Chapter 16
COOPER
Amara follows me to my place, and I watch her in my rearview mirror as she becomes increasingly curious.
Her place is only minutes from mine, and while her style has matured over time, walking into her home sent a shockwave of nostalgia and melancholy down my spine.
Or maybe it was my allergies.
Amara never liked cats when we were young. Old Man Willy had far too many, and while she didn’t hate them, she also didn’t want to be around them.
I was too shocked to ask follow-up questions. Was she unable to be around them because of me? Because of some other reason? Was she really telling the truth that it was because of me?
We pull into the building’s garage, and I watch as Amara pulls into the spot next to mine. She sits, her hands grasping the wheel, for a beat or two longer than she normally would. She stares forward, her knuckles turning white.
With a deep breath, I get out of the car.
The hike up to my place feels like it takes an hour. I have Amara leave her things—other than Fluffernutter, of course—in the car with the promise that I’d take good care of them.
She doesn’t look as if she believes me.
“This place is wild,” she admits as she steps fully into my new home.
“Thanks.” It’s uncomfortable. To be standing here like strangers. So many years have passed. So much hurt. And we’re standing in a new home I bought in a new phase of life, speaking to each other as if we’ve never spoken to a single human before in our lives.
“This is for you,” she murmurs quietly, pulling a small bottle out of her pocket. “I feel like I should give it to you before I let the cat out.”
I eye the little white bottle for longer than I should. “These aren’t going to kill me, right?” I smirk.
I can almost spot a small hint of a smile. Almost.
“Your funeral,” she shrugs.
I showed Amara her room quickly. As expected, it was strange.
The guest room is only a few doors down from my room, and too many memories cloud my vision for me to do much other than head back down to the garage to retrieve her things.
When I return, Amara sits on the bed with the giant, fluffy white cat, stroking him from head to tail.
My eyes start to gently burn, and I hope and pray with everything in me that the medication starts to work sooner rather than later.
“Do you—”
“No,” she says quickly, sending a scowl my way.
“Oh, oka—”
“Can I have a little bit of time to myself?” she asks, not even meeting my eyes.
Surrendering, I make my way back to my family room, falling flat on my face into my couch.
All I want to do is make things right, but I can’t do that if she’s not willing to accept it.
She also doesn’t have to accept a single thing I say. If she goes the rest of her life hating me, it would be well deserved.
I jump at the sound of the buzzer.
I groan, rolling my body off the couch and hitting the floor with a loud thump. I lay there for a second, thinking about my life choices.
“Hi Cooper! It’s Elsa,” a feminine voice calls from the intercom.
The interior designer. Of course, I’d forget that she was stopping by tonight.
I slap both of my hands to my face, dragging them forcefully down.
Getting up, I buzz her in.
This is a bad idea, I tell myself. But what else am I supposed to do? The woman has thousands of dollars of my money ready to spend on this place.
I stand at the door, counting down the seconds until I die.
And when the knock sounds through my empty, shell of a home, I know my time’s up.
With one more deep breath, I pull open the door.
“That was quick,” the blonde in front of me purrs, pulling herself off the doorframe.
I let out a nervous giggle, scratching the back of my head. “I mean, I don’t know, I was just standing right here, you know?”
What are you doing? If I could kick my own ass, I would.
I don’t want her here. And I know what’s coming.
“Well. We should be quick, shouldn’t we?” she winks, heading into the family room with her large bag.
We will be quick, but only with one of the tasks she’s thinking about.
Rounding the kitchen island, I watch as she scatters the photos across the counter before pulling out one more. She smiles, looking up at me from under her lashes.
“Consider this a gift,” she smiles coyly, placing it face down and sliding it toward me.
Do not, under any circumstances, look at that, I think.
I place my hand over it with an awkward smile. “Oh, wow, that’s, well, Elsa, that’s a really nice gift. I couldn’t have wanted anything more,” I grit out, eyeing the hallway behind her.
Her big blue eyes get scary giant as she pouts. “You didn’t even look at it.”
I squeeze my eyes shut like I’ve been stabbed in the ribs.
“Look at what?” Comes a voice from the hallway.
Fuck. Fuck.
My eyes whip open just in time to see Elsa turn, her pale skin immediately turning red.
Amara floats into view. She’s changed, now wearing a pair of short, gray pajama shorts and a large band t-shirt tucked into the waistband.
