Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
ASH
M y heart was on a runaway train when Philip showed up out of nowhere.
It has screeched to a stop.
What did Rusty say?
I break from Philip, even as his hands try to tighten around me.
His possessiveness makes me feel sick and flattered at the same time, which in turn makes me feel sicker. How does he still have any kind of pull over me? He knows exactly what he's doing. He loves control.
And I hate him for it.
I break free the rest of the way and whip around to face Rusty. I'm standing in between him and Philip, and I shoot my friend a "huh?" look he immediately interprets. He answers with a quick "trust me," look. And then he pulls me in for a tight, protective hug — much better than Philip's — and he whispers, "Janes. "
I'm back to feeling two opposing things at once:
Relief that my friends care so much about me that they would send Rusty to strengthen me in the face of my awful ex.
And embarrassment that I'm such a mess that my friends think they have to send Rusty to strengthen me in the face of my awful ex.
And I'm not sure they're wrong.
All of this internalizing happens in a second, long enough for Philip to take in Rusty's embrace but short enough that I still have no clue what to do next.
"She's a grown woman, you know," Philip says, a hint of challenge on his honeyed tongue. "She can make her own choices."
Rusty releases me from the hug and skims his hand down my arm. I'm not normally ticklish, but I must be more sensitive than I thought, because I swear, every teensy hair on my body perks up like they're prepping for Rusty to graze them, too.
Then he says something quiet enough that it feels like it's only for me but loud enough that it's obviously for Philip's benefit. His eyes jump between mine earnestly, supportively. "If you were lucky enough to love a woman like her, you'd do anything to keep her in your arms."
Shoot, that was smooth.
"You clearly don't know who I am," Philip says.
And then Rusty looks up from me almost like he forgot Philip was there. My boy's acting skills are unparalleled. "No, I don't."
"I'm Philip."
"Cool. Rusty." Rusty tucks me under his left arm and leans forward to shake Philip's very much not outstretched hand.
Before this moment, I could count on zero fingers the number of times I've seen Philip Dumfries thrown. He is always the one with the upper hand. He makes a point of it. He doesn't enter situations unless he knows what the power dynamics are, and yet somehow, my fruit stand operating, graphic design best buddy has rendered Philip speechless.
Well, mostly speechless.
"I don't think you understand," Philip says. "I'm Philip. Philip Dumfries. Ashley's ex."
Rusty looks down at me with a teasing smile. "Seriously, Ash? Another ex? Am I going to have to pull a Scott Pilgrim and battle a league of Ash's Evil Exes?"
I laugh at the reference to a cult classic film that Rusty, me, and probably five other people know. And Philip isn't one of them.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see his neck redden. He hates feeling like an outsider. He despises being ignored.
I could eat his frustration with a spoon.
I scrunch my nose mischievously, like I'm some saucy minx instead of a girl with exactly one ex ever. "So I forgot a couple. What are you gonna do about it?"
"I'll show you what I'm gonna do about it," Rusty says with a flirtatious growl. Then he nuzzles his face against my jaw and nips at my neck.
Holy sensation, Batman!
His lips barely touch my skin — it's like he's trying to play his part without crossing a boundary — but tell that to my body. My skin explodes into goosebumps, and I reflexively lean into him, unable to stop myself. I squeal and giggle, swatting Rusty's chest.
His very firm chest.
"Stop, Rus, not in front of the children," I tease.
He gives me a look that could set a woman on fire, and then he looks at Philip.
"Ash is right. Sorry about that. I shouldn't rub your nose in what you lost. I know seeing Ash with anyone else would kill me."
How does he say this so casually, yet with so much grit in his voice? When did Rusty go from Rusty Fielding to Christian Bale? Leonardo Di Caprio? Daniel Day Lewis?
Best. Actor. Ever.
"I didn't expect to find her with anyone," Philip admits. He runs his hand through his hair, but instead of being the power move he intends — Philip has great hair — he looks flustered. The humidity is weighing his normally high dark brown hair down so that it's almost limp. "Most people can't appreciate what makes Ashley so special," he says.
His implication—she’s weird and difficult to love—is like a slap to the face.
A thousand memories swirl around me, each slicing at my confidence. Not just with Philip, but with my biological dad, Frank. In a waiting room when I'd have verbal diarrhea with any and every stranger. Starting a million different craft projects without ever finishing one. Singing in public. Getting sent to do a chore but hyperfocusing on something completely different.
"Why don’t you ever shut up?"
“Why can’t you finish anything?”
"People can hear you! You’re embarrassing me.”
"Why can't you just do what you’re told?"
Shame fills my nose and mouth until I'm sinking under.
And then a hand reaches down and pulls me up.
"Anyone who doesn't appreciate what makes Ash special is an idiot," Rusty says firmly, intensely. "But, then, a lot of people didn't understand what made any of the masters so great. Van Gogh wasn't appreciated in his lifetime."
“My grandpa owns a Van Gogh.”
Rusty pauses. “‘My grandpa owns a Van Gogh.’ Did you mean to say that out loud?”
