Chapter 31
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
“There is no way in hell that man is getting my job back,” I say to Em, flinging the paperwork in her face. “Have you seen this?”
“Relax,” Em says, chilled like she’s had enough orgasms to tranquilize a horse. I blame Cody for that. Because of course the one time I bring the theatrics to our friendship she doesn’t even react.
I thrust the papers I’ve been waving around into her face and she finally takes them, and begins reading.
“Name, address, occupation,” she says, unbothered. Yeah, so was I when I read over the initial introductory questions.
“Keep reading,” I say, pacing.
“Are there any details of the case you find unclear?” she says, as she reads down past the deposition preparation questions.
“Uh, yeah. Why the fuck you got fired in the first place? Please explain.” The sarcasm dripping from her comment eases the stress that’s been building since Xander arrived all cold-blooded, but it’s momentary when I hear the “oh” drop out of her mouth.
She’s arrived at Tips for Preparing. Number six.
Watch out for conclusions disguised as yes/no questions.
Her eyes widen as she reads from the paper. “ ‘So you don’t do romantic relationships beyond one night, but you couldn’t wait until you got home, off school property, to attempt to satisfy your needs?’ What the fuck is this?”
“That is the kind of question I can expect when they try to paint me like a fucking perve who shouldn’t be allowed around children,” I say, shaking my head. “I can’t do it. I’d rather move than have them take my fucking dignity.”
“You’re not moving,” Em says, stating facts.
“I’ll try a different school,” I say, agreeing that me threatening to move was a little unbelievable.
“As if Principal Holland didn’t handle that the moment the paperwork was filed. He’s a fucking asshole.”
“It says here that you can answer the question in sections. No, you don’t do relationships. Yes, of course you waited until you were home. Just tell the truth,” Em says.
“I can’t even answer the first part of that truthfully, under oath.
Do I do relationships beyond a one-night stand?
Well, Your Honor, I want to. Just the person I want to do it with, who is sitting opposite me right now—for the record—I rejected not once, but twice, so I’m torn.
Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t,” I say, trailing off.
I do not have the capacity to deal with this deposition after discovering that my rule was based on a bunch of bullshit and that the last eleven years of my life were built on a lie.
“Ash, I know you’re freaking out,” Em says, reaching out to me with her hand, but I don’t take it.
“I’m sorry, you’ve had a lifetime of love to get used to. But this is new and awkward and weird for me, and my heart is beating wildly out of my chest,” I say, my words tumbling out.
“Oh, Bambi,” Em says, getting up and refusing to take no for an answer as she goes in to hug me.
“I don’t understand how anyone is supposed to feel like this,” I say, sagging into her. I can literally feel the confidence leeching from my body.
“You can do this,” Em says, holding me.
I don’t bother arguing with her. Before Xander came back into my life like a fucking hurricane, I was a confident woman who knew exactly what she wanted. And now I’m cowering to the idea of having to speak my truth, under oath, that will be kept on record, in a court of law.
I mean, sure, love and chemistry can coexist. But it doesn’t mean it’s for me. Because of my stupid fucking rules. I made that abundantly clear to Xander.
My rules might have been built on bullshit, but they have served me well for eleven years.
Until now, I’ve never wavered in my confidence. Never questioned myself. And I sure as hell never, ever moped.
What happened?
Xander happened.
Well, fuck that.
I’ll figure out how to get my job back, but I’m not doing it with Xander’s help. I’ve never relied on a man for anything more than one night before, and I’m not going to start now. In fact, that’s probably the best place to start.
I let go of Em and stand tall in front of her. A smile grows over her face. “Oh hey, where’ve you been?” she says, acknowledging that the Ash she’s come to know and love is standing before her, and not some spiraling mess.
Mad, I can do. Angry, yep, I love that for me.
But not shrinking into a ball and wanting the world to swallow me whole. That just isn’t me. “Sorry, took a brief detour. I’m back now,” I say, reaching for my phone and swiping to my apps.
