Unmistakable (33 page)

She shifts her body so that she’s no longer covered by the blanket, and there’s a deep ache in my brain when she stretches her limbs, one by one, until I feel like I really will explode.

The enormity of what I have to do next rips me into shreds.

If Jack were alive, I would tell him the truth—that I love her, and the only person in danger of a broken heart here is me. He would hit me until I was bloody and had enough broken limbs to satisfy him.

It’s a tragedy that he’s not here and that I’m a coward. I’m going to tell whatever lies I need to tell to keep myself from hurting her any more than I already have.

It hurts like a bitch.

My anger comes out in a silent scream so loud that I’m surprised to see that the window is still intact.

“I love you,” she said to me.

She didn’t mean it. It was another one of her good deeds. She bears the weight of the world on her shoulders and she saw that I needed help, so she offered up another one of her little white lies.

I’d like to think that I could have withstood anything but that.

I steel myself and retreat into my own skin. I’ve always been an expert at locking myself away. Caroline would say...

Shit. I cannot think about what Caroline would say.

I open my mouth, and nothing comes out. I take another breath.

“Forget that ever happened.”

My voice is ice, but it’s filled with tiny cracks that I have to hope she doesn’t look too hard to find. Fully aware that I am still naked and still filled with unquenchable thirst for her body, I grab my pants and pull them over my legs.

Her voice, tiny and defenseless, comes from the bed.

“Give it a name, Luke.”

“We fucked.”
We made love
. It is a sacrilege to call what happened by that name. I breathe, even though what I really want to do is throw myself on the altar of her mercy. “That’s the last time you’ll hear it from my lips. It never happened.”
If only I could convince myself of that.

“You are such an asshole.” Venom spews from her lips. That’s good. I want her to hate me.

“Yeah, I am.”
Yeah, I am, but this is the only way, Stela bella.

“That’s it, Luke? Seriously? You were just waiting for Jack to get out of the picture before making me another one of your conquests? That meant nothing to you, huh?”

I’m going to break, and I can’t be here when I do. We throw daggers at each other, passing them back and forth. It’s more of the same old verbal sparring, but this time, there’s a gravity that’s never been there before, not even that day on the patio.

She threatens to come to my class. My response is incoherent and cruel.

Finally: “I was pissed and I reached for the nearest piece of ass to calm me down. It just happened to be you. You lucked out, sweetheart.”

I love you.

“Good to know.” A beat. Her voice softens and I almost lose it. “You haven’t changed at all, have you?”

No. I’ve always been in love with you.
“Apparently not.”

More inane responses. More hurt in the service of good. I have to believe that’s what this is.

Finally, she stands up, and I can’t help but look. Her body is on full display and I stare, just one last time.

“Get. Out. Now.”

“Happy to oblige.”
I hate myself.

I fumble with the door. I’m can’t get my hands to work properly. She must see my struggle, but she offers no help.

I am despicable. The lowest form of mankind.

The sins just continue to build.

Anger. Lust. Jealousy. Greed. I’m sure I’ve hit all seven at one point or another, even if I never can remember what they all are.

Worst of all, I broke a deathbed promise to my best friend.

Jack’s voice rings in my head: “Give it a name, Luke. What was that promise you broke? Say it to yourself. You deserve pain. You deserve punishment.”

I deserve a hell of a lot more than that, but it’s a start. I give it a name. I made love to the person that I’ll be in love with her for the rest of my life. I felt like a fucking god. I felt like the universe had finally stopped playing jokes and that I would spend the rest of my life trying to make her as happy as she makes me.

And then I threw it all away. I will never feel her body trembling in my arms, I will never see her eyes turn to smoke, I will never touch the little place behind her knee that makes her squeal. I will never tell her that I love her.

The words slide from my mouth. Maybe I am crazy. Maybe I actually think Jack really might be able to hear me: “Don’t you think that’s punishment enough?”

He doesn’t answer.

I curse the universe for a while until I realize that no amount of cursing will take back the things I said. Or the things I did.

There’s nothing left but aching, throbbing pain.

