Chapter 7
7
On a desperate day, alcohol can be a welcome brain lubricant. It’s not necessarily that I use it to dull the constant cacophony in my head, so I can focus on a single task. Although that’s also true at times. It’s more accurate to say that alcohol gives me a warm, buzzy, tingly feeling in my limbs. It relaxes me enough to calm my anxiety.
“Are you sure I can’t get you something?” Finley asks for the tenth time. “If you don’t want a beer, they have a cocktail menu.”
“No, thanks,” I mumble again as the rest of the R&D team stares at me expectantly.
I don’t know how recovering alcoholics stay sober. There’s so much pressure to drink in our society.
“Are you sure?” he questions.
“She said no,” Peter growls from his spot as far away from me as he can sit on the other side of the table. “No means no.” He stares at his pint of beer as he shakes his head and mumbles, “How the hell did any of you get PhDs?”
I burst out laughing. Because…uncomfortable. Also…not relaxed.
There’s not enough alcohol in the world to relax me tonight. I’m here on a mission, so I can’t afford to be relaxed. I’m carefully operating under the guise of letting them get to know superficial things about me. That’s how I managed to get us all seated at one table.
I don’t expect them to act naturally until they’re more used to my presence. At least I’m a willing sacrificial lamb this time. Sort of.
Putting myself out there goes against every hard lesson I’ve ever learned. Where once I eagerly worked for friendship, now I mostly avoid other people.
My skin feels like it’s crawling. Like I’m an insect still twitching under the microscope even though my puny legs have been pinned down.
I don’t know why Peter’s even here. He said before that he wouldn’t come if I wanted to. Maybe he just doesn’t want anyone asking me the wrong questions about our shared past. He’s here to help himself, not me.
I doubt anyone is going to ask the sordid details of how we knew each other in grad school. They’re all exchanging nervous glances every few minutes.
Peter sighs then asks, “Eli, do you want another ginger ale?”
“Sure,” I whisper.
At least he’s not insisting on plying me with alcohol like the others. As much as they talk about him behind his back, I get the distinct impression that the team fears him. To be honest, I’m a little afraid, too. I still don’t know this new version of Peter. Not that I knew the real version of him in grad school. What I did know was that he was always a bit shy with the other PhD candidates, but never with me. Not until we got to know each other better at least.
He’s become…mean.
While Peter fetches my drink, the rest of the guys turn to me. They look like vultures .
I gulp.
I’m dinner.
“Was he always like this?” Joel hisses, leaning across the table.
“Sort of?” I answer. It’s not a lie.
“Has he ever been laid—that you know of,” Oscar amends at the last second. “There had to be women tripping all over him at MIT the way they do now. Did he ever have a girlfriend?”
I tip my glass to my lips to get an ice cube. One—so I’ll have something else to do with my mouth besides answer. Two—to cool me down from the sweeping inferno of embarrassment that threatens to burn me alive.
Only, I inhale way too fast because of my escalating panic and swallow the ice cube whole. It lodges in my throat. I proceed to cough for my life.
If only it wouldn’t melt before I die.
From beside me, Finley pats me on the back.
It doesn’t do anything, of course. The ice melts all by its damn self.
After I’m regrettably able to breathe again, Finley squeezes my shoulder then leaves his hand there.
“You okay?”
“Fine,” I croak.
A glass slams down so hard in front of me that ginger ale splashes over the rim.
I glance up at Peter, who’s frowning again.
Surprise, surprise.
“I gotta take a call,” he grumbles. “Please behave yourselves.”
He turns and parts through the swarm of bodies in the bar.
When I return my attention to the table, everyone’s still staring at me.
Still waiting for an answer.
I fumble blindly behind me for my purse .
If there’s one tried-and-true escape technique when dealing with men, it’s the mention of menstruation.
“Gotta change my tampon,” I announce before rising so quickly that my chair tips to the floor from the weight of my coat hanging on the back.
I don’t stick around to see their expected expressions of horror.