“Fuck yes,” she says, placing the paperwork on the kitchen bench. “You are going to nail this.”
I ignore her as the app loads on my phone. Seconds later, there’s an unmistakable chirp. A match. With a guy called Brad. My eyes scrape over the photo. He’s wearing a fedora. And a deep V-neck T-shirt. It’s a gym selfie. He’s flexing his biceps. He’s perfect. Douche.
I smile, accepting the match and the plan of meeting up on Friday afternoon. I look up at Em, mid-grin, and she’s frowning at me.
“Well, I’m definitely going to nail Brad,” I say, that mid-grin growing. “Ash is back.”
I do a little shoulder shimmy as I make my way to my bedroom to get ready for our next tennis lesson. She follows me into the bedroom.
“Ash, that’s not what I meant when I said you were back,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. “We need to prep for your deposition and plan your big romantic gesture to win Xander back, not fuck around with a rebound.” She’s scowling at me now like she would a student.
“Fuck around with a rebound,” I start chanting, just like she did when we were playing the “Fuck Xander” game that seems like forever ago. She doesn’t join in. “Fuck around with a rebound!” I continue to chant.
“Win him back!” she chants over my voice. The problem with her being an English teacher is that her voice carries like she’s in an amphitheater. I know I can’t win, so I stop and wait for her to finish.
“You done?” I ask.
“Are you?” she says back.
“Yes, Em. It’s over,” I say, surprisingly calm at the definitive nature of this comment.
“It’s not over until it’s over,” she says. I roll my eyes at her, trying to brush her off, but she doesn’t let me.
I sigh. “You didn’t see his cold eyes slicing into me. He rejected me,” I say, serious now. I don’t let myself linger in the rejection, afraid it’ll be all consuming and have me slinking to the floor in a puddle of tears.
“Ash,” Em says.
“It’s over. Ash is back. And I don’t need a guy to get me my job back,” I say before walking past her toward the door, ready for the last month to be ancient fucking history.
I sit at the bar, ignoring the third message from Xander today asking how the deposition preparation is going.
It’s not going anywhere, bro.
The more I thought about it, the more I convinced myself I’m not making a statement admissible in court about my rules and my relationships. I will not be the punching bag. That’s my mother’s job.
Plus, it’s summer vacation. And I wasted four weeks with Xander. I’m not wasting another second responding to messages.
I flip my phone around because after spending the last two days avoiding Xander, I am thisclose to meeting Brad, and therefore I am thisclose to being thoroughly distracted for the next few hours.
My glass sits empty. The whiskey went down well. But when the bartender asks, I don’t go for seconds. I’m not here to fake it.
“Ashleigh.” A low, deep voice snags my attention. I turn to look at the man standing next to me. Before I can look up at his face, my eyes are drawn to the dark button-down shirt that’s straining against his chest.
“You must be Brad,” I say, eyes landing on his face.
Brad is your stereotypical frat kind of hot.
His perfect fade haircut oozes social status.
The look in his eyes suggests he hasn’t moved on from the competitive hookup culture of his frat days.
And his deck shoes serve as a reminder that Brad is privileged.
All in all, he’s a perfect hookup.
“What are you drinking?” I say, waiting for my skin to prickle with anticipation. I feel nothing.
“Bulletproof coffee,” he says to the bartender, and I bite back a laugh. Looks like he grew out of the drinking culture from his frat days and now treats his body like a temple. “Empty calories, bro.”
My eyes land on the bartender, who steals a glance at me like what the fuck before he turns back to the gym bro and says, “Where do you think you are?”
An hour later, we’re sitting opposite each other in the coffee shop around the corner from his temple.
The gym. Me with my cappuccino, Brad with his coffee with butter and coconut oil.
He’s on some intermittent fasting diet to help with his gym gains blah blah blah.
I did not come to attend a seminar on using ketones as energy and how good it is even though the side effects include shitting yourself uncontrollably at random.