The red in Philip’s neck spreads up his face. “I’m saying I appreciate a masterpiece as much as anyone.”
“Or your grandpa does, at any rate,” Rusty says .
"Last I checked, I wasn't a piece of art,” I say wryly. “Or interested in anyone’s grandpa.”
"I’ll agree to the last part," Rusty says with a chuckle. "But we all know you're a masterpiece, if not a master."
I laugh, shrugging off the heaviness weighing me down. "As long as I don't have to chop off an ear and die before people understand my brilliance."
"Ashley," Philip chides, as if I'm serious.
But Rusty laughs and pulls me closer like he's about to give me a noogie. Instead, he kisses my head through three inches of curls. "You've created campaigns that turned boutiques into juggernauts. The world knows, gorgeous."
"Oh, you." I stare at him in awe. Rusty is always sharp and witty, but sometimes he's so quiet, if you breathe too loud, you'll miss it.
He's not quiet right now.
"So, Philip," Rusty says. "You look like you're more comfortable in a Ferrari than a Ford. What brings you to Sugar Maple?"
A wolf would envy his smile. "I had hoped for business and pleasure, if Ashley was interested in taking me back."
"She's not," I say. But he's not even looking at me. He's looking at Rusty. He doesn’t want me; he wants to stake his claim and drop me once he’s driven Rusty away.
"Maybe we could go out for lunch, at least. As friends," Philip says to me. "If that's okay with your boyfriend."
"She doesn't need my permission," Rusty says.
"But the answer's still no," I say.
Philip hangs his head. "My loss."
"Right, because you came all the way here to find me and get back together." I roll my eyes, even though I want to kick myself. That question will make him think I care. And I do not.
I don't want to be with Philip ever again.
But is it awful if I want him to miss me ? Is it so wrong of me to hope that he's in absolute misery thinking of me happy with someone else? Is it bad of me to want him to realize that he never deserved me because he is complete and utter human trash?
He looks up at me, and he makes his eyebrows pull together as if in earnest, and it's then that I realize how much danger I'm in.
I want him to writhe over what he lost.
Which means he still has power over me.
Disgust and fear bubble in my gut, creating a dangerous mixture.
"Why wouldn't I cross a country for you, Ashley?" Philip says. "You always sold yourself short."
"Nah," Rusty says. "Ash knows how incredible she is." He looks at me with so much faith in his eyes, if he wasn’t already my best friend, I’d fall in love with him for this look alone.
"Well, I hope so," Philip says. "I suppose with you two being so happy, my trip really is strictly business." Philip gives me a half smile, as if I'm supposed to believe he's somehow brokenhearted to see me with someone else instead of being angry he can't play with me and toss me aside.
Ugh.
Why is he still here? Or here at all? What on earth could someone in business development for Dumfries Holding — the sixth biggest commercial real estate development company in Illinois — have to do in Sugar Maple, South Carolina …
Ohhhhhh.
A cold chill runs down my spine.
"How long have you two been together?" Philip asks.
Panic freezes me the rest of the way over, but Rusty saves the day. Again.
"Not long enough," he says
"What does that mean?" Philip asks.
"It means I've been head over heels for Ash for a year, but I only recently convinced her to give us a shot. "
"Funny," Philip says. "Ashley didn't take any convincing when we dated."
Barf.
"I'm a little more discerning now," I say. Rusty pinches my side, and I laugh.
Philip sizes Rusty up. "What is it you do, Rusty?"
"I work for Sugar Maple Farms," Rusty says.
"A farm boy? Impressive," Philip says.
"Don't act like you don't know what Sugar Maple Farms is," I say with an eye roll.
"Sure I do," Philip says. Then he hums the jingle they had in the 2000s, back when they were trying to market themselves as "Nature's Doritos." It wasn't a good look.
Rusty shrugs. "We've come a long way since then, thanks to Ash and her company. But you're right: I'm a farm boy, through and through. Tag Carville was my mentor, and he'll always be my hero."
This is a tricky spot for Philip. Tag Carville died a billionaire, and Rusty just name dropped the heck out of him. Philip doesn't know what Rusty does … and I'm embarrassed to admit, I don't really, either. I know he works an unholy number of hours and talks about the fruit stands and farmer's markets sometimes with Tripp. But it's not like he's a farm hand or warehouse worker.
How do I not know what Rusty does?
"How about you?" Rusty asks Philip.
"I'm the Senior Director of Business Development for Dumfries Holding."
"You mean you're 'a' Senior Director of Business of Development. Not 'the'. There are like a dozen of you."
"Yeah, we're a three billion dollar company." Philip scoffs. "There are a few of us."
"That's so fun," I say. "You're thirty-three and you're finally a senior director. I know how much that bugged you that you were the oldest of your cousins not to be one yet. Good for you."
Rusty ducks his head and clears his throat. I feel him laugh, though.
"And your little ad agency is doing panties commercials," Philip says. "You must be so proud."
Rusty stiffens. Like, every muscle I'm touching — and I'm touching a lot of them — goes totally rigid. Wow, he is super muscly. I pat his stomach.
