Overruled (19 page)

•   •   •

Except for my occasional sniffle, it’s quiet inside the cab of the truck as we drive down the dark, empty roads. I don’t quite know how I’m supposed to feel about the woman beside me. In basic terms, she’s my competition. I’m well acquainted with rivalry; I live it and breathe it in my career—outperforming the prosecutors at trial, outshining my fellow attorneys as we all vie for a coveted partnership. There are moments when I know I’m better than my opposition, and times when I have to dig deep to surpass those who are my equal, if not more talented.

The difference here is I actually like Jenny. If circumstances were different, she and I could’ve been friends. She’s smart and fun to be around. I understand why Stanton loves her. And the part of me that’s
his friend—that wants his happiness more than my own—doesn’t want her to marry JD.

But then there’s the other part—the one who loves Stanton—who wants to scratch Jenny’s eyes out. Who wants her to disappear, or even better, to have never existed in the first place.

“How long have you loved him?”

The question is gently posed, like a pediatrician would ask the parent of a sick child how long they’ve been like this.

“From the beginning, I think. I didn’t . . . admit it. I thought it was just physical attraction . . . friendship . . . convenience. But now . . . I realize it was always more.”

She nods. “There’s just somethin’ about a man from Mississippi. Damn southern charm is in the DNA—they don’t even have to work at it.” She pauses as she turns the truck onto an equally desolate road. “And Stanton . . . he’s even more overwhelming. Brilliant, hardworkin’, handsome, and he fucks like a beast.”

I bark out a shocked laugh.

Jenny laughs too. “My momma would smack the teeth out of my head if she heard me say that, but god help me, it’s true.”

Our giggles quiet and Jenny sighs. “A woman would have to be ten times a fool not to fall in love with that man.” She glances at me knowingly. “And you don’t look like a fool to me.”

After she turns away, I continue to stare. “How did you do it? How did you stop loving him?”

The last few days have been like torture. Every profession of his affection for her stung like the lash of a barbed whip. The yearning I’ve seen in those stunning green eyes, the tenderness they hold for her, burned like an electric shock, stealing my breath.

Sex with Stanton is exhilarating; working beside him is a privilege. But loving him . . . that just hurts.

Her mouth twitches. “I don’t think I ever
did
stop. It just . . .
changed into somethin’ else. Somethin’ quieter, less crazed. When you’re young, you love fireworks ’cause they’re loud and bright and thrillin’. But then you grow up. And you see that candlelight isn’t so thrillin’, but it still makes everything better. You realize that the glow of a fireplace can be just as excitin’ as fireworks—the way it burns low, but lights your home and keeps you warm all night long. Stanton was my fireworks . . . JD’s my fireplace.”

“But Stanton’s in love with you.”

She glances at me sideways. “You really believe that?”

“It doesn’t matter what I believe. Only what he does.”

She shakes her head. “You should talk to him—tell him how you feel.”

It’s easy for her to say—she lives across the country from him. I’ll have to see him and work with him every day after this weekend. Right now, I have his friendship, his admiration. His respect.

I’m not sure I could live with his pity.

Jenny drives the truck behind Stanton’s parents’ house, up to the entrance of the barn. Before I get out, I turn to her. “It was really nice meeting you, Jenny. You have a beautiful daughter, and I hope . . . I really hope your wedding day is perfect.”

Her head tilts. “You won’t be around for the weddin’ tomorrow, will you?”

I confirm her suspicions with the shake of my head.

She nods, understanding. “I hope . . . well, I hope you come back here one day, Sofia, and when you do, I hope you’re smilin’.”

Then she wraps her arms around me and gives me a hug. It’s warm and kind, and above all—genuine.

•   •   •

Packing takes longer than I’d thought. Why,
why
did I bring so much? Three bags down, two to go. I grab the last of my T-shirts from the
drawer and turn to place them in the open suitcase on the bed. But I freeze when I hear the hoarse, fraught voice from the doorway.

“You’re leavin’?”

Did I actually think I’d be able to pack and leave town without facing him? Without having this conversation?
Stupid Sofia.

I don’t look at him—if I do, I’ll disintegrate into a blubbery mass. I need time—distance.

“I have to go home. I’m so behind, a lot of work to catch up on . . .”

He moves in front of me. I stare at his chest, as it rises and falls beneath the soft cotton T-shirt. He takes the clothes from my hands. “You’re not goin’ anywhere, until you talk to me.”

I close my eyes, feeling my pulse throb frantically in my neck.

“What happened, Sofia?”

Against my will, my gaze rises, meeting his. It swims with concern, overflows with confusion . . . with affection and caring.

But it’s not enough.

“What happened? I fell in love with you.” The words come out in a whisper—everything I feel for him a sharp, rigid thorn lodged in my throat. And the pain that he doesn’t feel the same is a noose cinching tighter and tighter. “I love everything about you. I love watching you in court—the way you speak, the way you move. I love how you scrape your lip when you’re trying to think of what to say. I love your voice, I love your hands and the way they touch me. I love . . . the way you look at your daughter, I love how you say my name.” My voice shatters at the end, and my eyes close, releasing a flood.

