Chapter 22
"Silver Spring," Fleetwood Mac
Victoria
My skull pulsed, even though bone can’t pulse. Covering my brow sent spikes of pain behind my eyelids, squinting shut to block the sunlight streaming through the gauzy curtains around the glass French doors.
Dear god, I’m never going to drink again.
I made the executive decision to never move again, not squint, not even blink. I would die in this bed. Death would be preferred to the stupid sunlight and itchy fabric against my skin. This is why I sleep in silk pajamas. I felt my silk shorts, but the shirt …
I cracked an eye as the ceiling spun, catching a glimpse of my sunshine yellow Navy shirt, then instantly slammed it closed.
Vague memories of last night trickled into my mind …
Alexander. On his porch, wiggling a familiar wine bottle.
I could have handled that better.
That's not why I broke up with you.
You shut me out.
Because you’re my best friend.
I’m staying here. I love it here.
I asked Grace to marry me.
To the two most important women …
And then … Waking up in my bed, mouth tinged with bitter regret.
Not to mention the pounding headache, body aching, lights too bright, unsteady stomach …
Wearing a shirt that said Navy … Navy …
Eric crooned and I wasn't alarmed, as if I already knew he was here. Maybe the only good part of this hangover was waking up to his angelic voice.
I cracked an eyelid again—ugh, even that hurt—and looked through the French doors onto my terrace, expecting to see delivery boxes filled with the outdoor living room set I’d ordered.
Eric stretched out on a newly-assembled teak sofa, his serene expression tilted towards the spring sun. His frustratingly perfect voice sang Beatles lyrics to Prudence about greeting the brand new day …
Right. Jurisprudence’s pillow was empty, because that little cuddle whore was curled up on his chest, his forefinger rubbing her chin.
I pressed my palm into my forehead. What the fuck happened last night?
When I let out an involuntary groan, he sat up and a warm smile spread across his face. I pulled the blanket over my head to block his radiance.
His voice rumbled from my doorway. “I have Gatorade and ibuprofen.”
“Leave it and go home,” I croaked from under the blanket, voice like shredded glass. “You’ve done enough.”
“You told me that when you said that, I should ignore you.”
“No, I didn’t."
“You said you’d deny it but you wanted me to stay.”
I grumbled my disagreement.
“Come take this ibuprofen, would you?”
When he tugged gently on the blankets, I sat up with a scowl and begrudgingly took the medicine. I bet I looked like trash.
He hovered beside the bed. “This is exactly how I told you it would play out.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Last night I predicted you wouldn’t want me here. You were adamant, you made me promise to come back after boot camp. In fact, you …”
The fondness lingered on his face as his hand shuffled on my nightstand, next to a tray of food. My pulse spiked with nerves that he’d open the top drawer, but instead he handed a crumpled paper across the bed.
“You told me to give you this if you fought me.” I took the paper, which looked like sloppy squiggles. When I squinted, he chuckled. “You were convinced you’d understand.”
I turned the paper clockwise twice and recognized my shorthand symbols: “X b Cz ≠ Sp” followed by a shitty sketch of a dog.
Don’t be a bitch to Cruz, Drunk Victoria told me. He’s not Spencer.
The rest I couldn't decode: “Cz f~ Ac + Nc.” And I’d drawn a heart. I tapped my forehead with my index finger and winced at the jolt of pain.
“Time to re-hydrate,” he handed over a bottle of Gatorade. “Red for the redhead, unless you prefer blue or purple flavor.”
“Purple is not a flavor,” I croaked before taking a sip.
“Your throat must be sore as hell after that much puking.”
“Puking?!” I screeched, my throat raw. “What happened last night?”
“I was hoping you’d tell me, but first you should eat something.” He handed me a plate with two slices of buttered gluten-free toast. “This brand tastes like cardboard so I added cinnamon sugar for flavor, but it shouldn’t upset your stomach too much.”
I took the plate gingerly, like a butterfly that would escape.
When was the last time somebody took care of me? The first time I’d gotten my period, Beverly sent a heating pad. And when the lawsuits began, Dad hired me the best lawyers, but that was just as much about his reputation.
My mom. I caught the flu and she made me soup and let me lay on the couch and watch The Price is Right while she drafted listings.