Elsa turns to me slowly as Amara’s eyes bore into mine.
I chuckle, knowing how much danger I’m in right now. “Well,” I start, sucking in my bottom lip. “Elsa was just here to show me some designs she’s been working on for this place. She’s my interior designer.”
Elsa turns back to Amara, a stiff smile plastered on her lips. “And you are?” she asks sweetly.
Amara looks at me wickedly. “His wife,” she smiles, tilting her head to the side. “I’m so glad you can help my husband with this. He, well, he has some—” she looks around the room, wincing. “Issues. He has many issues.”
Elsa slowly starts gathering all the photos, dragging them back into her bag. “It’s actually quite late,” she says nervously, finding a second to shoot a scowl my way.
Hoisting her bag back on her shoulder, Elsa sends us one last awkward smile before making a beeline toward the door. Once there, she turns back to me. “You can keep that photo. It seems like you want it.” She says it with a laugh that makes my skin crawl, and within seconds, she’s out the door.
Truthfully, I forgot what was even under my hand.
“What photo?” Amara asks curiously, her bare feet padding over to me.
“Well,” I start, but it’s too late.
Amara knocks my hand away and picks up the photo underneath.
Her face twists with annoyance, before her lips twist up in a playful smirk. “Nice pussy,” she giggles, dropping it back down on my counter with an eyeroll.
“That’s not—”
“Yes, it is!” she calls out, taking her place in front of my windows.
“It’s not what you think,” I plead, unsure of how to explain this in a way that doesn’t make this entire situation ten thousand times worse.
“No, it’s exactly what I think it is.” Her voice is calm as she looks out over the inner harbor. Steely, but calm. It’s terrifying. “But what you did before this whole situation is none of my business.”
“Amara—”
She turns around, her back against the glass. “All I ask is that you don’t make me out to be a fool,” she says quietly. “Not now. Not again. As long as we’re in this sham of a fake marriage, you need to be on your best behavior, got it?”
My lips press together tightly, and I can feel my heart in my ass.
I never really knew what that felt like until now.
“Of course,” I nod.
She holds my gaze for a couple more seconds. “If you need someone to decorate, I can,” she says finally, looking around.
“That’s not something I want to put on you.”
“Why not?” she shrugs. “I like designing things. If I’m stuck in this hellhole, the least I could do to help you is make myself feel at home.”
My brows furrow, trying to unpack that insult.
“Well, yeah, okay. I’ll just give you my credit card and get whatever you want, alright?”
I’m not sure if I’ll ever see the money I sent Elsa, but I’ll just consider it penance.
She eyes my fingers as I whip out my wallet, scouring the small pockets until I find one of the credit cards I don’t use much. Her gaze turns suspicious as I hand it to her. “Why don’t you just send me money so that I know what the budget is?”
“There is no budget.” Her eyes whip to mine. “Spend anything you want. Coffee? You got it. Dinner with the girls? Go for it. We’re technically married. We’d be sharing finances if this were real.”
“But it’s not—”
I lean against the counter. “I’m going to treat it like it is.”
She opens her mouth, but no words escape. Closing it, she looks down at her feet. Seconds pass. “Why would you do that?”
“Because I owe you far more than money, Sweetheart, and if it’s the place I can start cracking you, then that’s what I’m gonna do.”
The words are out before I can stop them, and judging from the way her eyes narrow, they aren’t being taken well.
“I don’t need your help, Cooper.”
“It’s not help. You said not to embarrass you. If I were your husband,” I take a step toward her. “Then I’d be taking care of you.”
She takes a step back, her back immediately hitting the window. “Like I said. This is a sham.”
“For us, maybe. But not to everyone else. So let me not embarrass you, Sweetheart.”
Her eyes are narrowed as she stares daggers at me from under her lashes, her ears turning that deep shade of red they always turned when she got angry.
Back then, it was cute.
Today, I’m unsure of whether I’ll have my manhood tomorrow. I’d be happy no matter what.
“Ground rules,” she says, shoving my chest. I stumble back before taking a careful seat on my couch. Amara’s gaze follows my movements, and for a split second, it almost seems like she loses her train of thought.
“Go on.”
“You lost the right to call me that. Don’t do it.” Her back straightens as her chin juts out. Her jaw ticks.
“Whatever you say, Sweetheart.”
Her jaw drops.
