Hot Water (5 page)

He doesn’t say anything, just pushes me away. I still can’t raise my head to look into his eyes, but I know he’s pissed from the way his jaw tenses. And why wouldn’t he be?

I scooch my backside onto the passenger seat again and tie the bikini top behind my neck. “Back to Angry Guy, I see,” I mutter, my lips burning from the roughness of his stubble.

He leans forward, pressing his forehead against the steering wheel. “So you like to play games. Okay.” Then he starts up the ignition again. “Just my fucking luck. I’ll take you back.”

We don’t talk for a long time, and meanwhile, I’m getting angrier and angrier. Sure, maybe I did lead him on. But he’s the one trying to screw a random girl he just met. I glare at him. “I don’t get you. First you’re pissed at me for acting like a whore. Now, you’re pissed at me for acting too good.”

He keeps his eyes on the road. He has his dark shades on, and is back to being the picture of cool. “Why do you have to act like anything?” he mutters. “Just be.”

I roll my eyes. “Thanks, Yoda.”

“No, I’m serious. Who are you? Why don’t you just be who you are, and stop trying to be something else?”

“Because . . .” I start, feeling a blush in my face.
Because I don’t know who I am. And because if you saw who I really was, you’d a) laugh your head off, b) run in the opposite direction, or c) all of the above
. But he obviously knows exactly who he is, from the way he looks at me with such condescension. He’s oh-so-perfect and I’m a nobody compared to him, just someone worthy of one night. I’m never going to see him again, after this. Never
want
to see him, either, the jerk. As I think it, my hands ball into fists. “Okay. You want to know who I am? I’m a surfer. I can surf like a motherfucker. I love the ocean, but I hate fish, especially eating them. I have over one thousand pieces of sea glass. I can’t stop chewing my fingernails. Scary movies have been known to make me throw up, and my biggest fear is that I will never live up to my mother’s standards, even if I live to be one hundred.”

 The car slows to a stop, and suddenly I realize I’m in the exact spot he picked me up. When I look at him again, he has his shades on, so I can’t see his eyes, but his face is tilted toward me, and what’s that? A trace of a smile, a hint of amusement? I blush deeper. Even if I
will
never see him again, I’ve never met a person who has the ability to make my knees so weak and my lungs so useless.

“
You
are much more interesting than the act,” he says, his expression never changing as he unlocks the doors with a flip of a button. Then he goes back to staring through the windshield.

Interesting, he means, like a freak show
. I shove open the door and climb out of the car, slamming it as hard as I can. I mean not to look back, because I know the second I do, I’ll regret it.

“See you, Limo Girl,” he says.

I hope not. I don’t want to see him.

Before I can persuade myself not to, I find myself swerving and dipping my head low so I can gauge his expression. My heart dips when I realize he’s already thrown the car into drive, already focused on the road ahead, already moved on from me. I try to think of something to say, something that will show him he’s not all that, but the only thing that comes to mind is
Fuck you
. Very eloquent. And it doesn’t quite convey my anger. So I say nothing as he zooms down Ocean Avenue, away from me.

 And this time,
this time
, I’m sure that I never will see him again.

Chapter Six

Caden

Fuck my life.

When I get back to the penthouse, Andrea is there. Perfect. She greets me at the elevator with a cautious smile. “Hi, baby,” she says.

“Hey,” I say. I lean over to take her in my arms, but then think better of it. I know I smell like the sea, and like that girl I just left. She was all suntan lotion and fresh air. Her hair smelled like flowers. Fuck, she was sweet. I kiss my fiancée on the nose and move into the kitchen, where I find a bottle of water.

“Where’ve you been?” she asks, her voice never wavering. I know there’s suspicion in her question, but it doesn’t hang in her voice. Suspicion, in her line of business, is a negative feeling, and Andrea does not exhibit any of those. Ever. It’s why she is the best at what she does.

But it doesn’t mean that suspicion isn’t there. I think it’ll always be there, now.

“Just doing some things,” I say with a shrug, then take a long swig of the water. “What are you up to?”

“Packing!” she says brightly.

