Chapter Eighteen
Charles
I’m seething as I stare down into my cup.
Maybe I should consider it a win that they're not meeting at his house. I definitely consider it a loss that when he told me they were meeting there, I decided to show up to listen in on their conversation and torture myself with the fact that they were sitting down together. I had told myself that I was showing up in case she needed an out. But in all honesty, seeing them together did nothing but infuriate me.
I finish my drink and nod at the bartender, indicating I’d like another when a hand touches my shoulder.
I glance over to see Alisha's concerned face. “Are you okay?” she asks, her worried eyes studying my face.
“I’m fine.” The words are curter than I intended, and I see her slight flinch of pain at my sharp response.
“Did Methew tell you to come here?” Her voice is somehow softer, less assertive than she had been even a moment ago.
She's perceptive, I'll give her that. I nod my head in agreement. “He did tell me that you guys would be here, and I decided to come just in case you needed some moral support.” That was the original reason I showed up, just in case he decided to be a creep and pressure her into something she wasn't interested in, but she seemed happy to be there the whole time I’d been paying attention.
The bartender puts another drink in front of me, but Alisha picks up my tumbler and downs the liquid before putting the back of her hand to her mouth and gives a quick cough.
“Ugh, what is that?” she asks, her eyes watering as she blinks and swallows again.
“Bourbon.” I can't hold back a chuckle at her reaction. “My dad used to say it's an acquired taste.” The instant I say the words, I wish I could yank them back as the memories begin to flood over me. Pushing them all the way, I try to refocus my anger and frustration at the situation at hand. The fact that Methew had invited me to watch them on their date, the fact that I’d been dumb enough to show up, and the overwhelming anger I feel at him and myself for the whole stupid rivalry leaves me shaken.
“Remind me to never drink that again.” She lets out another cough, and I know that she's breathing spicy liquor Dragon breath right now that likely stings more than anything she’s experienced before.
“Will do.” Now, with the thought of her on a date with the man who's been trying to make my life a living hell, and thoughts of my dad all rising to the surface, I feel worse than I did before. But she’s still a ray of sunshine in my day somehow.
“What if I need that moral support after all?” She’s watching me closely as the last several glasses of alcohol - drank far too close together - begin to unfocus my eyes.
“I wish you'd have just told me up front that you're interested in Methew.” All the rage inside me begins to bubble up, and I watch her blink at my words and open her mouth as if to speak, but she says nothing.
“Instead, you're over at my place, admitting that you might have feelings for me instead of telling me that you're dating - or looking to date - someone else.” Doesn't she realize how incredibly awful what she'd done to me is? I can't even imagine telling someone that I might be developing feelings for them, only to be going behind their back to go on dates with other people. And while we hadn't said anything about being exclusive to one another, I had just assumed that she wasn’t telling multiple people she was falling for them.
What if she was telling him the same thing she was telling me?
My stomach tightens and my heart hardens as she still stays silent. I watch the bartender refill my drink and swallow the blazing liquid quickly while letting my anger out instead of holding the tide back. She falls silent, just watching me talk as I try to articulate what I’m thinking and battling back the haze from the alcohol.
But the booze wins and thinking - and speaking - become more increasingly difficult. “Is he the reason you blew me off when I told you I wanted to see more of you?”
Her eyebrows furrow as if she's trying to remember when I said those words, so I clarify. “Right after the party, after our kiss, I told you I wanted to see more of you.”
Her eyebrows shoot up and she seems stunned. “I completely misunderstood. I thought you wanted me to work longer hours, like we’d discussed in the beginning when I started working for you.” She brings her palm to her forehead and continues. “I don't know why I didn't put two and two together. I guess I was just so flustered from the party and everything that happened.”
The fact that it may have just been a simple misunderstanding makes me feel quite a bit better about that whole incident. I decided then not to hold her refusal against her, but if she was turning me down to pursue someone else while leading me on, I'd feel justified being upset.
Now I don’t feel justified at all, but I let that upset go because there’s no reason to hold onto that feeling.
The bartender refills my drink and I down the alcohol in a quick gulp, aware I only feel numb now - even the sting of the liquor feels dull and muted.
“I think you should slow down on the alcohol, Charles,” she says softly, but I wave her away.
“I’m fine,” I say, knowing full well I’m not fine at all. I’m drunk. Not so drunk I can’t function or walk, but drunk enough I certainly will be getting an UBER home. Drunk enough that I should probably not have this conversation with her in a crowded club with ears everywhere.
Even though we're in such a busy location, it still somehow just feels like her and me. She has the magical ability to make me forget the rest of the world exists because all I can do is focus on her. Or maybe it's more of a curse.
“Maybe we should get you home.” As she says the words, she takes my arm and I pull away from her grasp. She seems surprised by my movement and stands by my side, staring at me. Then her gaze shifts and I follow her stare to Methew, watching us both with a smile. When he sees me looking his direction, he raises his glass in a clear cheers gesture.