But nobody ever made gluten-free food taste better without bothering my stomach. When I visited Dad in New York, his housekeeper adjusted my menu, but she never stayed to make sure it agreed with me.
But Eric stayed.
Why was he here? He somehow knew I was a mess, but he didn’t just put a bucket next to my head and go home.
He assembled my outdoor sofa. He cuddled my cat. He brought me toast.
I sniffled, blinking back unexpected tears. I took a bite of toast, then tilted my head towards the extra pillow, giving him permission to relax.
With a soft smile, he leaned on the headboard, his legs stretched out over my covers, the soft morning light casting a warm glow on his cheekbones. “Tell me what you remember, I’ll try to fill in the gaps.”
“I went to Alexander’s house for dinner. Ruby sang about ice melting. Grace made enchiladas. We drank way too much wine, and that’s when he told me … he’s engaged.”
When my stomach churned again, I filled my mouth with toast. I closed my eyes, simultaneously trying to remember and forget. Neither worked.
I’d been so frustrated about starting over.
I ticked the box with somebody who didn’t worship my grandfather.
I found somebody with the same career goals, and I chose him instead of having him chosen for me.
Somebody who I didn’t hate, and who didn't use me for my wealth. It had been shockingly hard to find.
I picked at my fingernails to avoid Eric’s curious gaze. “I don’t blame him for choosing her. And if she’s perfect for him, how could he ever want me? It’s like choosing between a sweet little bunny and a … a cobra. Nobody wants the cobra.”
“Fuck that,” Eric responded with so much power that the bed jolted. “I’d one hundred percent choose the cobra.”
I frowned. “Yeah right.”
“Cobras are fucking awesome,” he said. “They can swim and climb trees and digest venom. A cobra bite can kill an elephant. What can a bunny do against an elephant? Sniff angrily? Hop away? They’re totally defenseless.”
“You sure know a lot about cobras."
“I like animals—and people—who aren’t reliant on anybody else for their survival.” He drummed a rapid rhythm on his legs. “You remind me of my mom.”
Just what every woman wants to hear in bed from a man ten years her junior.
He laughed, nudging my shoulder. “She's my favorite person. She never complained about being a single mom, working two jobs to support us. I had an explosive temper and she scrimped to afford martial arts classes to help me control my anger. Life has knocked her down, and she gets back up, stronger every time.”
He tilted his head, an admiring smile on his lips. “I was wrong when I called you Cobrita, because you’re so much more than your hair. You’re a little cobra, a Cobrecita. You decide what you want, wait for the right moment, strike without mercy, and eat your prey alive.”
My neck felt itchy at his admiration for my coldblooded ambition. Most people called me an ice queen … but his face gleamed with respect.
Nobody had ever compared me to their favorite person. I took another sip of Gatorade to collect myself.
“Do you remember when I got here last night?” Eric asked. His smooth voice was a cashmere blanket I wanted to wrap around my shoulders.
I racked my mind through blurry snapshots. His arms around me. His soft beard. How safe I’d felt.
I tugged at the hem of his shirt. “You said I vomited, but how did …?”
He chuckled and I let out an anticipatory groan.
Whatever spurred his satisfied laugh was bound to be trouble.
“You puked on my shirt, so I ran down to my place to grab a clean one. You barged in and faceplanted on my bed. Puke everywhere.” I pulled the pillow over my head to hide, and he laughed again.
“Yep, burrowing like that. You said my sheets smelled right.”
I lied. I didn’t want to die in this bed, because he was here and now he’s seen my worst. Instead, I would like this bed to swallow me whole and drop my body directly into Hell.
Then again, I might already be there.
“I wanted to pass out,” I remembered, “but you convinced me to shower.”
“Your inevitable hangover would have been infinitely worse scraping puke chunks out of your hair.”
Just the phrase ‘puke chunks’ made me queasy. Then another memory surfaced: him in his wet boxers as I leaned against his chest in my shower, his hands massaging my scalp.
“You washed my hair,” I whispered.
“You refused to do it, you were too busy singing.”
“Did not." No way I sang in front of him.
“Did so,” he answered smugly, propping his head on his arm to hover over me.
“You were impressive. I mean, your voice was raw from barfing and you sobbed between verses … but you can belt.” He grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“Although my appreciation for a hot, wet, naked woman serenading me was lessened by your song choice.”