She’s been doing it for weeks. Ange is an over-preparer. She prepared and prepared for the wedding, to the tune of six figures, and now she’s on to packing for the honeymoon. One week in Paris, one in Venice, one in some secluded island paradise with a name I can’t remember. Three days ago I’d joked with her that all she needed was a tube of lube and her bikini. The rest was inconsequential. God, I’d been so blindly and stupidly convinced I could spend the rest of my life with her.

That seems so fucking wrong now.

I’m pissed off and horny, but I need to take a shower. Then I’ll fuck Andrea. Great. I thought I needed another girl to distance myself from what Andrea did to me, but now I think I need Andrea to distance myself from that sweet little girl I’d wanted on the beach.

Could my life get any more fucked up?

Her Chanel luggage has been splayed out all over the bedroom for weeks. Before, I didn’t mind tripping over it. Now, it pisses me off. Everything about the wedding pisses me off, from the suitcases, to the expensive gifts that we don’t need, littering every room, to the people calling seemingly every day saying “I can’t believe someone finally tamed the city’s most eligible bachelor” with a wink and a smile.

If I weren’t Caden Williams, I’d say, fuck you, and punch their lights out.

But we are the Williamses, and we do not let anything or anyone get to us.

Which is why Andrea should fit into this family perfectly.

She doesn’t see me kick the luggage, or look at it like I want to shred everything in it. She comes out of the bedroom, folding a tropical-print dress. “So . . . everything went okay last night?” she asks quietly.

I nod.

“You . . . did what we discussed?”

I don’t want to be talking about this. “You want details?”

She shakes her head. “It’s just that . . . I called Rhys early last night and he said you just moping.”

What . . . the . . . fuck. “You called him?” I ask, try to swallow the bile in my throat.

“Why wouldn’t I? Cade, he’s still your best man, and your best friend.”

“Right,” I snip, unable to keep the edge out of my voice. I open the refrigerator and look inside, for nothing in particular. I have no appetite for anything anymore. “I’m sorry if my anger isn’t an acceptable emotion for you. I was surprised by the news. And that it took this long for it to come out. I’m working on it.”

She nods. “I can only say I’m sorry so many times.”

And that was the problem. She’s said it so much in the past few hours that it’s lost its meaning. The word alone wasn’t enough, and would never be enough. Nothing would be enough. But the Williamses were problem-solving people. There was no situation that was so broken it couldn’t be fixed with a little positive thinking. I just need to think positive.

Instead of thinking of my wife, fucking my best friend.

I take a deep breath. “Let’s just forget it,” I say. “The problem is that we keep talking about it over and over again. It happened a year ago. It’s done. We can move on from it.”

She comes close to me, wrapping her arms around me. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” I say.

No, I think.

Cicily

I navigate around piles of surfboards and wetsuits strewn about the tiny deck and slide open the door leading into the kitchen. The small condo smells like stale cigarette smoke and day old Chinese food. As usual, it’s a sty. The TV is on. Infomercials.

He pops his head up from the beaten couch and rubs his eyes. He looks like he just spent all night partying. Knowing him, that’s what he did. “Hey, babydoll. How’s my high school graduate?”

“Hi, Dad,” I say, noticing the bottles of beer on the old coffee table with a frown.

“Hey, I’m sorry I couldn’t make it, but you know how I am with those things,” he says. But I’m not frowning because he couldn’t be there to see me in my cap and gown. I know how much he hates being
anywhere
my mom is. I’m frowning because I’m getting ready to break his heart. “You look beautiful,” he says.

I wish I could say that he looks like something other than shit. His eyes are bloodshot and he hasn’t shaved in days. But this is normal. This is my dad.

“Your face is red, though. Sunburn?”

There’s a mirror hanging over the couch, and I check my reflection, but immediately I know. The whole lower half of my face is stinging and raw from being ground into Angry Guy’s stubble. He’d even kissed in an angry, yet completely delicious way. I shiver at the thought of him, recalling the fresh scent of his cologne, the way his touch mingled with the cool ocean air . . . before snapping back to reality. “I guess,” I say, but he must know that’s a lie. I don’t burn, I tan. Like him, I live for the sun, and the sun is good to me.

