Necessary Restorations (The Walsh Series) (A) (18 page)

Any guy with a steady stream of girls sucking his dick should have been able to manage a graceful brush off, and I’d seen Sam send out plenty of disinterested vibes to women all night.

I just hadn’t noticed they were being aimed at me.

THERE WERE TOO many things happening at once.

I couldn’t breathe, the music was actually preventing me from hearing my thoughts, my cock was throbbing, and I was a fucking asshole.

Somewhere between a chick sticking her tongue down Tiel’s throat and now, I managed to tell her I didn’t want her. I hadn’t said those exact words, but the sentiment was clear.

The truth was, I
didn’t
want Tiel sucking me off in the back of a grungy bar. I also wasn’t interested in a claustrophobia-induced panic attack from a room that resembled the season premiere of
Hoarders.
I was at least ninety percent certain I was getting E. coli from the air alone. Was it actually painted black or just that filthy?

This hadn’t happened in years. Small spaces didn’t send me over the edge the way they used to. It was one of the few victories I could claim in this battle. I mean, I survived that elevator fiasco. Mostly.

Bending at the waist, I anchored my hands on my knees and sucked in the crisp night air. I knew it was near freezing but the adrenaline was pumping too fast for the cold to register against my skin.

It wasn’t the cramped room, not entirely, but the jet engine roar inside my head wasn’t letting me put any of those fragments into a logical order.

“What is this all about? What’s wrong here?” She chuckled, and it wasn’t a joyful sound. “And this is what I do to men.”

Motherfucking shit almighty, why did she have to see this? I needed to stop falling the fuck apart while Tiel watched.

She fetched my glucose monitor from my pocket—not without grazing my cock, of course—and studied it, humming. “This seems low. Maybe you should eat something.”

Instead of answering, I stayed focused on breathing, and unearthed some of the old visualization techniques the school psychologist was so keen on teaching me. Beaches, lakes, woods, mountains. Think about those wide open spaces, the sounds of nature.

And Tiel.

She was rubbing my back, her hand moving in measured circles, strokes, and pats. When I was calm enough to notice, I knew without a doubt there was a song in her head.

“What are you playing?” I asked, my voice raspy. I’d trade my own blood for a gallon of water at this point.

She shoved her hands into her pockets and took an exaggerated step back. “The Fugees. ‘Guantanamera.’ Aaaaand now that you’re not dying on the sidewalk, it’s time for me to go.”

“Tiel, listen to me,” I said. I pulled her back to my chest and kissed her neck. “I fucked up this whole thing, and I want to explain, but I can barely think right now.”

“No, we’re fine,” she said, forcing a hollow laugh. “Nothing to explain.” She ran her hand through her hair and pushed away from me with another fake laugh. “I’m just really drunk and being stupid, and I shouldn’t have done any of this. I was totally wrong. I’m so sorry.”

She wasn’t drunk and she wasn’t stupid, but I couldn’t begin to form those words. I heard her shoes against the pavement, and I was alone with the noise in my head and my anxiety and the bone-chilling cold.

I didn’t know how to explain why I pushed her away. Where would I even start?

I couldn’t tell her that being with her made me feel sane for the first time in months.

Or that I felt rusty, broken pieces of myself healing every time I kissed her.

Or that she was beautiful and genuine in ways that stunned me.

Or that I wanted to bury myself in her for days, but I needed
her
more than I needed pussy.

Or that I was terrified I’d fucked it all up with her tonight, and I’d lost the only person who wasn’t genetically required to tolerate me.

I couldn’t tell her any of that, and instead of making it worse by going after her, I guzzled some water at the bar, collected my coat, and called a cab. There was nothing I could do to take back what I’d said or erase the snap of pain that had crossed her face when I said it.

I hated myself on the cab ride home. Every few minutes I opened my mouth to direct the driver back to Cambridge, but I knew I was the last person Tiel wanted to see at her door.

I spent the rest of the weekend closed up in my workshop at the firehouse, starting and then discarding one project after another. I had salvaged enough wood from my last camping trip to replace all the kitchen countertops and finally dig in to my crazy tree ring tile idea, but I kept thinking about Tiel.

None of this felt right, but how the fuck was I supposed to know what constituted
right?

By strict definition, I’d never had a proper relationship. I’d fucked my way through entire sorority houses but the closest I’d ever come to a girlfriend was a sweet Theta who only called me after unfulfilling sex with her meathead boyfriend.

He didn’t eat pussy, and I didn’t know any better.

At different points in my life, there had been women who qualified as fuck buddies, but none of those relationships grew into anything substantial or long-term.

Besides, once women looked past the pretty face and got to know me, they realized I was the grand master of assholes and more damaged than the Titanic’s hull. No one wanted to stick around for that. I’d also stopped being a generous lover before the close of my first year of college.

When I was young and naïve, I wanted to learn everything about sex and I wanted to be fantastic at it all. It was the no-credit class I added to my freshman course load.

