Chapter 20
twenty
Mr. Gusterson doesn’t answer his door, and I suspect why. He’s passed out cold.
I conclude it doesn’t matter who the woman with Evan is because this is the last time I’ll remind myself of what is true. Evan and I were together one night; nothing else was ever promised. No explanations about our lives needed. In fact, if anything, the single promise made was to be nothing more.
This is your fault. You pursued him. He warned you.
The blame is all mine. I threw myself at him. It doesn’t help that Mr. Gusterson fanned the flames of doubt, leaving me confused. And it didn’t help to see Evan with another woman—a beautiful one.
I’ll give myself one more night to forget this dumb crush, even though I’m well beyond the acceptable moving-on period of Aggie’s rules.
I head for the freezer. After I find what I need, I plant myself on the kitchen counter with a container of chocolate-peanut-butter ice cream and peel off the top.
I toss it aside and dig my spoon into the container wedged between my thighs.
One hundred bites and two frozen legs later, I scrape the last bit of melted chocolate from the corner.
With the spoon hanging from my mouth, I stare off into space.
In my mind’s eye, I see Evan’s dimpled grin, the aggravating way he teases me, and the way he touched me like I was the only woman in the world.
When the amazing sex crosses my mind, I shake the images off and hop down in search of something else to eat.
In the back of the pantry, I find an off-limits Costco-size bag of double-chocolate Milano cookies Aggie keeps hidden here for emergency binges.
I reach for them and pull them out. Staring at her name scrawled across the front in big block letters, I consider the consequences for eating them.
Not good. But I’m desperate, and I promise myself I’ll replace them before she returns. I rip open the bag.
With cookie crumbs covering my shirt, I accept too late that I should have gone for a run or joined Aggie and Lou. If I had, I would have avoided Mr. Gusterson, Evan and his lady friend, and the oncoming sugar coma.
Groaning and rubbing my aching stomach, I drag myself down the hall. I flop into bed, nestle my head into my feather pillow, and close my eyes, searching for peace. After several hours of overthinking, my brain shuts down. This is a miracle in itself.
In a dream, I find a photomontage of torn images.
A curious look from a stranger, the belly laugh of a baby with two small front teeth, a pair of well-loved red-white-and-blue roller skates, then a pair of reddened and scraped knees.
And later, a painful broken arm, requiring surgery to reset the bone.
In the morning, my eyes snap open wide after I see a little girl with dark hair break her arm.
I replay the dream, trying to make sense of it.
She wore the red-white-and-blue roller skates while gripping the back of a bike ridden by a friend.
As she was hauled along, the friend rode too close to the curb.
The dark-haired girl hollered right before she lost her grip on the bike and hit a mailbox, slamming her arm into the wood post.
Recalling the sickening crack of the bone and the searing pain, I flinch and sit up.
I circle my fingers around my own wrist, searching for any trace of the injury.
When I lift my arm to my face, I find the faintest scar etched in my skin.
With all the other scars on my body, no one would ever notice this one.
The outline is a silvery box drawn over my wrist bone.
Is this a surgery scar? I can’t be sure, but I believe I am the girl on roller skates.
Could I be conjuring these images as a way to heal my mind and give myself some sense of a past? Or did those things actually happen? If they’re from before, I should be happy the memories are trickling in this way, but it doesn’t quiet my frustration to remember more.
Yes, I could call and ask my parents, but it would fuel their hope I might return home, and I have no intention of doing that.
At least in Chicago, I can work through the thoughts without anyone pressuring me.
I can absorb the information at my own pace, in my own time, and in the privacy of my own apartment without anyone acting as judge or jury.
My phone buzzes. I reach for it and swipe the screen to read a new text.
Ozzy
Let’s talk price. Hypothetically.
Cait
Be ready at noon. I’ll take you to lunch. We can talk—hypothetically.
My lunch with Ozzy redirects my focus. Closing the lease deal with James will move me closer to purchasing my new home.
When I imagine restoring the house, my pulse races with excitement.
I’m better without distractions, which with my new resolve means all men are off-limits. This is a good plan. I only need me.
Linden appears at my office door with a large bouquet of pink peonies. He enters and rests the vase on the edge of my desk.
“How did you know they were my favorite?” I say, knowing full well they aren’t from him, but the joke makes him cross his arms.
“Care to explain the numerous gifts flowing through this office?”
