Can I See You Again? (19 page)

“Oh, please, we were young once.” She slides her hands on her hips. “You know, you both have inspired me. After I read about the Tough Mudder, I took myself on a long walk and jumped over two logs.” She gasps. “Look at you, tied up like a criminal. Let's clip you loose, shall we?”

“Yes, that'd be great.”

After a couple of autographs and an apology to the Boy Scout troop leader, I'm free to go.

“We're so glad you chose our little campground as one of your rendezvous spots,” Helen says. “Holler if you need anything.”

“Thank you.” I slide onto the back of Nixon's motorcycle, knowing Nixon paid cash and registered under my name so no chance of blowing his cover.

“Didn't you see the boys' campsite below?”

“It was dark. I figured they weren't there. And what's wrong with those boys, anyway? Sitting around without any lights on. Shouldn't they be on their iPhones watching inappropriate Snapchat videos like normal kids these days?”

“They were studying the moon.”

“Oh, yeah? They should thank me, then.”

“What for?”

“I showed them a moon to remember.”

“Bree, wake up.” Nixon nudges my shoulder in the morning.

I force my eyes open and rub them to life. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing, get up.”

“Why? It's still dark. And cold.” I bury myself deeper into the sleeping bag.

“Put this on.” He tosses me his sweatshirt. “Hurry.”

With a half grumble, I pull it over my head and inhale the remnant smell of the campfire. And the remnant smell of
him
.

He hands me my shoes. “C'mon.”

I slide into my sneakers and pull my hair into a ponytail, grateful for the altitude, my run through the woods, and the couple of beers that helped me fall asleep quickly last night. We didn't have an awkward moment at bedtime. “Where are we going?”

“You'll see.” Lit by the lantern, Nixon guides me up the road toward the mountain base.

We follow a windy makeshift dirt trail, hopping over cacti and snaking between bushes and rocks and then scrambling up a boulder fixed at the mountaintop. He sits on my right, close to me, for the rock is not much wider than the two of us.

I don't inch away as Nixon's thigh presses against mine.

He pulls a thermos and a blanket from his backpack and covers our legs.

The sun has yet to crest, but it casts an orange glow over the sleeping campground, the valley, and Strawberry Creek. Only a few birds are chirping.

Streaks of red, pink, and purple illuminate the dark sky. The sun is slowly rising and the brilliant rays warm the air as the sun, which now looks like a big yellow egg yolk, spills onto the horizon. I'm not a religious person, but there's something spiritual about watching the birth of a new day, full of innocence, promise, and hope.

“Wow, it's beautiful. I'm glad you brought me here.”

We say nothing, and seconds, maybe minutes, pass before he breaks the silence. “This land is full of secrets.”

“What kind of secrets?”

“See that peak?” He points past me at the tallest mountain across the valley, and then, lowering his arm, slides his hand beside my mine. He curls his pinkie around my own.

His show of affection surprises me. So does the feeling rushing through me.

Nixon.

“It's called Tahquitz Peak, named after a highly regarded Indian who fell in love with the daughter of an enemy tribe. The pair lived on opposite sides of the mountain and sneaked away to meet on that peak. Every morning, for months, they watched the sunrise together.”

Our fingers are now entwined, one lost within the other.

“Now that's a love story,” I whisper.

“Once her father heard about the two lovers, he forbade the union, said she could never see Tahquitz again.” He slips his hand away.

“That's terrible.”
Come back.
“What happened?”

“Somehow Tahquitz got word to her. The two agreed to meet the following sunrise and run away together.”

“And they lived happily ever after?”

“She never came.”

“What? Why not?”

He shrugs. “No one knows for sure. Some say her father moved her to another tribe far away. Some say she died of a longing heart. Every morning for the rest of his life, Tahquitz climbed the peak and waited for her, but he never saw her again. He died on top of that mountain.”

“God, to be loved like that.” My eyes are moist now.

“Legend says, if you watch the peak at sunrise you'll find his spirit—”

“Searching for her.”

“No, scampering away from a squirrel with his pants wrapped around his ankles.”

“You big jerk.” I punch his arm.

“Take it easy.” He laughs. “It's a true story.”

“Whatever.”

I snatch the thermos from his grasp. “Hey! Where'd you get this coffee anyway?”

“Bill has a Keurig.”

Later, as we travel home, Nixon doesn't remind me to hold on tight. He doesn't ask that I press my chest against his back or melt my shoulders into his.

I just do.

But as Tahquitz Peak fades in the distance, I begin to wonder if the mountain air confused my senses. Is the feeling resonating within me from Nixon's touch or simply my subconscious trying to mend my broken heart? But if it's the thin air, then why did I feel this way at Tough Mudder? Why do I
feel this way around him, all the time? Is there something more? Do I have feelings for Nixon? Does he for me?

Far too soon, Nixon cuts the engine and we climb off the bike outside my house.

Standing curbside, I remove my helmet and comb my fingers through my hair. My lips are chapped. My throat is dry. My heart is pounding.
I don't want him to go.
Right or wrong, I want to know how he feels. Not sure if I should, even less sure that I shouldn't, I stare into his eyes. “Nixon, I need to ask—”

“Bree, let me say something first. You need to know, these past couple weeks have all been for show, but I—”

“Bree?”