As with most things, I learned quickly. It turned out I was also the nice guy, the one who ate pussy well and could always be counted on for an easy fuck after a long night partying. I knew how to pick an above-average winter formal dress, too.

What I didn’t know were the boundaries between sex and emotion, but they quickly became obvious. More specifically, I got my heart thrashed—repeatedly—and I felt worse than shit on a stick each time.

The nice guy business wasn’t helping me on my quest to get good at sex. If anything, the nice guy was the enemy. I shifted gears, and got into the business of fucking a lot of girls and not giving a shit about their feelings.

Or their orgasms.

After that, it was easier to stop connecting with people.

Outside of my siblings and their significant others, I didn’t have relationships. The only friends I could identify were Magnolia and Matt’s marathon training friend, Nick. He was an honorary brother, and he earned that distinction by pulling the plug after Angus had been in a coma for three weeks and showed no signs of resurrection. There were other reasons—he was an amusing guy and decent doctor—but sending Angus on his way sealed the deal for me.

I couldn’t risk getting thrashed again, so I retreated, pulling further and further into myself. I was comfortable there, safe, protected from ever truly experiencing anything.

And then Tiel fucked it all up and I was hyperventilating on a godforsaken sidewalk in Cambridge.

I decided to start thin-slicing the acacia for my tile project, and forced myself to stop worrying about Tiel. Unfortunately, none of my projects held my attention, and after a close call involving fingers and a circular saw, I hit the treadmill.

Outdoor jogging wasn’t for me. Matt and Patrick loved their dawn patrol runs, but city pollution and pollen usually disqualified me from those events. I managed to get my shit in order to run the Boston Marathon with them each spring, and then I retreated to the convenience of my home gym and state-of-the-art air filtration system.

As I powered up the surround sound and the opening wails of Tiel’s rendition of “Seven Nation Army” filled the basement, I relaxed, and felt better for the first time since she walked away on Friday night.

“Isn’t Gigi supposed to be here now?” Riley asked. He glanced up and down the quiet street while loosening his tie. He’d further bastardized Magnolia’s unofficial nickname—Roof Garden Girl—into RGG, and was now taking it one step further with Gigi.

If it were up to Riley—also known as RISD, after his alma mater, Rhode Island School of Design—no one would go by their given names. No one would wear ties or socks, or zip their pants, or get out of bed before noon either.

“Magnolia said she’d be here after her last consult, but she was coming from Westford.” I shrugged and returned to the designs on my iPad. “It’s only four-fifteen. Give her a couple of minutes.”

Riley and I were an unlikely pair, but we tolerated each other well. Living together was easy, and despite his fondness for wrinkled, coffee-stained clothes and cheap beer, I liked having him around.

He ran his palm over the curved stone surrounding the bay window, following it to the edge of the structure and down. He brushed away dust to reveal the mason’s original cornerstone.

It was the little things—the cornerstones, the ninety-year-old newspapers found in attics, the floorboards stamped with the lumberyard’s brand—that reminded me I was a tiny blip in time.

I always wondered about the people who came before me, the hands that built this home and all the others I worked to preserve. I hated thinking their artistry could be demolished and replaced with glass and steel and concrete.

Some things were worth saving.

“Shannon says you’re into Gigi,” he said.

“Shannon likes inventing things to talk about,” I murmured.

“What is your problem with her right now? You bitched about her all summer, and you’re only marginally better now.”

I continued studying my designs. I didn’t want to dump my stupid little feelings all over the fucking sidewalk. I’d done enough of that already.

“You spent the summer drunk,” I said. “I’m not sure how you had time to notice anything.”

“I spent the summer drunk because all you do is mope around with a goddamn raincloud over your head.” Riley grabbed the iPad from my hands. “You’ve been pissing and moaning about Shannon since Matt and Lauren’s wedding. Listen, I know everyone got into some crazy shit that night, but there’s no reason she’s not allowed to let her freak flag fly. Is your problem that she hooked up or—”

“Would you shut up? You’re being—”

“Hey, Sam! Sorry I’m late,” Magnolia called. She walked toward us in a dark pink dress and knee-high rubber boots, her dark hair flowing over her shoulders in long mahogany waves, and an enormous smile on her face. “Somehow there is more traffic getting into the city in the afternoon than there is getting out.”

She pulled me in for a tight hug and clapped her hand on my back. There was nothing half-assed about this woman; she couldn’t even give a weak handshake if she tried.

“Hi, I’m Magnolia Santillian.” She shifted the emerald bag on her shoulder and extended her hand toward Riley.

“Riley Walsh,” he said. “Can I call you Gigi?”

Her smile curled into a confused smirk. “What now?”

“Ignore him,” I said. “Let’s get inside.”

The interior was amazing, and I hadn’t stopped raving about it since my first visit in late September. The wide-plank hardwood needed attention, and most of the walls showed evidence of water damage, and where we should have found floor joists between the third and fourth floors, we found a hole stretching the length of the house. Aside from those issues, it was a perfectly undisturbed brownstone.