I can hardly believe that he's acting as if he's giving me permission to take her. Maybe there is more to their relationship than I thought, and more than she's willing to admit because he acts as if he owns her. Which, come to think of it, is damn interesting behavior for a married man.
I glance back at Alisha, wondering if I’m missing something but she’s refusing to look at either of us. Instead, she's looking at the door as if wondering if she can make a quick escape.
Another glance at him shows that he has an amused smile on his face as he lifts an eyebrow. He must know he's getting to me, but I know exactly what to do to piss him off. I slide off my stool, slip an arm around her shoulders, and start making my way toward the front door.
She glances up at me in surprise.
“Thank you for the help,” I say. “I definitely drank too much.” Anger still boils deep in my core, but I'm not sure what else to do or say. And I don't want to do anything at all while I’m drunk.
We make our way to the front door and then step out into the cool afternoon air. She’s warm and comforting under my arm, and she guides me toward her car.
“You absolutely can't drive. Do you have someone who can take your car home for you?” She sounds concerned.
“I’ll ask Arson to send someone to my place with it - he has a spare key as part of our agreement.” That might have been too much info to share, but even though she lifts an eyebrow, she doesn't ask any further questions.
As she walks me around to the passenger side of her car, she glances at me with a silly smile. “I just realized this is my first time driving you anywhere, but not the first time we've driven somewhere together.”
I have to wonder if she's used to being the passenger in other people’s cars or if she’s often the driver.
“So what's between you and Methew?” That question is poison in my blood, and I can't help but hope she'll answer.
She sighs. “There's no easy answer to that and I'm not sure it's a conversation we should have when you've been drinking.”
Her response doesn't give me any answers at all, but leaves me with more questions. How can their relationship be complex? Has she been his mistress through his marriage? What kind of complexity can possibly exist?
“Are you his mistress?”
Instead of answering my question, she closes the passenger door with me inside. When she gets in the driver's side, I turn to her expectantly, waiting for her to answer the question. But all she does is turn toward me and get up on her knees. I’m confused about what she’s doing until she reaches across me and pulls the belt across my lap and chest. Our gazes meet, and for a second I want to kiss her, realizing we're nearly in the reverse position of our first kiss.
She doesn't seem interested, if her tight expression is any indication of her feelings. When the belt clicks into place and the moment passes, I find myself wishing I’d just pulled her in for the kiss anyway. Clearly I'm not too drunk if I'm able to choose not to do something and then feel upset that I let the opportunity pass me by. Right?
She settles into the driver's seat and buckles up before starting the car and carefully pulling out of the parking spot. Moments later, we're on the road toward my house and I push a little more.
“So are you his mistress?”
I watch her knuckles go white as her hands flex on the steering wheel. “I am not his mistress. I would never do something like that to another woman.”
“Why does he act like he owns you?” That feeling must have come from something, somewhere. Most people don't just decide they own another human being for no reason at all. Though given what I know about the man, it's possible he's also that kind of crazy. Clearly there's something not quite right in his head.
“I feel like that's a question you have to ask him.” She glances at me before quickly turning her attention back to the road. “I can't read minds, you know.”
Still, I get that nagging feeling of doubt like she knows more than she's saying. I wish she’d just open up and be honest about whatever was going on between the two of them.
“I meant it when I said I have feelings for you.” I need her to know that I play for keeps, and I'm not just messing around and playing games with her heart. Part of my hope for reminding her is that she feels the same.
Once again, her hands tighten around the steering wheel and the hollow at the base of her throat bottoms out as she swallows hard. “I really don't think we should talk while you're drunk.”
I don't like that she keeps blowing me off. “I think now is a perfect time to talk.” All that internal anger continues to swish around my gut and some escapes with those words. She pulls up to the gate of my driveway and security buzzes her in. The gate swings open and she drives up toward my house.
“I don't like seeing you like this, and I’m worried about you. I’m going to come up and make you food to absorb some of the alcohol in your stomach.” She reaches between our seats and hands me an unopened bottle of water. “If you want to talk, I need you to drink this first.”
I crack open the bottle of water and down the contents in several gulps. I have to admit that I like that she's worried about me. Maybe she does actually have feelings for me too.
She parks in front of my house and comes around to the passenger side door, opening it for me and helping me to my feet.
“I can walk,” I say, but with the first step, I feel so wobbly, I realize I'm more drunk than I thought.
“I have some pre-made pasta in the fridge. I'll just bring you some of that, okay?” She's all business now, and I’m turned on by her as she walks me up to the front door, keys in the code, and pushes inside. With quick steps, she leads me back to my bedroom, undresses me with clinical hands and settles me in the bed.
“I'll be right back with food.” As she says the words, she ducks out of my room, pulling her phone from her pocket as if she's about to make a phone call.
I stare at the ceiling, wondering where my night went off the rails and realize it was probably right around the fifth or sixth bourbon. Usually I can hold my liquor pretty well, but I feel the booze sitting like a weight in my stomach.
What could have been moments or hours later, she reappears with a bowl in hand and a cup in the other. She pushes the food into my hands and I take a quick bite, nearly dropping the fork and stabbing myself in the corner of my mouth.