“No, baby, don’t cry,” he begs.

His hands rise to my face, but I step back, afraid the contact will completely break me. The words rush out. “I know that isn’t what this is for you. And I tried to ignore it, to push it away. But it just hurt so much to see you with. . .”

His head is bowed from my pain. “Sofia, I’m sorry . . . just let me . . .”

I shake my head and squeeze my eyes closed again. “Don’t be sorry—it’s not your fault. I have to just . . . get over it. I will. I can’t . . . I can’t be with you anymore that way, Stanton. I know you’ll be hurting from Jenny . . . But—”

“That’s not what I meant! Slow down, please.
Listen
to me.”

But if I stop to listen, I’ll never get it all out. He’ll never understand. And I meant what I said—I don’t want to lose him.

“We’ll be friends again. This won’t come between us. We can go back—”

I never finish the words. His mouth covers mine, cutting them off, swallowing them whole. He grasps my face, pulling me to him—touching me like he never has before. With desperation, like he’ll die if he has to let me go.

His desire for me is a palpable, throbbing ache between us—and I submerge myself in it, willing to drown. His fingertips are hot on my skin, scorching enough to scar. And I hope they do. I yearn for remembrance. Proof that I was here, that this is what we felt. That even for a moment . . . we were real.

He turns us and we fall to the bed, the feel of his strength, his rigid length pressing down on me, a welcome weight. I writhe beneath him and Stanton tears at my clothes like they’re the enemy.

It’s not a smart thing to do; it’ll hurt in the morning. But I won’t say no. This . . . this I get to have.

The pant of his breath, the scrape of his teeth, the sound of his moans, the pressure of his wet, perfect kisses. These are the moments—the memories—I’ll hold on to and cherish.

Because they’ll be the last.

22

Stanton

E
veryone always talks about how quiet and peaceful the country is. But that’s not totally accurate. The cacophony begins at dusk—grasshoppers, mosquitoes, crickets, and scurrying vermin, louder than you’d ever think possible. And at dawn, there’s the baying of animals, the machine-gun clicking of cicadas, the thumping of hooves, and the deafening sonata of chirping birds.

It’s the birds that pull me from sleep—the deep slumber of a man who’s at peace with a choice he’s made.

Even before my eyes crack open, I know she’s gone.

I feel it in the empty space beside me, the missing scent of shampoo and gardenia and Sofia. I bolt upright, squinting, and look around.

Luggage? Gone.

Jeans on the desk? Nowhere in sight.

Red dress from the floor? Vanished.

Fuck.

How the hell could I fall asleep without talking to her first? Without telling her—

“Sonofabitch!”

I jump into a pair of jeans and run shirtless and barefoot down the stairs. I jog into the house—hoping.

But when I get there, the only person in the kitchen is Brent, sipping a cup of coffee and eating one of my mother’s blueberry muffins.

“Where is she?” I growl—pissed at myself, but all too willing to take it out on him.

He swallows the mouthful of muffin, regarding me with distant, assessing eyes. “She called the hotel about four this morning. Asked for a ride to the airport. Jake wouldn’t let her go alone and changed his ticket to fly back with her.”

My chest goes hollow. I’ve fucked up so badly.

But then I remember— “Sofia doesn’t fly.”

Brent’s gaze warms just a little—with pity. “Then I guess she really wanted to get out of Dodge—because she flew today.”

I collapse in the chair, wheels already turning, figuring out ways to track her down—
tie
her down if necessary. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“She asked us not to. Said she needed to pull herself together. She promised that by the time we get back, everything will be back to normal.” He pauses, then adds, “I’m sorry, Stanton.”

I bang the table. “I don’t
want
things back to goddamn normal! I love her, Brent!”

He scratches the new growth of brown stubble on his chin. “I’m not Dr. Phil or anything—but you probably should’ve mentioned that to her.”

There comes a time in every man’s life when he takes a good, long look at himself and admits he’s been an asshole. A self-centered prick.

I don’t know if it’s the same for women, but if you’ve got a dick, it’s inevitable. Because even good men, brave men, world leaders, renowned scientists, theologians, and Rhodes scholars have a greedy, selfish space inside them. A childish, needy black hole that will never be satiated.
Look at me
,
listen to me
, it says. It wants what it can’t have, as well as all the things it can. It wants to eat
all
the fucking cakes. It knows the world doesn’t revolve around us, but that doesn’t stop it from trying to defy the laws of physics and make it that way.

This is my asshole moment. Forsaken by the woman I love. The infuriatingly beautiful girl I have no intention of living without.

The worst part is, I see how it all went wrong. Every mistake. Every terrible choice.

If I’d had the awareness to step back and evaluate the situation from the outside, none of this would’ve happened. But I was deep in the black hole—with only me, myself, and I for company.

My momma would say my chickens have come home to roost. It’s a fitting metaphor. Fowl possess a never-ending supply of shit that they proudly leave in their wake. So when they roost?

It just plain stinks.

Brent wipes his mouth with a napkin and stands. “In any case, it’s nine thirty—the wedding starts in two hours. I need a lift back to the hotel to get dressed. JD invited me last night—hell of a guy.”

