Chapter 8
EIGHT
Alex
She hops out of the raised Bronco with ease, rounding the back to remove bags from the trunk.
Something about seeing her here, I like it. It makes sense to me.
Then Blanks practically jogs to her side once he’s parked to help.
I don’t like that.
They spent the day together, and where I shouldn’t have given two shits, I find myself wishing, maybe, it had been me.
Or maybe I’m just projecting, worried history will repeat itself. A best friend, just a little too friendly to someone who meant a little more to me than I would let on.
I let the ax fall with more force than necessary, drawing their attention. Neither acts any sort of way about it. Emma eyes me, giving a soft tilt of the mouth in my direction. And then there’s Blanks with a gaze that says too much.
It’s on me to insert myself if I want. Or, I can hang back and watch this become something… More like them become something.
Dropping the ax, I grab the long sleeve I discarded earlier and wipe my face as I head in their direction.
I should leave them alone.
Yet, I move closer.
Why do I care again?
The image of her on her knees. Her straddling me in nothing but a towel. A hand traveling up and down my back.
I want to burn the images into my mind and erase them at the same time.
Even if I don’t, or shouldn’t, want anything with Emma, I know for a fact I don’t want her to have something with him.
“Busy day?” I ask once I’m close enough.
“Productive,” they say it in fucking unison.
Then they laugh about it. I have to fight the urge to turn and walk away.
“Need some help?” I stuff the shirt in my back pocket, reaching around Emma’s backside to pick up bags of…toys?
“Sure,” she says, her cheeks warming when my chest brushes against her back. I watch as Blanks eyes the interaction, knowing it wasn’t a fucking accident.
I slip my hand into the handles of the bags she’s holding, moving our hands against one another far more intimately than necessary. I’m gentle with her.
I’m trying to be gentle with her.
Inside the house, I drop whatever all this is on the dining room table, and Emma and Blanks do the same.
So you opening a toy store? I try the joke in my mind, but it sounds fucking lame. Because it is. I’m not exactly bringing much to the table conversationally. Not compared to talk-your-socks-off Blanks. He probably already has some endearing fucking nickname picked out for her.
“I was gonna go shower, but um, do you need help?” That’s the best I can do.
Honestly, that’s all I’ve got. Maybe it’s because I’m a 42-year-old widower collecting failed relationships like military coins, or maybe it’s just me, but the tank is fucking empty.
I don’t have witty comebacks and one-liners to throw her way.
“It’s just a lot of wrapping and then dropping it off at The Grounds tomorrow morning.” She shrugs, not answering one way or the other. But all I can think is: I can’t be seen at The fucking Grounds. What if she’s there?
Living five minutes away from the love of your life you’re not allowed to acknowledge is fucked. Who isn’t allowing me? Me. Yeah. Fucked. Fully aware.
“I can wrap. Just give me ten?” I ask her, and Blanks eyes the fuck out of me.
“Okay!” She says nearly exuberantly.
I beeline for the upstairs, an extra hitch in my step. That is until I walk past Eden’s room. Then I’m in our room. Staring at the bed. Walking into her closet just to catch the scent of her perfume that lingers. My stomach turns at the reminder.
‘I love you, Alex.’
I love you, too.
I should have fucking said it back.
My old friend, regret finds me. Had I said it back within the 30 seconds she gave me, would this all be different right now? Had I said, I love you, I can’t live without you, give me all your chances, because I’ll give you all mine, would we be here together?
I slip my phone out of my pocket and hover over her name, debating.
She wouldn’t pick up. Would she?
Would she?
“We’re done, by the way,” Blanks wanders in, not bothering to knock. Yeah, that sounds about right. “We’re gonna go pick up pizza…” there’s no invite added to the end.
“Is she pissed at me?” I ask him.
“I think she doesn’t know what to think of you. Luckily someone’s already trained her to expect nothing of people, so when she gets jack shit, it’s no skin off her back.” My stomach sinks with guilt. But that’s what anyone close to me should expect.
“Tell her I said sorry. Something came up.” He looks at me, noticing I haven’t even showered yet.
Blanks scoffs, “Tell her yourself. Or, you know, don’t. Or better yet, leave her alone.” It sounds bitter, and I drag my eyes from my phone to meet his that glare down at me.
“Do you like her?” I ask, my brow furrowing.
He runs a hand along his mustache, like a tell.
“My answer is irrelevant. But don’t fuck with her.