Hello, tummy waffles.
"Are you for real?" I ask Rusty. "Where have you been hiding these things?"
He laughs outright, but he's still tight and standing stick straight. Why? Oh, right, Philip said something super rude.
"Uh, yeah," I say to Philip, not moving my hand from Rusty's stomach. Also, my thoughts. They are very, very focused on those abs. "Yeah, we're crushing it."
I look back up at Rusty in disbelief. His nostrils are flared in clear offense, but I'm having a hard time caring. I want to sneak a peek at these suckers. But also …
I don't .
Rusty's worth too much to reduce to something as dumb as hot abs. Because if he gained a hundred pounds, I wouldn't care about him any less. He wouldn't be any less special or important to me.
It pains a primal part of me to do this, but I drop my hand from his torso and drag my thoughts back to our discussion. Which was …
"Philip. What are you doing here, anyway?" I ask, though I already know.
"I'm here to give Sugar Maple the Dumfries treatment." He holds his hands out expansively.
"Oh, you mean the treatment where you move into town and replace all the cool, ragtag Mom and Pop shops and replace them with your cookie cutter shopping centers? Including that actual cookie place that uses margarine instead of butter?"
"You didn't mind those cookies back when you were working for us," Philip says.
"That's where Philip and I met," I tell Rusty. "I was working for a firm Dumfries hired, and Philip poached me to do ads in-house."
"And Ash was the best," Philip says in a rare compliment that makes me wonder if he believes it or not.
I'm disgusted to admit I want him to believe it.
My father tried to give me the Frank Moore treatment my whole life: be a perfect Stepford Daughter who always looks the right way and acts the right way so that Frank Moore can look better by association. My hair was never straight enough, my contacts bugged my eyes and I couldn’t stop rubbing them, I didn’t do well in STEM subjects the way he wanted but crushed the arts. I sucked at tennis and golf. My existence was a constant blow to his ego.
His rejection was a constant blow to mine.
It took me years to accept myself after he made me feel so totally unpresentable. In college, I was diagnosed with ADHD, took steps to learn to thrive with it, and then I came to life. I realized I wasn’t offbeat but rather ahead of the tempo. I had a way of spotting future trends and capitalizing on them. When I first started at the ad agency retained by Dumfries Holding, I was in heaven. I was great at my job, I was put on cool campaigns, and I was killing it.
And then Philip Dumfries came in and blew my life up. He was hot and charming and had this way of looking at me like we were in on a secret no one else could understand. He had a reputation as a lady killer, and his attention made me feel special. I felt like I was dunking on my dad that this pinnacle of a man was interested in me , even if I wasn't normal.
He asked me out on my first day at Dumfries .
The first couple of months together were like a fairytale … with a few Grimm moments, if you know what I mean. But, like a good little empath, I made excuses for him. By the third month, his mask was slipping more and more. And by six months, I was stuck on a sickening merry-go-round of feeling lucky that Philip cared about me, feeling worthless without him, wanting out, and wanting him to just love me.
I don't say this lightly: it was hell.
Him giving me a compliment after our veiled hostilities resurfaces some buried feelings, and it makes me realize that my self-esteem hasn't fully recovered. Those old emotions join ping-ponging thoughts, creating a level of chaos in my brain that is too overwhelming to process, let alone handle. The force of these chaotic thoughts tugs me apart, threatening to scatter me in the lightest breeze.
But then I feel the steadying weight of Rusty's arm. I lean closer, letting his embrace, his warmth, and his belief in me pull me back together. When he kisses my temple, I become absolutely certain of one thing:
I'm going to beat Philip.
So as he monologues like a villain about how he's here to bring some "sophistication" and create a "booming market," I smile.
“This should be fun,” I say.
He eyes me. "How so?"
"Looks like we're competitors."
"What?" His mask slips a fraction. "In what way?"
"We proposed a town revitalization project to the chamber of commerce this morning," I say.
He nods as if piecing together some information. "And I understand it was rejected."
"You understand wrong," Rusty says in his deep, slow, strong voice. "We're giving them a two-week trial period to show them what we can do before your … little presentation. "
Philip's left eye twitches. "Two weeks? I wasn't informed."
"Teddy and Bill can set you straight when you see them," Rusty says.
"I don't say this to be rude," Philip says in his patented "trust me" voice that no one should ever trust, "But your plan can't work. It would take years of revenue to match what we can give them. We're offering too much money."
"We're offering them a legacy," I say.
"A legacy?” he laughs. “In two weeks?"
"Yup! Not that I'll need them," I lie, "but definitely. So you may as well take Grandpa Dumfries' private jet back home and wait to hear back."
"It's not going to work," Philip insists. He's sweating like a politician in church, and even though Rusty and I are both sweating, too, Philip looks like it.
"You should probably delete those social media posts just in case," Rusty says, telling me he knows something I don't.
Philip fits his mask firmly back on and puffs out his chest. "May the best man win."
Rusty chuckles. "She will."