He starts a half-hearted clean-up effort, picking up a cigarette tray and a couple of the bottles, dumping them all in the trash container in the kitchen. “You have breakfast yet?”

“It’s after
three
,” I point out.

“Oh. You have lunch yet?”

I shake my head. Angry Guy had promised me lunch, but I guess that was something I had to earn by fucking him. The only thing I’d eaten all day was a few crackers for breakfast, to sop up the alcohol in my belly. Before, I’d been too nervous to eat. Now, I’m famished.

“Grilled cheese, your favorite,” he says, pulling out the griddle.

It hasn’t been my favorite since preschool, when my parents divorced, but whatever. I don’t want to burst his bubble. My dad lives to make me happy. Which is why I hate having to say what I’m going to say.

He makes the sandwiches and I set the table, clearing away the piles of mail that he doesn’t open and crumbs of past meals. We sit down to eat like a family. “We going out today?” he asks.

“I can’t. I have to get back home,” I say. “I was out earlier, though, and it was kind of flat.”

“Bummer,” he says. My dad is the one who taught me everything he knows about surfing. And he knows a lot. He used do it competitively, and then he owned a surf shop, which failed after one season because my dad is a “head in the clouds, feet on the sand” kind of guy. Now he doesn’t do much of anything. Sometimes he works at the sub shop down the street, but mostly, he likes to take it easy. “So when are you getting that ass of yours down here for good?”

I swallow. “That’s what I have to tell you. I have an internship in the city. Mom wants me to be more responsible.”

He stops chewing, his eyes drooping, then chews slower. The disappointment is heavy on his face. “Oh.” He smiles, but I know it’s forced. “Well, that’s your mom for you. But she’s right. It’s probably good for you.”

I shake my head. “I want to be here, you know. I am totally not cut out for the stiff, corporate life. You can still talk her out of it.”

“Babydoll,” he mutters. “When have I
ever
been able to talk your mother out of anything?

I know he’s right. My mom is like gunfire, my dad, like a pillow, absorbing it all. I was a miracle baby, because only my wildest imagination can I come up with a scenario where my parents end up together. But somehow it happened. They met, dated, married, had me. They were together for five years. My mother has always been headstrong, and always gets what she wants. My father has a perpetual tan and white-blonde hair, plus ice-blue eyes and a boyish face—when he’s surfing, he looks fine, better then guys half his age. It’s only when you get close to him that you can see the scars life has left him—his skin has lost some of its perk, and some of the hairs on his chest are turning silvery. Sometimes, I can see the charm he must have had, but more and more often, he looks sad, tired, and beaten.

“I don’t want to do it,” I say.

“You take after your mother in a lot of ways. Sometimes I think your mother loves that job more than life itself. Who knows, maybe you’ll like it, too?”

“Doubtful.” I want to surf, even without Trevor here. I live for the beach. I’ve never understood how my mom could be so involved in a job, but she has been, ever since I was a baby and she had to leave me at a neighbor’s house while she went into the city. Those early years, she supported us—all of us. My dad was always trying out one new thing or another, but none of them ever stuck. He’s never been the type to be tied to an office chair.

And I know I’m not like that, either.

“We still have the weekends?” he asks me.

I smile. “Yeah. We still have those.”

Chapter Seven

Caden

My father has a philosophy in life, and it’s this:

Nobody can fuck with you unless you let them.

When I was a kid and nearly broke my leg during a bad slide playing baseball, the coach wanted to bring me in. He made me stay out there, at shortstop, and hang on through the pain. I made three plays that way. He always used to say that the Williamses are a people who triumph in adversity. We’re a family who thrives under pressure. We’re strong. We don’t let people fuck with us.

And yet, I’ve let my dad fuck with me, every day of my life.

A year ago, he had a stroke. I thought he might die. It just about punched me in the gut— the realization that soon, I’d be the only Williams left. I should’ve realized it sooner, but I was too busy fucking around.

My dad—he’d always seemed invincible. And then came the stroke. So I thought, I’m not getting younger. That weekend, I proposed to Andrea. He adores Andrea. I knew it would make him happy. And a Williams grandson would make him happier, yet.