If I’m going to accomplish anything tonight, then I need a few minutes to collect myself.
By the time I emerge from the ladies’ room, Peter’s seat at the table is still empty.
Oh, no. When he said he had to take a call, did he mean to his buyer of top-secret Chester blueprints?
I should tail him. I can’t find any evidence of his misdeeds in the files I’ve coded so far.
Chet has insisted that I need to be vigilant at all times.
Sticking to the periphery of the crowd so as to go unnoticed by my teammates, I make it out to the parking lot. The black asphalt glitters with a combination of salt and snow. Nothing’s falling from the sky currently, but a fresh coating of powder covers all the cars. I glance to the left of the entryway, where a group of smokers are huddled beneath a canopy that’s used for outdoor seating in the summer. A space heater keeps them warm.
To the right, I find Peter. He’s alone, leaning against the building and staring at the passing traffic like he’s seriously contemplating running into it.
He’s not on the phone.
He jerks upright at my approach. And immediately frowns at me.
“What are you doing out here?”
The moment I reach him, he’s already got his suit jacket removed from his broad shoulders. He drapes it around mine instead.
I stupidly stare at him as he takes his time smoothing his coat over my arms. He gently tugs my hair from beneath the collar, then rearranges it down my back the way I prefer it. It’s almost as if his touch lingers like he can’t bear to let go. Curious, considering he’s supposedly found the love of his life. Then again, I have no solid proof of my coworkers’ assumptions.
I don’t want to read too much into the way he slides his big, warm palms down my arms either. When there’s nothing left for him to do, he steps back to a more appropriate distance between us.
Ugh. I can still smell him in spite of the freezing air between us. It’s like being draped in a heated blanket of Peter pheromones.
I snuff out the urge to sniff his lapel and ask, “What are you doing out here?”
He shrugs as he stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Uh, you know. Just…getting some fresh air.”
“It’s twenty degrees out here, Peter,” I mutter.
“Balmy,” he says with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Fahrenheit,” I clarify. “It’s twenty degrees Fahrenheit, not Celsius.”
“So.” He lifts his chin abruptly as he stares at something over my head. “You and Finley, huh?”
I have no idea what he’s implying until he gestures more meaningfully toward the entrance of the bar that’s behind me.
When I turn around, I see Finley leaning out of the doorway, staring at us.
He calls, “Are you two coming back inside or leaving?”
“We’ll be there in a moment,” I assure him.
“He’s…a nice guy.” Peter blows out a breath that results in a puff of steam obscuring his face .
“You don’t sound like you really mean that.”
“Probably because I don’t,” he mutters. “I swear, half the time I think I’m managing a frat house.”
I jerk back in shock.
Peter tries to recover. “They’re all decent guys, don’t get me wrong. They’re just…really immature sometimes.”
I don’t necessarily disagree, but I also detest hypocrisy. “And you’re so mature?”
“No.” Peter blows out another cloudy breath before resuming his position against the building. “I’m fucking stupid is what I am.”
I highly doubt that. Peter’s much younger than most people in his position. Chet favors fresh perspectives, so he chose Peter for a reason. A reason he now regrets.
Is this Peter’s way of confessing?
“Care to explain that?” I ask as casually as possible, mirroring Peter’s body language. If he wants to open up to me—either because he suspects I’m here to learn the truth or because his lies are weighing him down—then, I’m not going to run even though I’m shivering with cold.
“I thought…” Peter barks out a surprising laugh as he stares at the traffic again. “I thought you came here for me.”
“For you?” Surely, I misheard him.
He nods. “I thought maybe you’d forgiven me for whatever I’d done to drive you away. Even if you didn’t want to get back together, I thought that maybe you actually wanted to work with me.”
I didn’t mishear him, but that explanation makes absolutely no sense.
Thus, I straighten, face him directly and say, “That makes absolutely no sense. Why would I want to work with you? And what do you mean, ‘whatever you’d done?’”