I hid behind my forearm over my eyes. “What did I sing?”
He cooed his best Stevie Nicks impression of ‘Silver Spring,’ singing the lyrics where her lover is moving on and she doesn’t want to hear about him with another woman.
My head pulsed and my heart ached. I tried turning away. He softly rolled me back with a hand on my hip, not letting me escape from his teasing. “It got particularly sob-heavy during the bridge … or maybe you got shampoo in your eye. Hard to say, you were a mess about Alex.”
I pressed my fingertips into my eye sockets.
It would be easier to let him believe that, wouldn’t it? That would be the logical conclusion I would draw with the information he had. But as his expression closed off, I wanted him to know that if I’d chosen that song, I hadn’t been crying over Alexander’s engagement.
That would be too simple.
“Why did you hum ‘Silver Spring’ when you met me?” I averted my eyes, inspecting the ceiling. Was that a water stain? I should contact somebody … shit, he’s the one I would call.
He stayed uncharacteristically silent, waiting me out until I turned, his brown eyes guarded. Quietly he confessed, “That’s why, right there. Your silver eyes, with blue and green colors flashing.”
A lump formed in my throat. I shut my eyes, trying to decide how much to trust him. I’d never confided this to anyone; not Alexander, not Spencer. But Eric had a musical soul, he would understand the pain of that particular song, and my shock that he’d heard me sing it.
“That’s the same reason my mom used to sing it to my dad,” I whispered, forcing myself to keep talking, “before she died.”
When I mustered the courage to open my eyes, his palm hovered over his mouth, regretting his teasing. “I’m sorry.”
“When I was eleven. She—she promised to make it to my piano recital that time, that she’d leave right at 5, but her showing ran long.
She rushed out … right into oncoming traffic.
” I turned my head away, and he waited patiently as I pulled myself together.
His rare silence was a comfort, his stillness a testament to the gravity he felt in my confession.
“I waited alone, getting angrier and angrier that she’d missed another recital.
I convinced myself that I’d never play again for her, that she didn’t deserve—”
My breath hitched in my throat. I squeezed my eyes tight, not wanting to see his beautiful eyes tinged with pity.
“Dad finally picked me up, came straight from the hospital. If … if she hadn’t left work early, she wouldn’t have …”
His warm hand slid into my palm. “You know that’s not your fault, right?”
I nodded, words trapped in my throat. The therapists told me that too.
“Before she—” After a few shaky breaths, the explanation poured out. “She loved Stevie Nicks, called her a woman who loved down to her soul.”
That’s how Mom had been: so vibrant and full of life, beloved by everyone she met.
Dad had always been serious, except with Mom.
She could convince him to do anything, even dance around the living room while she sang this song to him.
He protested that they shouldn’t dance to a song about infidelity, but she grabbed his hand, lifting it high enough for her to spin below it while he laughed.
I hadn’t heard him laugh like that in 25 years.
She’d been the love of his life, the light to his dark. When she died, the darkness won. Nothing I did could pull him back. He’d resigned himself to the reality that he could never find that happiness again, burying himself in work to pass the lonely days.
A ragged breath pushed out my next words.
“After she died, my dad listened to that final verse on a loop.” I gathered all my courage to look directly at Eric’s face, seeing my grief reflected.
Trusting him to hold the words that haunted my dad, I sang the lyrics about never escaping the sound of the woman who loved him.
Eric reached over, gently wiping an unexpected tear. He silently slid an arm under my neck and rolled me to face away while still keeping me close, knowing I wanted my privacy as he wrapped his top arm around my waist to hold me.
I hadn’t intentionally let him into my life.
He’d breached my defenses while dancing, using my jealousy to get under my skin.
He’d charmed me in the elevator, gathering scraps of my confidentiality through Truth or Dare.
He dedicated that song to my independence during his class.
He’d slowly, patiently chipped away at my resolve.
He’d come to my home, cleaned me up, and stayed to ensure my safety. He wanted to be here, even if I didn’t understand why he cared. And I was too hungover and too tired to push him away again.
So I let him stay in my bed, leaned my back into his chest, let the warmth of his body sink into my bones, and dropped my guard enough to fall asleep in his arms.