Love to Love Her YAC (38 page)

“Yeah, you seem to have a pattern of needing
to
talk
to her
every
time I’m around,” says Andy, not
backing down. “I don’t know what the hell was going on between you
two, but I’m pretty sure it’s over.”

The hooded look in Blake’s beautiful green
eyes is murderous. “You don’t know what the
fuck
you’re
talking about,” he growls.

It’s then that my brain catches up to the
spectacle unfolding before me and I become aware of the people
watching us as they skirt around the altercation. I glance over at
Blake’s date, but she seems to be standing off to the side trying
desperately to mind her own business.
Odd
.

I sidestep Andy and shove between the two of
them before the situation can get any more heated. I place one hand
behind me against Andy’s stomach and the other on Blake’s chest.
The second I touch him, a different kind of fire ignites in his
eyes, and his own hand comes up to cover mine. His gaze shifts from
Andy to me as he clutches at me like he thinks I’m about to
disappear. “
Please
,” he says through gritted teeth.

I sigh, then whirl around to face Andy. “I
need to go talk to him,” I say quietly in what I hope is a soothing
tone. “I promise I won’t be long—ten minutes, okay? Don’t leave
without me.” I try to give him a reassuring smile.

He looks past me to Blake and nods uneasily.
“Okay,” he exhales. “I’ll be right here.” I begin to back away, and
as my face turns he plants a soft kiss on my cheek. I squeeze my
eyes shut, trying not to grimace at his clear show of
who’s-with-whom. I’m too afraid to look up at Blake, so I just
start walking, taking for granted that he’s following along behind
me.

I come to the wide carpeted staircase that
leads from the mezzanine level down to the main floor and descend
the steps, my fingers tracing lightly along the brass railing. The
lower lobby is clearing out, and I’m able to see across the room to
a dimly lit alcove that perhaps once housed those old wooden phone
booths. My heels click across the marble floor, and I don’t turn
around until I’m in the alcove.

Blake approaches me cautiously, looking
criminally gorgeous in a dark green button down that hangs open
over a black V-neck t-shirt. His jeans ride low on his narrow hips,
showing a thin strip of the elastic band at the top of his boxer
briefs. A few longer strands of hair have fallen forward across his
face and around his ears. I take a few deep, calming breaths,
suddenly exhausted by the clash of emotions within me—sadness,
anger, desire, confusion,
hope
.

He stops a few feet away, looking as if he’s
afraid to come any closer. I cross my arms, trying to think where
to begin. “You wanted to talk?”— Seems like a reasonable place to
start. He was the one who called this meeting.

“What happened, Rhiannon?” he asks. It’s hard
for me to meet his gaze, knowing I’m somehow responsible for the
tortured look I see there.

“When?”

He sighs, raking a hand back through his
hair. I try not to notice the way his bicep bulges as he lifts his
arm. “Do you really need a recap? Three weeks ago I was rushing
back from Sacramento because I couldn’t wait to see you.” His voice
thickens and takes on an angrier cast as he continues. “You avoided
me the entire day, then you called to tell me you’re done – what
the hell happened? Did you break up with me so you could go out
with that dickhead?” He’s edged closer to me until he’s only inches
away, and I can feel his warm peppermint breath on my face.

Rage wins out over the other emotions warring
in my head. I dig my fingernails into my palms to keep from
slapping him as I silently seethe, chewing on the inside of my
cheek. “Who the
hell
do you think you are?” I finally ask,
my tone insidious. “Maybe if you had made it clear all along
I
was the one you wanted—“

He cuts me off by stepping even closer; I
yelp in shock when his hands close around my hips and grind them
into his pelvis. It’s been weeks since he touched me – it’s hard to
maintain a clear head when it feels as if I’ve been electrocuted.
“You think I don’t want you?” he says in my ear, sounding
positively sinister. He weaves his fingers together behind my back,
trapping me against his heaving chest as I fight to break free of
his intoxicating touch.

“Jesus, Rhiannon,” he breathes, “I can’t stop
thinking
about you. I’ve never wanted
anyone
more
than I want you.” His right hand catches me under the chin and
lifts my face. For a moment I think he may kiss me, and my entire
body yearns for his lips to come in contact with mine.