And that is exactly what I deserve.

Quinn

2006

New Orleans, Louisiana

“W
e need to talk.”

Clearly, those are the words every woman in the universe longs to hear. Luckily, my most cherished possession is an almost infinite capacity to ignore reality.

If I had any sense at all, I would run for cover. Then again, my lack of sense is directly correlated to my ability to ignore basic facts. I whirl around and focus my eyes on one perfectly sculpted cheekbone.

“No. You need to talk, and you
want
me to listen,” I say softly.

Holden Evans is caught unaware and rendered speechless, probably for the first time in his life. I can pick laughter or tears. For all of my other faults, I’ve never been morose, so a mirthless giggle will just have to do.

Although I can’t avoid the encroaching storm, I have a brief reprieve and an irresistible need to feel the blades of grass between my toes. I toss my flip flops to the side and dart across the grassy levee, seeking a tiny corner of the Fly that’s free from kites and children and rambunctious dogs and the man who has already broken my heart. When I reach a sheltered cluster of trees, I sneak a look over my shoulder. Silhouetted against the brilliance of the too-colorful sky, the geometric perfection of his features is more pronounced than ever.

I’m that girl. The one who falls for the sickeningly handsome guy with the dazzling smile and charm. He’s emotionally unavailable, of course, as are all sickeningly handsome men with dazzling smiles.

By contrast, I am stupid, reckless, decidedly unbeautiful, and completely emotionally available. Damn him.

He catches me staring, and as a punishment, I’m gifted with one of those aforementioned smiles. He closes the distance between us in effortless strides that emphasize the fluid movements of his muscles, and just before he reaches me, I fall against the sweet, dewy grass and turn my face up to the sky, wanting desperately to suspend time.

When I feel the shadow cast by his imposing frame, I whisper, “Come lay with me awhile.”

He settles his body down next to mine, but I don’t fail to notice that he leaves a small, but intentional, space in between our bodies.

This entire day has been a carefully orchestrated prelude to the words that I don’t want to hear. Only Holden would want that for me—one glorious, perfect day before he takes himself away. I hate him for it. I love him for it.

He made the decision to leave at least a week ago. The tip-off was a small thing, of course. We were having a minor disagreement about sushi and burritos. He turned to me and said, “We can get whatever you want, Quinn.” That’s when I knew—Holden hates burritos, and he never gives in without a fight.

I held out hope that New Orleans’s charms would entice him into staying. I have no such illusions about my own, considerably less potent, allure.

“Quinn...”

I cut him off. “It’s hot.”

“It’s August,” he counters, raising one eyebrow. “In New Orleans.”

Thank you, Holden, for that insightful observation. Thank you, self, for being a moron.

Sweat sticks to my back and thighs, and I feel the gritty dirt attaching itself to my skin. By the time we leave, I’ll have added at least a dozen new mosquito bites to my already marred flesh. In short, I’m a mess. I glance at Holden, hoping, for once, that the relentless humidity and swarming insects have left some trace on his perfect body.

Of course not. His skin sparkles. What’s the saying? “Women glisten and men sweat?” Bullshit.

From somewhere in the distance, I hear the faint thrums of jazz, the unmistakable sound of a horn, and the steady beat of drums. Someone is celebrating the thunderstorm. I stand up, sticking out my tongue and catching a stray raindrop.

Laughter lurks at the corners of his mouth. “We should get out of here before the rain comes in.”

Defiantly, I steal the plastic cup from his hands and raise the spoon to my lips, savoring the sweet flavor of crushed ice and condensed milk. In the oppressive heat of a New Orleans August, snowballs are the best kind of salvation.

“You’re dripping all over the place,” he says.

“Then you better take this away from me before I ruin my last semi-clean shirt,” I say, laughing and wiping at my chin.

“You missed a red spot on your cheek,” he says matter-of-factly as he sets the cup on the grass.

This time, I don’t bother to wipe it away. It’s been a summer of hungers felt and quenched and then forgotten, and I’m still hungry. For more snowballs, for crawfish and red beans and the sweet soulful sounds of jazz piano, for the touch of his lazy fingers running over and into my skin. Just one more time.