She perches on the edge of my bed, watching me with troubled eyes. “Would you like me to feed you?”
“I don't think that's necessary.” I manage to make the second attempt without too much trouble as she places a cup on my bedside table.
“Drink this.” As she says the words she reaches into her purse and pulls out another water bottle and a container of pills. She takes out two of the pills and places them on my bedside table next to the water. “And those are for when you wake up, just in case you wake up with a wicked hangover headache or pain.”
I take another bite of the pasta, wishing I could savor the meal. But my tastebuds are dulled by alcohol and the food settles into my stomach, curbing the sourness there and hopefully sopping up whatever booze remains.
“Would you like a cup of coffee? I've heard that helps.” She's studying me intently as I eat, but I see only concern in her eyes, not judgment, not anger, not frustration - just worry.
“Only if you'll join me for a cup.” I say the words with a gentle humor, and she smiles.
“It's not too late in the day to have a cup of coffee. Let me go get that made.” With that, she swiftly exits the room again, leaving me to contemplate my existence.
What is the nature of her relationship with Methew? Why does the man feel like he owns her? What could have possibly happened between them to make him think he has any claim over her at all?
I finish my food and she brings in coffee. I take a sip, well aware she’s added milk and cooled the liquid to a safer temperature.
“Thank you,” I say as the warm liquid warms my belly and spreads out to heat my whole being.
She nods her head with a smile. “You’re very welcome.” Reaching out, she takes the bowl from my hands and leaves the room, no doubt to take the dish to the sink.
A few moments later, she returns and picks up the second coffee from my bedside table. We sit in silence for a few moments, drinking our coffee. In my head, I’m losing my mind, wondering why Methew thinks he has a claim to her. I’d assume he was trying to mess with me if she didn’t also seem so strange and close-mouthed about their relationship.
Something is going on between them, but she seems ashamed while he wants to use the connection against me.
“You seem very deep in thought. What’s on your mind?” she asks.
I glance at her. “If you’re not his mistress-”
She lifts a hand, cutting me off mid-sentence. “I don’t want to talk about that. Why are you so bothered by him?”
I can’t tell her that he antagonizes me or that we’re deadlocked in this weird, constant state of competition. I also can’t tell her that the thought of him owning her eats me up inside.
Instead, I put my coffee on the bedside table and lay down. A few moments later, I feel her crawl into bed beside me and I drift off to sleep.
I wake, feeling her warmth and I close my arms tighter around her. At some point I must have rolled over and pulled her into a hug. I glance at her, watching her long lashes as her eyes shift in her sleep.
Now that I feel sober, I’m a lot less worried about her relationship with Methew. She’s here, in my arms, and not with him. She’d chosen to meet him in public, which means she likely didn’t feel safe meeting him at his place… or she wasn’t interested in being alone or intimate with him.
I’d been a bit of an ass and I feel lucky she’s here. Thinking about how she’d taken care of me when I’d been drunk and trying to corner her, I feel bad for my actions and grateful she hadn’t abandoned me to figure my own shit out.
Instead, she’d brought me home safely, fed me, hydrated me, and even stayed to keep me company so I wouldn’t wake up alone.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“I need to tell you something,” she whispers. “Before we take things any further.”
“You don’t owe me any explanations,” I say, making peace with the thought that she might not tell me everything and that I don’t need to know everything.
“I know, but you need to know that I’m a mom.”
I blink, stunned. Of everything she could have said, I never expected her to say that.
“I have a five-year-old daughter. Methew is the father, but he doesn’t know about her. That’s why I was going to meet up with him – to tell him the truth.” The words escape her with pressure that begins to lose steam. “But after today, I’m not sure I want to tell him at all. He only seems interested in one thing, and I don’t want to let him think he has any chance.”
I’m reeling with the news, but am glad she trusts me enough to tell me the truth.
“Thank you for sharing with me,” I say as the silence begins to stretch out between us. I don’t want to share my opinion - that he would absolutely use this against her to get what he wants, and I can’t imagine he’d be a good dad, or a dad at all.
Still, this changes nothing for me. I still want her. Her having a child makes no difference to how I feel about her. All I feel now is that I’m lucky because she comes with a built-in family. And other things begin to make sense, like why she’s so particular about hours, and why she has to work the hours she does, and why she’d refused to stay all day in the beginning when I’d asked.
“What’s your child’s name?” I ask gently.
I can hear her smile in her voice. “Evie. My mom told me that she was asleep when I called last night, and she encouraged me to stay with you.”
That’s why she’d been pulling her phone out when she left my room. “Well, I’m thankful. What does Evie like?”
Her voice lowers. “Jellyfish. Lights. Jellyfish lights. She’s a bit obsessed.”
I let out a low laugh. “Jellyfish are pretty amazing, so I think I understand.” My mind is already moving a million miles a minute as I think about all the ways we can incorporate jellyfish into her life – starting with the amazing exhibit at the local aquarium.