His words caused me to shiver uncontrollably;
I jerk within his arms, and slowly he releases me, still breathing
heavily. I’m left feeling dismayed and more confused than ever.
God, how I want to believe him
.

But I can’t forget my reason for breaking it
off with him in the first place… I breathe in and out twice before
speaking, determined to keep my cool. “What all did you do while
you were in Sacramento, Blake?” I’m amazed my voice came out
sounding about a hundred times calmer than I feel.

His face falls—it’s a subtle shift, but
noticeable. His eyebrows draw together a little, and he works his
jaw as he sucks in lightly on his bottom lip. His chest ceases to
rise and fall as he holds his breath.

“I saw Jordan when I was there,” he finally
admits in a single rush of breath.

He opens his mouth to continue, but I hold up
a hand. “I know that,” I say. He shakes his head in confusion. “I
know you saw her. What hurts is that I had to find out on
Facebook
. As far as
I
was aware, you two were over
before you ever went there.” The look of bewilderment is replaced
with one of dawning realization, followed by pure remorse.

“
Shit
,” he says, more to himself than
to me. He looks down, chewing on his lower lip while I wait for
some semblance of an explanation.

When he looks back up his eyes are imploring.
He takes a step forward, drawing closer to me. My instinct is to
match him by taking a step back, but I manage to hold my
ground.

“It
was
over. You have to believe me.
It had been for a while—she knew it, too. The minute I realized
where you went that first time, when you went back home to your
family, I knew what I had to do…because I didn’t want to be without
you. So I had a choice to make, and my first choice was to go to
you. I get that I may have done things out of order, but by that
time you were the only one I was thinking about. Truly… You were
the only one I
wanted
.”

I watch him expectantly, warming a little at
his words, but knowing I haven’t yet heard the whole story.

“After I left you I knew I still needed to
have the conversation with Jordan. But Rhiannon, please, try to
understand. I couldn’t just break up with her in a text message or
a phone call. I felt like I was doing the right thing by going
there and doing it face-to-face. I didn’t
cheat
on you…” His
eyes rove over my face, searching for some sign of understanding or
forgiveness.

I sigh. “I didn’t think you cheated on me,
Blake. At least, I
hoped
you didn’t. It doesn’t change the
fact you essentially lied to me. You were dishonest about the
status of your relationship with her—as far as I’m concerned, it
isn’t over until
both of you
know it’s over. You do realize
I would
not
have had sex with you that night—or any of the
other times—if I’d known all this, right?” I don’t wait for him to
answer. “Then you were dishonest about your reason for going home.
If you had just told me up front, a lot of this could have been
avoided.”

He nods, his hands tucked in his back pockets
as he stares at his feet like a little boy who’s just been caught
swiping cookies from the cookie jar.

“I know I was wrong,” he says at last. “I’m
so sorry.” His eyes are full of glistening sadness when he looks
back up at me. A big part of me wants to hold and comfort him, but
I resist the urge.

“Here’s the thing,” I say. “You put me on a
roller coaster I didn’t ask to ride. Whether or not you feel you
did anything wrong, I’m not prepared to deal with your ups and
downs and half-truths. I have too much going on in my life right
now, and way too much to think about—like whether my baby sister is
going to live to see her sixteenth birthday.” My voice breaks. I
know bringing Tawny into this is like driving the blade of a knife
even deeper into Blake’s already wounded heart. I didn’t say it to
be melodramatic, though—I said it because to me, this one awful
truth is the crux of our whole sad state of affairs.

There are so many other questions—like why he
felt the need to go all alpha male on Andy while he has his own
date waiting in the wings, or why he didn’t call me earlier to
explain. But only one question seems to really matter. I start to
head back toward the stairs, but before I go I turn around to face
Blake’s slumped form and ask him, “Did anything else happen with
Jordan while you were home?” The response to this question seems
critical.

He looks at me, his eyes bloodshot, his
posture hinting overwhelmingly at his state of dejection. “I kissed
her,” he says almost inaudibly.