“I feel like I’m about five years old,” I admit, turning to him quickly.

He stands up and rumples my hair affectionately. “You’ll always be child-like, Quinn. It’s the thing I love most about you.”

He says love and means like. He is the adult, and I am the child, the one to be soothed with meaningless words. And he is a condescending jackass.

“I’m not a child,” I snap.

“You misunderstand,” he says, with a low chuckle. “I said you were child-like, not childish.”

I hate his pedantic tone, even though it’s tinged with laughter. I hate his lectures on the precision of language. I hate his genius.

“Same thing.”

His eyes harden. “It is not the same thing. I did not call you childish, as in mean, petty, or frivolous. I described you as child-like, and I meant that you are filled with wonder, joy, and laughter. It was a compliment.”

“Thank you for the compliment, then,” I say flatly, feeling anything but grateful.

“You’re welcome for the compliment, then.”

I never wanted it to come to this. This day was his gift to me. I can’t spoil it. I force the muscles of my face into a smile, and I twirl in a circle, my arms outstretched. It takes a minute for my anger to simmer into sadness.

“Dance with me, Holden.”

“You know I can’t dance,” he says, looking both disgusted and amused. But then again, he always looks amused. It’s a neat little trick, one that I’ve tried and failed to steal for myself.

“There’s no one around to see you. Unless you count the big, bad swamp bugs,” I tease. “Dance with me. Just one time.”

“We’re going to get soaked,” he grumbles.

“We have a lifetime to be dry.”

His jaw tightens. I misspoke. Lifetimes. Separate ones, as I know very well. I open my mouth to make the correction, but suddenly, his eyes soften and he pulls me into his arms.

“I’ll break your toes,” he threatens.

“I’ll get over it,” I say.

His movements are clumsy and unschooled, and I feel his muscles rebel against my body as I try to coax him into the dance.

“I warned you.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I whisper.

I love that he can’t dance. Even a frivolous chink in his armor is better than none at all. I stop moving and wrap my arms around his neck, clinging to him with every ounce of desperation that I feel. Just one time. The heat simmers between our bodies, and I curve myself against him, needing to touch every last bit of his skin.

Desire, potent and physical and emotional and all-consuming, hits him first. He slides his fingers up and down my arms, sending the droplets of water flying, before bending his head to lay a dozen perfect kisses across my neck and collarbone. His hand curls around my breast, taunting me with smooth, silvery fingers running over my skin.

I know that he wants me. Here, in the grass, or in the car, or if we can wait, on the kitchen table and the floor and the garden behind our little subleased shotgun in the Bywater.

I want him, too. I was a virgin when we met, but I don’t need comparisons to know that it will never be as good as it is between the two of us. “Sometimes, it just works between two people,” he told me once. His later confession was more damning, and more true: “We were made to love each other, kiddo. A joke of the universe, you and me. It will never be like this again, for either of us.”

He had known even then that he would leave me. Yes, I want him, but the cost is too great. Sex is what got me into the mess of loving him. And it sure as hell isn’t going to get me out of it.

I yank myself from his arms, before it’s too late, but I can’t avoid raising my eyes to his heated amber pools. He’s confused for a moment, until he realizes that I already know and a slash of pain cuts across his features.

I take a deep breath and steel my nerves. “Just say it, Holden.”

“I have to go back to California next week,” he says softly.

I’ve had a week to prepare my response. He expects histrionics, so ranting is out of the question, even if it might make me feel a tiny bit better. I’ve considered all of the other possibilities—teasing, cajoling, even getting down on my knees to beg—all of which would accomplish nothing. If our positions were reversed, I know exactly how he would respond. So, I go with that.

“I know.”

Then, because I can’t help myself: “Why?”

“It’s time to get back to real life, kiddo.” The gentleness in his voice nearly kills me. “I’m going to miss you.”

The words he doesn’t say—it’s over, Quinn—are just as clear as the ones he does. He reaches out to touch me, but I pull back at the last possible second.