My lips draw tight, and I stand to meet his questioning gaze.
I was hoping he was too busy to notice the flowers, the gift baskets of sweets, or the boxes of Blush bath bombs James sends every few days.
He’s kept his promise to dazzle me, while I’ve kept my promise to keep our relationship all business.
“It’s not what you think.” I grip the side of my desk.
Linden snatches the gift card and waves the envelope in the air. “Then you won’t mind if I read this?” His brows rise.
I hustle to circle the desk. “All right, it’s what you think. It’s James Henley.”
“James Henley?” His face transforms with a genuine expression of shock.
“Who—”
He cuts me off, his voice stern. “Cait, I’m giving you one warning. Close this deal and you can date whoever the hell you want on Lakeman’s staff, but not one second sooner.”
“I promise we’re on the same page.” I lace my hands at my stomach and squeeze my fingers tight.
“Good.” He scrutinizes me with a head tilt, perhaps deciding if I’m telling the truth, but he gives up and storms out of the office.
His response is what I expected, which is why I wasn’t broadcasting James’s advances.
A soured romantic relationship could kill a deal.
In the short time I’ve been here, I’ve seen leasing agreements fall through over much less.
This time, I don’t call James to thank him for the flowers. He knows where I stand. Though the last time we spoke for business, he never even mentioned a date. He hasn’t pressed beyond sending gifts. For the most part, he’s respected my original answer.
I throw myself into work, focusing on my renewed goals. My week is hectic, filled with late hours, networking events, and showing properties.
By the weekend, I’m ready for a long run. I’m twelve miles into it when I spot Evan and his companion. They’re chatting beside the Lake Shore bike trail on a patch of grass near a small group of people.
Right before I alter my run to head in the opposite direction, Evan catches sight of me.
He waves. I sink inside and reluctantly wave back.
My first inclination is to pass right by him, but that would prove him right—that I can’t handle a one-night stand with him.
Even if it’s true, he doesn’t need to know.
“Hey,” he says as I near.
“Hey.”
“Did I introduce you to Shelby?” He gestures to the girl, the one from last weekend, the one who kissed him on the cheek and ate his cold spaghetti. I stiffen as she steps up beside him.
Up close, she’s as perfect as I remember. Skin smooth. Toned body. She exudes the confidence I wish I had at all times.
My blood boils with jealousy. I rub my arm to quell the feeling.
She waves at me. “Nice to meet you. You must be Cait. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
I flinch. “You have?”
Evan nudges her shoulder as if to say shut up.
“My bad, I guess I wasn’t supposed to say that.” She shoots Evan a mischievous expression.
“Go. Class. Now.” He directs her with playful anger.
She tries to pinch his arm before leaving, but he leans just out of reach. Once she’s gone, he composes himself and his hands settle relaxed on his hips.
“Shelby’s my business partner. We teach capoeira here on Saturdays.”
Four things strike me . . .
Relief is number one. She’s his business partner, not a girlfriend. The grip that’s clenched at my heart since the day I first saw her eases.
Second, he’s talked about me? My heart contracts, which brings me to number three.
I like it. This is bad. Very bad.
And four. “Capoeira? As in the Brazilian martial arts?”
“Yeah.” His smile crushes my heart. It’s so handsome, so epically adorable. And I was doing so well forgetting him.
I take a step back when he crosses his buff arms over his chest. Today he’s wearing a gray tank and black workout pants.
“Kinda cold for no sleeves,” I say. It’s officially fall, and although it’s sunny, it’s in the fifties. His nipples are as hard as his flexing muscles, and I can’t help but remember a secret I discovered when we were together. My gaze flicks to his crotch.
“Still commando.” He shoots me a flirtatious grin. He’s either caught me looking or read my mind. Maybe both.
Something inside whispers that denial would be an admission of guilt, so I remain silent. I bite my lip instead as heat sweeps my cheeks and drives its way to my ears. My gaze swings away. A family of four passes on bikes. Seagulls flap their wings in the breeze, squawking above us.
“Wanna see?” He lifts his shirt and tugs open his pants, stepping closer.
I die when my gaze is drawn back. It can’t be helped. Does he intend to flash me right here?
A peek beneath his clothing reveals tanned compact abs and a wide elastic band with the orange bold letters spelling Under Armour.
I laugh. A real laugh. An Aggie laugh, one that makes my hips rock from side to side. “Nice panties, liar.”