I spin around toward a familiar voice.

Sean stands on my porch. “Can we talk?”

Nixon hands me my bag, distancing himself from me as if I'm laced with anthrax. “I'll see you around.”

Before I can say anything, he climbs onto his bike and rides away.

Sean joins me on the sidewalk. “Hey.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Can I come inside?”

“I'm really tired.”

“I've something important to say.”

So did Nixon.

I glance down the street. Nixon stops at the intersection, balancing his bike with his foot planted on the ground.

You need to know, these past couple weeks have all been for show.

He turns right. His brake light disappears.

Sean grabs my bag. “Please, just for a bit.”

I'm emotionally exhausted, too weak to put up a fight. “Yeah, okay, I suppose.” I unlock the door. “Let me just change real quick.”

“Take your time. I'll wait.”

I'm bothered, but curious about Sean's unannounced visit. What could he possibly want? Is he here to tell me that while I meant nothing, Sara means something?

My head is fogged with thoughts. Sean and Sara's dates. The book. Jo's house. How much my life's changed in a matter of weeks.
Nixon.

Ten minutes later, I head downstairs.

Sean sits on the couch. His hands are squeezed into fists and he silently mouths a few words. I've seen this preparation many times, especially on the nights before his trial's opening or closing arguments.

I remain at the base of the stairs, watching the man who's consumed so many of my days and evenings over the last four years. I know Sean so well. I know he snores on his right side but not his left. I know he requests a number six blade at the barber, the scar on his right elbow came from a skateboarding crash on his twelfth birthday, and Lilly McGovern was his first kiss, fifth grade, after school, underneath the slide. He cringes when his aunt Kathy adds ice to her red wine or A-1 sauce to her steak, but he loves to dip his Doritos in sour cream.

There's something to be said for knowing the idiosyncrasies about a person that others don't. A secret window into his life.
History.

“Hey, there.” He stands the moment he notices me.

“Hi.”

“Thanks for seeing me.” He twists his hands together. “You'd think a trial attorney wouldn't be so nervous to plead his case. Do you want to sit?”

“No, I'm fine. What did you come to say?”

“Okay, I'll get right to it. This time without you has been very enlightening. I've been on several dates with a woman who's lovely, sweet, funny. She's—”

“You're joking, right? You're here to tell me how great Sara is?”

“No, sorry, that's not what I meant. Let me start over.” He wipes his brow.

He
is
nervous.

“What I'm trying to say is, Sara's everything a man could ask for.”

“That isn't any better.”

“But she isn't you.”

“Yes, Sean, you're right. We're two separate people.” I can't hide my sharp tone. “Your overpriced education is really paying off.”

“See, that's what I mean. She isn't snarky and stubborn and constantly nipping at my heels. She isn't insanely determined and dedicated to her clients. She isn't obsessed with love.”

“Are you complimenting me or insulting me?”

He takes a step closer. “She doesn't make me laugh. She doesn't make me excited to get up in the morning and see what the day holds. She doesn't make me a better person. All she does, all any other woman does, is remind me that I once had something so great, so imperfectly perfect. She reminds me that I don't want to spend another day, another minute, another millisecond without you.” Sean bends down on one knee. He holds out a stunning two-carat square-cut diamond ring.

Oh, my, God.

“I know this won't be easy. I know I have a lot of work to do to earn your love and forgiveness, but please, let me spend the rest of my life proving how much I love you. Be my wife. Marry me.”

My mouth falls open. Holding this opportunity in my hand, this chance at a family and a future, I'm a mess. My thoughts are confused and suffocating, as if I've fallen into a frozen pond, frantically trying to get out from underneath a layer of ice, desperate for air.

“Sean, I don't know what to say.”

“Say yes.” His smile is anxious, eager, endearing. “Say yes to love.”

The angles of Nixon's face come to mind. The smell of his skin as I leaned against him on the bike. The wonder and strength of his stare warming my skin like the morning sun cresting over Idyllwild.

But then his voice punctures my calm.
You need to know, these past couple weeks have all been for show.

What is wrong with me? Why am I wasting a single thought on a man who's playing a part?
Sure, Nixon and I have spent a lot of time together, but he's only holding up his side of the bargain. Our relationship is a business arrangement. Our love is a sham. Not even real. It's nothing. Why can't I get this through my thick head?

On the other hand, Sean and I have years together. Like Antonio's, we're comfortable and familiar. And, except for his momentary insanity, we haven't had many bumps in the road. Maybe what Sean said is true. Maybe he did need to explore someone else to make our relationship healthier, to appreciate all that we have, to feel safe. Maybe I did, too? Maybe my fascination with Nixon is no more than my ego trying to ease the wounds of my battered heart.

In a sense, Sean dumping me made our bond stronger.

My scar reminds me yet again of the pain from having something so precious taken from me. It's hard to let relationships go. Even years after the accident, I still grow angry when friends complain about wearisome Sunday night family spaghetti dinners or obligations to repeat their mom's silly traditions like watching
Elf
while decorating the Christmas tree. I would be thinking,
Be grateful you have a family. Be thankful for the consistency, something and someone to count on.