He glances at me briefly. “I mean, I still have no idea.” He leans into my personal space again and murmurs, “I gave you everything. I worked as hard for you as I ever have for anything in my entire damn life. Without any explanation, you cut my heart out with a spoon.”
His mouth is still open, ready to puke out more awful words, but I hold up a hand to pause his lies.
“You worked hard for me ?” Surely, he can read the incredulity painted all over my face even if isn’t translating in my tone.
As it is, I’m barely restraining myself from committing physical violence. He worked hard for money that he wanted to win. Never for me. As a human being who’s worthy of interest beyond the physical.
He stares at me directly, his gaze bouncing all over my face. Whatever he sees there must be a disappointment. His shoulders slump. “Yeah, for you. I’d never been quite good enough my entire life, no matter how hard I worked to achieve it. I wasn’t smart enough, not popular enough, not attractive enough. For maybe the first time in my life, you gave me a reason to work harder. You gave me hope to be something more than I was given. And I did. I fucking gave it all. Only for you to inexplicably become a ghost. You suddenly weren’t home when I dropped by your apartment. You refused my calls, didn’t read my texts, never responded to a single email. No one else ever saw you again around campus. Hell, you didn’t even show up for graduation!”
I still very much regret that. It was a dream of mine to be hooded at my PhD ceremony. A dream that was stolen. By every single man who would have laughed as I walked across that stage.
I step up to their ringleader, simmering rage warming me from the inside out. I might have a job to do, but I can’t contain my emotions anymore. “Did you really think I wouldn’t find out? Did you honestly believe I would never know? What did you plan to do, Peter? Take the money and run? Well, I beat you to it.”
He gapes at me, his mouth opening so wide that I’d be able to see his uvula if it was daylight. After several heart-wrenching moments that feel like reliving that pain all over again, he scrubs a hand over his face like he needs that tactile stimulation to snap out of it.
“The bet,” he says as if he’s not sure what I’m speaking of. “Who told you?”
I scoff. He doesn’t even bother to deny it. What else will he not deny if confronted directly?
Crap. I can’t. I can’t ask him if he’s selling company secrets to the highest bidder. Chet insists on proof before action.
“You did,” I answer instead.
He shakes his head, his denial finally kicking in. “I— No. I never—”
“That’s exactly the problem,” I insist. “You never.”
“I can explain,” he pleads, holding his hands out like he would dare to put them on me.
I step back. “Why would I ever believe a word out of your mouth? Our entire relationship was a lie!”
“It wasn’t,” he swears. “It was never a lie. Not for me.”
“Hey, lady.” A gravelly voice diverts my attention. A strange man stands off to the side, still holding a lit cigarette in his hand as he stares at me and Peter. “You need some help? You want us to give him a send-off he won’t forget anytime soon?”
I glance behind me where several other men are ready and waiting on my word. They’ve abandoned the warmth of the space heater.
“No.” I wave at them and smile. Nod my head. Smile some more. “I’m fine. Thank you for asking though. Really.”
Peter puts his hands up, palms out. “I’m going. I’m going. ”
No , I almost scream.
Instead, I take a deep breath and force myself into logical thinking. I can’t lash out at Peter. I can’t kick him in the nuts, tell him he’s a worthless piece of crap, then storm back into the bar and tell all our coworkers what a worthless piece of crap he is.
If I do any of the things that would feel so good, I’d risk my mission.
No. I’m going to have the final say this time around. I’m going to hit Dr. Peter Carrington where it really hurts. I’m going to give him a taste of his own medicine.
“Elise,” he calls from the driver’s side of his car, his keys in his hand. “Ask yourself this—if I’m the monster that you believe me to be, then why would I have spent the past two months bending over backward to make sure you’re comfortable and have everything you need?”
The seemingly random seashell heart on the freshly installed bookshelves in my new office takes on a whole new meaning.
“Damn it, Peter,” I mutter.
Then, I storm back into the bar.