible things had happened all those years ago. I was glad she was going to be out of there, but a little sad, too. Even though I knew about the horrors that had gone on there, it was still my childhood house. Like my mother had said, it held many happy memories, too.

I’d also miss her. Frank was a nomad, traveling the world, eager to explore and see new things. My mother had never left the country, but she already had her passport and was ready for its first stamp. When Frank was staying in the United States, it was always in New York, in one of the Bly Group’s many hotels. But he was really a citizen of the world, and my mother was about to become his traveling partner.

It was going to be so good for her. That’s what I had to focus on. Not my despair at my job search, not my tangled emotions over Peter, none of that. I had to be happy for her, and hopeful that someday, my dreams would come true, too. At least I knew it was possible — that true joy was possible after suffering.

A knock sounded on the door, and I handed my mother her tuxedo jacket before running over to answer it.

“It’s about that time,” Peter said, straightening his lapels and checking his watch before glancing up, and stopping. His eyes widened, drinking in the sight of me as I admired him. He always looked handsome in his tailored suits and shirts, his impeccable ties, but there was something about a man in a tuxedo that was different, somehow. He looked really dashing, and I knew he could read my thoughts from my face before I thought to throw a mask up.

“Gemma, you look beautiful.”

“There’s no need for that,” I said briskly, trying not to remember how he’d made me feel not a week earlier, like he nourished me and poisoned me all at once. If I thought about that, it would be the only thing I could think about, and I couldn’t last an entire evening like that. It would be impossible to cope.

“What do you mean?” he asked, giving a puzzled laugh. “I just wanted you to know you’re gorgeous in that gown.”

“Look who’s here,” I told my mother, ignoring Peter. “That means it’s time to go.”

She clapped her hands, more excited now than nervous. “Okay, you two. Let’s do this. I’m so glad you could both be here for us.”

“Where else would I be?” I asked, smiling.

“I’m very honored to welcome you to the family,” Peter said formally. “I’m glad that all misunderstandings were ironed out.” He looked at me. “Well, nearly all of them.”

“The usher will give you your cue for when to walk down the aisle,” I reminded my mother. “And you’ll hear the music change, too. That’s how you’ll know.”

“I know, I know,” she said impatiently. “Go on, you two. Leave me to it.”

I followed Peter upstairs and begrudgingly took his arm when he offered it to me.

“Now, tell me this isn’t nice,” he said, patting my hand. “Our wedding would be a lot better than this, though.”

“Shut up. I’m not interested.”

“On my mark,” the usher whispered, “proceed.”

We started walking down the aisle, both of us with frozen smiles on our faces. There were so many people here, cameras flashing from all directions.

“I adore that slinky number you're wearing,” Peter said conversationally. “Are you wearing any panties? My guess is…no. You wouldn’t want the lines. And I hope I was able to impart that little practice to you during our time together.”

“If you keep on speaking to me, I will make a scene,” I said through my smile as we continued to talk slowly down the aisle, letting all who had assembled take a gander.

“You wouldn’t,” he responded in kind, his grin not losing a single watt. “You care about our parents’ happiness too much to make a scene at their wedding.”

He was right. I fixed my gaze ahead, on the officiant, trying to picture my mother in my mind, reminding myself that this day was all about her, all about her love for Frank that had very nearly been derailed. I had to be good for her, even if I didn’t feel like it. Even if Peter was grating on my nerves. Even if my hand tucked beneath his arm right now tingled with electricity at being in contact with his body. I hated the way my body insisted on reacting to him. I hated that it was one thing I couldn’t ignore about still having helpless, unwanted feelings for Peter. I couldn’t ignore my shudder, the way I pressed my legs together almost subconsciously when he got so near, sending a shock of arousal through my body. It was present even now, walking down that too-long aisle, a reminder at each step of what I could have if I just gave up, gave in.

No. If I gave in, that would be one more piece of property that Peter had conquered. I’d said no. I needed to stick with that decision, and he needed to respect it.

“What’s so wrong with telling you how beautiful you look, anyway?” Peter muttered as we approached the front, finally about to separate. It would be a mercy, and hopefully I could avoid touching him for the rest of the night.

“It’s a compliment I don’t want or need from you,” I said pertly. “I know I look good in this dress.”

Peter shook with laughter. “You’re impossible. It makes me want you even more. What’s even more impossible is how I’m going to hide this stiffy during the ceremony thinking about you.”

“You’re disgusting.” We both smiled at the officiant, who nodded at us, and parted ways at the altar. It was a physical relief to not be touching him, but the way we were arranged on either side of the altar meant that we got to stare at each other for the duration of the ceremony.

The arrival of Frank helped diffuse some of the tension between us. Frank was jolly but sweating in his tuxedo. If it had been up to him, he probably would’ve gone for short sleeves. The day had been hot, and the evening wasn’t quite crisp enough for his liking.

“You look lovely,” he whispered to me.

“Thank you so much for saying so,” I whispered back, smiling. I could see Peter roll his eyes in my peripheral.

The music shifted, and all of us looked toward the entrance to the chapel. My mother stood there, holding her bouquet, looking immaculate and classic and modern all at once, smiling like a woman in love. My heart soared. She was so happy. Through everything, this was going to be her day. She deserved to soak in every second of this.

I glanced over at Frank, and my heart rose to my throat. He wept in joy at the beauty of his bride. When my mother finally got to the altar to join us, she wiped his tears away on the sleeves of her tuxedo jacket.

“Out of the two of us, I didn’t think it was going to be you who cried,” she said, kissing his cheeks.

“I hope I’ll continue to be full of surprises for you,” Frank said.

The officiant began the ceremony, the guests sitting down. I paid close attention to what was being said, if only to avoid looking at Peter, but the words were meaningless to me. I could focus on the ceremony, on the guests behind us, on the trees beyond us, but Peter robbed me of my complete attention. I watched him from the corners of my eyes during the entire ceremony. I couldn’t help but imagine what it might be like to trade places, to have Frank and my mother in our wedding parties and us holding hands, gazing lovingly into each other’s eyes.

I would want to have it in the city, of course, but maybe not in a church. A park, perhaps, would be nice, if the weather held. Maybe one of the museums, surrounded by art. Or we could charter a boat and cruise around the harbor for the duration of the ceremony, then shift seamlessly into party mode. Knowing Peter, he’d want to blow everyone’s expectations out of the water. We’d probably leave our own reception in a helicopter, off to some other adventure, just to impress people. I wondered if I could just wear my same gown to our nuptials. It was really nice, and if he already liked the way I looked in it…