I’m kicking myself for not just letting him meet me at my apartment. I’m not on the app for four weeks and I’m rusty, matching with a man who insisted he buy me a drink first.
“So, are you ready to go?” I say, interjecting his spiel on how carbs are the devil.
And how “science” has “literally” proved it.
Yeah, where’s the systematic review (with homogeneity) of case-control studies, buddy?
Oh, you don’t have that? It’s all anecdotal?
I’ll stick to my milky coffee and trust my next fart.
“Almost,” Brad says as he whips out a protein bar, offering it to me.
“Gross. I mean, no thank you,” I say, bouncing my leg to keep me looking alive. I am literally dying of boredom. The complete and utter lack of chemistry is palpable.
“Do you eat burgers?” I say, as he tears into the protein bar and starts chewing excessively. I don’t know why I wanted to poke the bear.
“Do you know how many calories are in the bun alone?” he says, shaking his head at me and my stupid question. He goes on to list the calories in the makeup of a Big Mac. Wow. How did this used to be foreplay for me?
My mind wanders to Xander and his sharp tongue and the infuriating fact that he had a comeback for everything.
Witty. Smart. Sarcastic. Deadpan.
Sincere. Kind. Sweet.
God, I want that mouth.
I berate myself for wanting something I can’t have and refocus my attention on Brad and his chewing. I’m so turned off. And this makes me angry. Still, this can be salvaged. I can be leaving his apartment in an hour as chilled as Em was.
“Are we doing this?” I say out loud to Brad, but I’m actually asking myself. Am I really doing this? Am I really going to go home with this gym bro to try and fuck the feelings away?
“No, you’re not,” a low voice growls from behind me. It sends a shiver up my spine. I know that voice. I love that voice. Except, I can’t love that voice.
I look up to see Xander standing there.
He’s wearing a corporate suit without the jacket. His sleeves are rolled up, exposing his forearms, one of them decorated in his tattoos. His curls look like his hands have raked through them many times.
His anger is palpable.
“Get up, Ash,” he says through gritted teeth, his hand resting on the back of my chair. I feel the brush of his knuckles on the back of my exposed neck and it sends shockwaves through my body.
“Woah, dude. You good?” Brad says, standing like doing bicep curls at the gym gives him an advantage. Xander finally acknowledges the guy I’ve been sitting with, sweeping his eyes up and down his body before shaking his head and turning back to me.
“Bone It? Really, Ash?” he says, deadpan. I bite my lip to stop myself from smiling at his amusement. I still haven’t said a single thing to Xander rocking up to ruin my hookup. I mean, how can I since I’m mentally undressing him?
“Is this some lovers spat?” Brad says, drawing my attention away from Xander for a moment.
“No,” I say, throwing as much disgust in the tone as I can muster.
“Yes,” Xander says at the same time. I snap my head back to him, frowning.
“No,” I say again.
“Get up, we have a deposition,” he says, not taking the hint that when I said no, that was me, having the final say.
He’s staring at me. And I’m staring at him. And what we have here is a stare off. I count my breath.
One.
Two.
Three.
There is no way I’m losing this stare off. Not after he rejected me. I would never let myself live it down.
“I’m out of here,” Brad says before I hear the scraping of the chair against the floor. I still don’t take my eyes off Xander until Brad comments, “No stars.”
This comment halts our staring content. “It’s not fucking Uber, you douche,” Xander says, spitting the words out. Brad, to his credit, which is already in the red, doesn’t respond as the door swings closed behind him.
When Brad is long gone, Xander turns back to me and I cave under his expression.
“I don’t want to,” I say, sounding more like a distraught teenager than the kind of woman who doesn’t give a fuck. “I’m not doing it.”
“Yes the fuck you are,” he says, harsh on every consonant. “Let’s go.”
I reluctantly stand because if there’s one thing I know, it’s that you can’t win an argument against a damn fucking lawyer.