No doubt, my parents would've loved Sean. Dad would've
appreciated Sean's work ethic, a lawyer himself, patting him on the back and complimenting his impressive caseload, talking judgments and statutes, then cracking open a couple of beers and watching the game highlights or brushing another coat of paint on the house trim.

Mom would've enjoyed Sean's casual attitude and lighthearted sense of humor. I picture the two of them walking to Peet's for morning coffee, then strolling the long way home alongside the shoreline, hunting for beach glass, sand dollars, and coral. Sean tucking Mom's “keepers” in his pockets.

They'd be happy for me. For Sean's proposal. For the promise of my future. I have a mental image of their approving nod.

“You're smiling. That's a good sign.” He winks. “Bree, baby, please say yes.”

My eyes linger on the ring for several moments.

I think of his note.
L'Straut Jewelers . . . ask Bree.

Equally powerful as hearing Sean utter the words
marry me,
if not more so, are the actions and thoughts that led up to his decision. It's that revelation that charms me the most. The moment he decided,
she's the one
. Honestly, is there anything more raw and meaningful than that awareness? I'm the person Sean wants to share his life with. Forever.

Ever since my parents passed, I've craved,
needed
, someone to count on, someone to share my past and future with. If I say no, then aren't I walking away from exactly what I long for?

“Sean, I want to be completely honest with one another. Clean the slate.” I pull him up to a standing position. “Why did you break up with me?”

He slides the ring midway onto his pinkie and grabs my hands. “I got scared. I don't think I've told you much about my parents' divorce, but they fought constantly over money. How much this or that cost, why Dad bought a motorcycle when Mom wanted to redo the kitchen. Money ruined them,
tore them apart.” He strokes my hands with his thumbs. “So, when we met with the financial advisor and discussed portfolio projections and interest rates, I thought of them. Their fights and tension gummed up my head. I feared the same might happen to us. I freaked out.” He wraps my hands behind his back. “I'm not perfect. I've made mistakes, but I love you. I love you more than anything.”

As I stare back at the man I've known intimately for four years, I'm taken back to the moment by the beach and the green flash. The first time he said he loved me. He's right. We've come so far together. With a cleansing breath, I decide right there and then that mistakes are just that, mistakes. What type of person does it make me, not to forgive and forget a quick moment—albeit painful—over the years of wonderful moments?

“We have history. Good history.”

It's as if he read my mind.

“I want to bounce our grandbabies on my knees and take them to Disneyland. I want to have Sunday dinners and weekend soccer games. Let's start a family. Marry me, please.”

I press my body closer toward Sean, silencing the petty worry in my mind. Besides, if I want any chance at a solid future, I have to trust him. “Yes, I will marry you.”

“You have no idea how happy this makes me.”

He slips the ring onto my finger and kisses me long and slow.

I'm reminded of his taste, his comfort, his rhythm.

“Do you have any Champagne?”

“Drank it the night we broke up.”

“Well, no matter. There are better ways to celebrate, anyway. How about you and I go upstairs and I show you how much I missed you?” His lips are on my neck. “It's been a long time since I've had you.”

“Um . . . actually.” I inch away. “It's just . . . I had a really long weekend. I'm beat and our reunion should be special and . . .”

“Say no more. You're right. We're starting over. I want things perfect. No reason to rush. We have our whole lives.” He slides the bangs out of my eyes. “I'm leaving tomorrow for my conference in Denver. Terrible timing, I know. But how about this? When I get back, I'll book us an oceanfront suite at La Valencia. We'll share a very sexy, very romantic dinner for two. We'll make new memories. Sound good?”

“Sounds good.” And it does. It really does.

He laughs and reaches for the door. “Wait until we tell Candace. Won't she be shocked?”

“No!” I practically shout. “You can't say anything.”

“Why not?”

“It will ruin everything.”

“Our engagement ruins everything?”

“Yes.”

“Ah, the paper.”

“Our little hiccup happened the night before my first interview and the paper demanded I have a boyfriend by my side, so I panicked and asked Nixon.”

“You mean this whole time you and Nixon were pretending?”

“Yes.”

“You never slept together?”

Does my imagination count? Stop it, Bree. Stop it right now.
“No.”

“Damn, that's good news.” Sean lifts me by the waist and spins me around.

“Okay, right, great. But put me down. Candace doesn't know. She can't know. Nor can anyone else. I have to continue dating Nixon and you have to keep pretending you're dating Sara.”

“How long?”

“A couple more weeks, until the last interview posts.”

“It kills me not to share the news with the world, but I'll
play along. For a couple weeks. Mrs. Sean Thomas. God, I love the sound of that. All right, I'll let you rest. I'll see you the moment I get back from Denver. I love you, Bree.” He kisses me and steps out my front door.

“I love you, too.”

My sprinkler kicks on, soaking his shoes and pants.

“Shit!” He prances toward his car.

But I shouldn't laugh.

I shouldn't cry, either.