Not the answer I was expecting. I want to
turn around and flee back up those steps, but something keeps me
fixed to the floor. “I hated myself for it,” he croaks. “I still
do“—he looks at me—“because you’re it for me.”

I hadn’t even been aware a tear had formed in
my eye when it breaks free to roll down my cheek. I pivot and walk
away.

Rhiannon – 2:00 PM

“P
ass me the rolling
pin, please, Rhiannon,” says Mom. I set down the brush I’m using to
daub an egg wash on the top crust of a cherry pie and hand her the
heavy wooden cylinder. I smile—a blue flowered apron covers her red
sweater and blue slacks, but her arms and face are streaked with
flour. “This will be the last time I agree to make everyone their
favorite pie,” she says. “I thought everyone would say pumpkin—I
had no idea everybody would want something different.” She laughs a
little as she shakes her head at her own naiveté.

“At least Tawny and I agreed on sweet
potato,” I point out. “Spencer is clearly the black sheep of the
family—how many other guys have even
heard
of French silk
pie?”

Mom laughs as she attempts to scratch her
nose with the back of her hand. “I’m just glad they can make it
this year. Can you believe it’s been three Christmases since we had
everyone together?”

“Did you know Congress moved Thanksgiving
from the last Thursday in November to the fourth Thursday to extend
the Christmas shopping season?” pipes up Tawny from her seat on the
other side of the breakfast bar. She’s had her head buried in the
holiday edition of
Better Homes & Gardens
for over an
hour now. She flips the magazine around and shows us a page titled
“Test your Thanksgiving Savvy.”

“Really? That’s funny,” says Mom, as she
slides the finished cherry pie into the oven next to a browning
strawberry rhubarb.

“Yep, in 1941,” says Tawny. She continues to
turn the pages, engrossed. I grin, marveling for the thousandth
time at her overwhelming resilience. She looks paler and more tired
than the last time I saw her around a month ago, but her tenacity
and sense of humor are the same.

Mom sets the timer on the microwave and turns
to take in the extent of the damages to her ordinarily perfect
kitchen. Currently it looks like a war zone, with flour, butter and
scraps of pie dough littering the counters and floor, and smears of
fruit filling decorating the cabinets. “All right, four down, two
to go,” she says. “Let’s take a break. Rhiannon, will you help me
make up the beds for our guests?”

I dutifully follow her to the linen closet to
collect armfuls of sheets and blankets. We make up the bed in the
basement for Aunt Liz and Uncle Jerome and the futon in the guest
room for Spencer. Another stack of bedding goes at the foot of the
sofa in the den for Spence’s little brother Simon. I’m sleeping on
the air mattress in Tawny’s room again.

We’ve just returned to the kitchen when Dad
comes in from his walk with Sophie. Tawny used to be the habitual
dog walker, but responsibilities have shifted since she started
back on the chemo—she spends more time feeling weak and nauseated,
especially during the weeks when she goes for her infusion.

“Mail!” says Dad as he drops a stack on the
table. Tawny scoops it up and begins sorting through the circulars
advertising Black Friday door busters. Winnemucca isn’t exactly a
shopping mecca, so you have to drive to Reno for most of the
specials. “See anything you can’t live without, T-berry?” Mom
chirps, retying her apron.

“Not really,” she replies. “This remote
control helicopter at Wal-Mart looks pretty cool.” She shakes open
the ad, and a few envelopes fall to the floor. “Oops,” she says as
she ducks down to pick them up. “Here’s a lawn care bill. Oh, we
got a card from Dr. Hennessy! And Rhiannon, this one’s for
you.”

She casually tosses a plain white envelope at
me, and I’m so surprised I almost forget to catch it. “You haven’t
gotten mail here in months and months,” muses Mom.

I turn the envelope over in my hands. My name
is printed on the front in black ink, the small capital letters
crowded close together so you almost can’t see the “I” in my first
name. There’s no return address, but the postmark in the right
corner says “Sacramento, CA.” A rabble of previously dormant
butterflies takes wing in my stomach, and their chaotic flapping
has me clutching at my abdomen.