“Cooper Henry, you are not doing that with me.”
“Doing what?”
“That thing you do when you’re uncomfortable.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I do know what she’s talking about.
I watch as she breathes heavily for several moments, and finally, her shoulders relax. “I’m not one of them,” she says quietly. “Whether we’re happy about it or not, I know you more than anyone here. Do not fuck with me.”
I want to say okay. Yes ma’am. To get on my knees and beg her to forgive me for everything I’ve ever done.
But I don’t.
Instead, I move on.
“Do you want a drink?” I ask, getting up quickly and heading to the small built-in bar on the right side of the family room.
“No,” she answers simply.
“No whiskey tonight?”
I look behind me to find her staring out at the retreating sun. “Nope.”
“Are you,” I pause, unsure of how to ask. “Are you okay?”
She turns to me with a small smile. “Yeah. Alcohol makes me horny when I’m drunk. You know that.” She smirks. “Too much and you’ll have me calling up my interior designer.” The title is in air quotes.
“She is!” I cry.
That gets a grin out of her. “Sure.”
Grabbing my glass of whisky, I sit back on the couch. “What do you want to eat tonight?”
“How does Thai sound?” she asks.
“That sounds great. I’ll put an order in.”
She puts her hand up. “I got it.”
My brow shoots up. “You do?”
She whips my credit card out of her shorts. “Yep.”
I can’t help but let out a laugh. A real, genuine one. One I wasn’t sure I’d hear from myself around Amara ever again.
We put in an order for delivery and settle into the dark. Not enjoying the silence, I flip on the television for a little background noise and light.
Fifteen minutes pass, and the silence is eating at me.
“How,” I wince. “How are things?” I ask softly.
She sighs. “They’re okay. Mom and Dad loved seeing you, much to my dismay.”
Ouch.
“But they’re doing well. Still at their usual place in Rehoboth. I opened a catering company here and do some event planning.”
“That’s really cool.”
She nods. “Yeah. I bartended for a long time. Tried a few other things. I love working with people, but I don’t really like the disrespect that comes with working behind a bar, you know?”
I do know. She’s never been good with it.
“But I do love my job. It’s everything I’ve ever wanted.”
I watch her from the other side of the couch, through the angelic glow of the TV.
Amara has grown a lot. There’s still so much of her in there. But the girl with anxiety about what she wanted for her life is gone.
“You know, I think about high school a lot,” I say, leaning back into the cushions.
I stare at the ceiling. “I really loved that art class we had together. Mrs. Capriendo was it? I think so. God, I can’t believe I remember that.
” I chuckle to myself. “The other day, before I tried to talk to you in the bar, Crosby was telling me about Isla’s art show in a few days. ”
She lets out a low hum. “Isla is so talented.”
I nod. She really is. “Every time she talks about her art, I think about how batty Mrs. Capriendo was about that art style.”
“Impressionism?”
“Yeah. I can’t even begin to remember how many classes we spent covering it.”
Amara nods. “She really did love it.”
I take a deep breath. “I feel like I don’t remember most of what she taught us. Like I was spending all day just waiting to pass notes to you when her back was turned after a long tirade.”
My head falls to the side, resting on the soft surface as I watch her study me. “When you talk about the things you love, do you call it a tirade?” she asks thoughtfully.
I purse my lips. “No, I guess not.”
She shrugs with a soft smile. “We all pick and choose these things that have such a huge importance to us for the rest of our lives. We spend hours upon hours, sometimes days, years, and decades studying those things. They make us happy. Complete us in some weird way we sometimes don’t understand.
” Amara folds into herself, bringing her legs under her.
“I used to judge her a little too. All I wanted to do was leave that class and go run on the beach. But one day, it just clicked while watching my friends talk about their passions. We all just want to share the things we love with the people we care about.”
I’m about to agree with her when the buzzer goes off.
“Where are your keys?” Amara asks. “I’ll grab it.”
I point to the counter, and she gets up, stretching before grabbing them.
She pauses, a mischievous glint in her beautiful brown eyes.
Right next to my keys is the photo from Elsa.
Amara picks it up, smirking as she stares at it.
“It really is a nice pussy,” she chuckles before placing it back on the counter and heading out the door.
And something within me breaks.
Because while Amara Flores has grown up, changing in ways that we could have only hoped as kids, I’ve stayed the same.