Chapter 9 #2
I took another swig of whiskey. I should have felt good. But suddenly, I felt like everything bad. Like a pervert. Like a failure for the way she thought about me. Pathetic, for thinking she might stay when I was cocking it up so completely.
Waste of space, Mitchell.
There went that perfect memory, reciting my father’s voice. I’d blocked him out for years by working myself to the bone, but here, writing this book, he was all I heard. And here, this woman’s eyes so frankly on me—a person who wanted nothing from me for the first time in years—I was coming apart.
But she was here. Somehow, I’d gotten her here, and despite her unrelenting gaze, in this fraction of a moment, her being here was the only thing in the world that was good.
I kept my eyes on her as I drank.
When I finished, I wiped my mouth with my wrist. “Have I driven you?”
Her lips quirked. Just a ghost of a smile, but I saw it.
“That’s not how you say it.”
“How do you say it?”
“‘Ya got me drove’. It means you’re driving me crazy. You can’t drove someone else.”
I picked up the bottle again, pouring whiskey into the glass. She watched me fill it much too high.
“You sure you don’t want some?”
“Not before dinner, thank you.” She narrowed her eyes again. “Have you eaten anything today?”
Not before dinner. Did that mean she hadn’t been on a date?
I finished pouring. “You a plumber or my mother, Winona?”
Her cheeks flushed. Then she surprised me. She strode toward me and took the drink out of my hand. Then she carefully poured it back into the bottle, not spilling a single drop. She slid the bottle away from me, the sound of glass on granite sharp in the silent kitchen.
I wasn’t annoyed so much as surprised. And curious.
“I'd have poured it down the drain if I could," she said. "All of it. But to answer your question, no, I’m not a mother, Mr. Harrington. And I’m certainly not yours." She pressed her hands on the counter. "But I bet she’d be ashamed to see you like this.”
My stomach contracted. My chest did too; heart and lungs both. For a moment, I felt like I’d fallen, all my bones crushed, the contents of everything in my ribs splattered on the floor.
“I’m right, aren’t I?” Winona asked. Her voice had gone a little softer, her fingers curling under her palms on the counter.
Could she feel the humiliation radiating off of me?
I sneered. Without the whiskey as my crutch, I leaned down so my forearms were on the island counter, head turned to her. We were very close. But she didn't flinch or back away.
“That obvious?” I asked. I wanted to show her I couldn’t care fucking less. Like she hadn’t shoved a knife in my chest with her astuteness.
Her little jaw pulsed, her pointed chin moving like she was holding back words.
She may have stood firm, but I'd pissed her off again. Good. I was supposed to be making us mad. I needed her to hate me.
“Why are you here, Winona?” I asked, forcing a smirk to my lips as I stood back up. I leaned in just a little, conspiratorially. “You have a thing for assholes?”
Her eyes flared. That tight grip of control she’d been wielding all night slipped. “You called me, you miscreant. I felt sorry for you, so I came. I—”
“I meant here in Vermont," I cut in, admiring her word choice even as I played the part of one. "But good to know you feel something for me.”
I’d meant the words to be a jab. To stoke that anger. It had worked on her end. Her cheeks had turned crimson, her nostrils tight.
But it hadn't worked on mine. I felt sorry for you. It was pathetic, but the words were like a root sticking out of a cliff. Something I wanted to cling to.
“Did you miss the part where it was pity?” she nearly shouted at me.
She closed her eyes, clearly upset she'd lost her cool.
I inhaled, and God, there was that smell again. A meadow in the fucking springtime.
I hated doing this, I realized. I was a bastard for it. But I kept going. The stakes were too high. Plus, I wanted to know. “Who was he?” I asked, trying not to breathe. Not to feel. My eyes went to the letters on her wrist, which I still couldn’t read. “A bad boyfriend?”
Her expression paled, just for a moment. Bingo. It was always some asshole.
“You’re a prick.”
Bingo again.
My dad had called me that once. A prick. When I’d told him I didn’t want to join him in his business. He’d already been turned down by Blake and Conrad and must have known what my answer would be, too. Who the fuck calls their son that?
It took me a moment to understand that she was walking away. I think I was a little drunk.
“Wait,” I said.
She was already on the steps. “No.”
“Winona. Please.”
I was pathetic.
“There’s something wrong with me.” I clenched my fists at my sides.
“But there’s also something wrong with my plumbing.
Please look. Just tell me if you can fix it.
I’ll pay you whatever you want. I’ll buy you a fucking car.
A house.” I know she didn’t want any of that, but I was desperate.
“Please. I just need you to fix it. I swear to God I’ll leave you alone.
Starting right now. Just…” I glanced at the cupboard under the sink, wincing slightly. “Just don’t ask me how it happened.”
There. I’d made my plea. She’d stopped on the stairs, but that’s as much as I could stand to see. I grabbed the whiskey and the glass and turned on my heel, heading outside where I could only damage myself.