I snort. “Yeah—Saint fucking JD.”

He smacks my arm. “Don’t worry, you’re still the coolest southerner I know.”

It’s only then that I notice how still the house is. This house is never still. “Where is everyone?”

Brent heads toward the back door, ticking off his fingers. “Your mother’s getting her hair done, your father’s taking a nap—which apparently he rarely gets to do. Carter is passed out on the living room couch, naked. And your little brother hasn’t come home yet.” Then he points at me. “Oh, and your sister, Mary? Scares the fuck out of me. If I go missing tonight, promise me her closet is the first place you’ll look.”

I laugh. And force myself to bury my feelings—the panic, the yearning—for Sofia. Swallow it down, suck it up. Because today . . . my girl’s getting married.

•   •   •

The church is filled to the brim. Miss Bea plays the “Bridal Chorus” on that old organ. Presley scatters rose petals down the aisle. And Jenny . . . Jenny is gorgeous, as I knew she would be. I watch JD’s face when she steps into the church—it’s filled with wonder and gratitude and so much love.

And it doesn’t make me want to punch him—not even a little. It doesn’t make me sad.

It just feels . . . like it’s something that’s supposed to be.

The reception is held outside, behind the church, in white tents with elegantly decorated picnic tables and padded folding chairs. The grass is as green as my daddy’s pastures, the sky almost as blue as my daughter’s eyes. The whole town is here—the people who’ve known me even before I was born. Brent chats with Pastor Thompson. Marshall leans against a tree, trying to look cool talking to a girl. Mary’s surrounded by a group of giggling females, all whispers and wide eyes. Carter holds court on the grass, preaching to a gaggle of worshipful-faced kids, who gaze at him like he’s Jesus Christ on the mount. My parents dance to the band’s music.

The only thing missing . . . is her.

I’ve tried calling a few times, but it goes to voice mail. I tell myself that she just forgot to turn it back on after the flight, but my powers of persuasion appear to be stronger with a jury than with my own fucking head.

“I saved a dance for you. Feel like cashin’ it in?”

Jenny stands next to me, hands folded, smiling. We head out onto the wooden makeshift dance floor. As we slowly rock I tell her, “You look stunning.”

She bats her lashes. “I know.”

We chuckle and then, cautiously, she asks, “Sofia went back to DC?”

I nod silently.

“I like her, Stanton. I hope you don’t plan on letting her get away.”

“I have no intention of letting her get away—she just doesn’t know that yet.”

I look down into Jenny’s baby blues, hold her in my arms—my dearest, sweetest friend.

“I’m glad you didn’t let JD get away. You deserve to be looked at the way he looks at you.”

She pushes my hair back from my forehead. “You deserve that too.” She glances over my shoulder for a moment, and then her gaze is back to me. “Remember the other day by the river? When you said that Presley and I are your family?”

“Yeah.”

Her eyes grow shiny with emotion. “We’ll always be your family.”

Warmth rises in my stomach—a comforting, tender sort of heat. Presley’s voice catches both our ears and at the same time, we look over at our beautiful, laughing baby girl.

“We did good though, didn’t we, Stanton? All things considered.”

My voice is rough, choked with feeling. “Ah, Jenn—we did
great
. Just look at her.”

And for a time, we do. Intimately joined by memories and the unending love for the same little person.

“If I could go back and do it all over again with you, I would,” Jenny whispers. “I wouldn’t change a thing.”

I look into her eyes, and then I press my lips to her forehead gently. “Me too. Not a single thing.”

And that’s how Jenny and I say good-bye.

•   •   •

Later on, I sit on the wooden, two-seater swing beside Presley, watching the celebration continue. “And then, when school lets out, you’ll come to DC for the summer.”

“For the whole summer, right? You promise?”

“The whole summer,” I say, nodding. “You have my word.”

“Will Miss Sofia be there?”

“She will be, yes.”

My daughter looks at me sideways, with round, knowing eyes. “Did you screw that up, Daddy?”

A little bit, yeah. But I’ll make it right.”

She bestows her approval with a quick nod of her head. “Good.”

A blond boy in a button-down shirt and clip-on tie calls from a few feet away. “Hey, Presley! We’re goin’ down the river—you comin’?”

“I’ll be right there,” she shouts back.

My brow puckers. “That was Ethan Fortenbury, wasn’t it?”

“Yep, that’s him.”

“I thought he was a horse’s anus.”

“Well,” she sighs, “he said he was sorry for sayin’ I had man hands. Tol’ me he only did it ’cause his older brother dared him to.”

This sounds uncomfortably familiar.

“Those big brothers can certainly be trouble.”

Then she grins bashfully. “He thinks I’m pretty. And he likes how I throw a football.”

Oh shit.

“He’s got good eyesight, then.”

“Yeah.”

She stands up, smoothing her blue satin dress. Before she runs off, I implore, “Hey baby girl, can you promise me somethin’?”

“Sure.”

“Just give me a few more years before you start turnin’ my whiskers gray, okay?”

She laughs and kisses my cheek. “Alright, Daddy—I promise.”

Then she skips off.

And I shake my head. “Ethan fucking Fortenbury. Sonofabitch.”