Don’t play with your food. Just fuck, Pal.
I don’t know why you had to do this.” He shakes his head.
“I just hope to god she doesn’t fall in love with you too.
” He turns and walks away, leaving me feeling like the Jess-sized hole in my heart is the least of my problems.
Emma
Christmas Eve. And I’m sitting alone in the dark, watching flurries unfurl from the sky, appearing like magic out of thin air.
My mug of cocoa went cold half an hour ago, but I can’t bring myself to move from my spot in the living room to rewarm it.
All the lights are off, I’m tucked under a furry blanket, and it’s just me, the moonlight, and flurries.
Happiness isn’t the right word. Contentment? I’m probably content. Safe? Mostly. But happy? No. And I probably won’t be until after Alex and I divorce someday. Being around him is equal parts pleasure and pain.
His wayward glances are like gifts, but his attention deprivation is like being suffocated slowly. He leaves you aching for the next breath every time you see him.
The best thing for me is to pretend he doesn’t exist. It’s just me in this winter wonderland. Maybe Santa’s out there, too.
There are no stockings hung by our chimney with care, though.
And the bottom of the tree is glaringly empty.
I have no expectations that will change between now and tomorrow morning.
So, the plan is to wake up extra early, cook a big breakfast to leave out for them, and then go for a hike.
Alone. And hopefully, for most of the day.
Blanks helped me find some hiking gear, a light pack, and Camelbak.
Better shoes, and socks, and outerwear. It’s the best gift anyone has ever given me — their time.
He spent the better part of the afternoon running errands with me before heading to Alex’s sister’s house for Christmas Eve dinner and festivities.
The invite hadn’t been extended.
For some reason, the back of my throat burned when he left.
It’s possible I’m finding myself growing attached to the only person capable of human connection in a three-mile radius, so I’ll cut myself a little slack.
Even if I was in Vegas right now, I would still feel this way. A little bit slighted. Lonely. So this is nothing new, except that everything is new.
Maybe I’ve stayed out here hoping to catch Blanks on his way in for the night, but at 11:30, it’s starting to feel less and less likely that I will. So, cradling my cup, I set it in the sink, then head towards my suite tucked away behind the great room.
I hadn’t ventured upstairs yet. Am I even allowed to?
Or is this like Beauty and the Beast? The West Wing is off-limits!
I have no clue what’s there, aside from Alex.
He’s always either in his room, chopping wood, or, I guess, just gone because I’ve hardly seen him since he volunteered to help and then disappeared yesterday.
I haven’t even allowed myself to really think about that, or what it means, or how I feel because it hadn’t felt good. And that’s problematic. So I tuck those thoughts away for another day and time, like maybe my hike, and I curl into a ball on the bed.
I rub my feet together, trying to garner some warmth, but it never seems to come, just like the sleep that fails to arrive as well.
So, instead of sleeping, I lie here, staring at the ceiling, wondering. Where is Blanks? I still haven’t heard him come in. If I were in Vegas, what would I be doing? I would be nearly mid-shift on what is notoriously the slowest night of the year. Why Eddie’s even stayed open, I have no clue.
And then, like most nights, I eventually play the game of what-if.
What if I had been born into a more normal family with two loving parents who weren’t diseased and dysfunctional?
Where would I be? Who would I be? Would I like her?
Would she be playing Santa with her husband right now, tip-toeing around our house, filling stockings?
Sneaking around the living room, hiding gifts and toys?
The what-if game is a painful one to play. Because all my what-ifs are wishes. Dreams. Ones that I’ve never felt so far away from obtaining. The dreams felt closer in Vegas, with no boyfriend and no prospects in sight, than here, married to Alexander Palomino.
I’m already wishing the day away when I hear the faintest of steps in the hall. A quick check of the time shows 1:30. Likely Blanks sneaking in. I wait and listen, and then my door slowly eases open. I hadn’t shut it all the way, but when Alexander’s head pops in, I gasp at the shock.
“Oh my god, you scared me,” I whisper-shout at him, clutching the comforter tight.
“I’m sorry.” He’s standing in the doorway, shirtless. Sleep pants slung low around his hips.
“Is something wrong?” I ask, propping myself up on my elbows to see him better.
“Can’t sleep, and I was wondering…” He doesn’t finish, but he doesn’t need to. I pull the covers back on the empty side of the bed, scooting over to make room. He slides in, and I roll over to face away from him.