Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Isabella’s apologies stop short, along with her footsteps, before she walks the rest of the way to the kitchen. A fleeting question flickers in her eyes as she surveys our empty beverages, but it vanishes before I can interpret it. “This is for you,” she says, handing me what looks like a gift bag from the spa.
“Thanks.” I open it, going through all the goodies with a smile, while Victor moves from his seat beside me, taking his glass to the kitchen sink.
“I thought you already left.”
“Not yet,” Victor says, turning on the faucet, not looking at either of us.
“What time are you leaving?” Isabella asks.
He shrugs, drying his glass and putting it back with the others. “Not sure.”
I rise from my stool, gathering the ingredients to make another batch of daiquiris for me and Isabella. “Liv went to Hawaii with her parents this weekend, so you and Esme will have the place to yourselves.”
“I’m not going over to Esme’s tonight.” Victor grabs a water from the fridge. “I’m going out with the guys.”
“Is Smith back from college? Will he be there?” Isabella’s giving nonchalance but doesn’t quite pull it off. From the looks of it, she’s purposefully trying to get under her brother’s skin.
It works. Victor’s bottle pauses halfway up to his mouth. “Why?”
She shrugs with a sheepish smile. “No reason.”
“Leave it alone, Izzy.” He shakes his head at his little sister even as an exasperated smile curves his lips.
I wait until he leaves to get ready for his night with the boys before asking about Smith. Since his upstairs bedroom technically has no walls, thanks to its loft-style configuration, I turn on the blender to help mask my voice. “Do I know Smith?”
“Oh, you absolutely know Smith. He ran track with Victor. Smith Manchester?”
“Which one was he?” I search my memories, trying to place him. I’ve never missed a single track meet, but I still come up blank. As was the norm back then, I had tunnel vision whenever Victor was concerned. He was a glorious sight in his track uniform—his long, muscular legs pumping with speed and strength as he outdistanced his competitors.
She sighs. “He was the tall, tanned, and gorgeous one.”
“Can you be more specific?” I fill our glasses with the strawberry daiquiri mixture, adding whipped cream and sliced strawberries on top.
“He has blond hair, a buzz cut, the most beautiful sand-colored eyes, and golden-tanned skin.” A shiver visibly shakes her body. “He’s so fucking hot.”
“Now I remember him. Anything ever happen with you two?”
“Nah. As hot as he is, I would never hook up with any of my brother’s friends. Plus, Smith’s the guy my dad wants me to be with, so naturally, I can’t let that happen. I don’t believe in arranged marriages.”
“Marry. Are you serious?”
“You remember Quentin’s first wife—Amy Manchester? She’s Smith’s older sister. You would think after their arranged marriage went to shit, my dad would leave it alone.”
A few magazine covers stand out in my memory, displaying their gorgeous faces. One of their wedding and a couple of tabloids highlighting their bitter divorce. “Vaguely, but I never met her. What about Victor?” Is that what his family wants for him? An arranged marriage? And would he be up for that?
She laughs. “My dad knows better. Victor would never.”
My shoulders relax. Why were they tense in the first place? “Gotcha.”
“Victor and I are the same when it comes to my dad. Sure, I’m going to law school, but it’s because I want to practice law, not because dear ole daddy wants me to.” Isabella takes a sip of her daiquiri and smacks her lips. “Damn, that’s good. I can definitely taste the rum.”
“I told you before. My cooking can use some work, but I make a mean cocktail.” Leisurely taking a sip from my glass, I let the smooth blend of flavors confirm my point without another word.
“And you can bake your ass off. Which is why we’re baking cookies tonight.”
With an exaggerated roll of my eyes that could nearly check the ceiling for cobwebs, I let out a halfhearted chuckle. “Don’t tempt me. You know I’m trying to lose weight.”
She scrunches her nose, seemingly offended. “Where and for what? What are you, a size eight?”
I let out a wistful sigh, where dreams of perfect fittings mingle with my love of buttery sweets. “A size ten.”
“Girls around here pay top dollar for a body like yours.”
“I’m not trying to get super skinny, but a few pounds can’t hurt. Ian and I set a date for the wedding.”
“Oh my God, really?” Her reaction is instantaneous, her hazel eyes widening to the size of saucers.
“July 19 th , next year.” Last week, Ian and I secured our date, with my dad putting a deposit on the Astorian.
Isabella is as enthusiastic as all of my friends and family, which rubs off on me. We toast my wedding, downing our glasses before pouring another. We discuss all the fun details, like my colors, the members of the wedding party, and, of course, the bachelorette party, while we prepare chunky chocolate chip cookies from scratch.
“Does Victor know?” Isabella asks, putting the cookies into the oven.
“Know what?” Victor asks, startling us both.
Isabella jumps. “You scared the shit out of me.” She closes the oven door before turning around and glaring at her brother.
“Know what?” he repeats.
I’m sitting on the counter near the stove, buzzed after consuming my third daiquiri. I’ve had way too much to drink in such a brief time, and I’m sure it shows by how flushed my cheeks probably are. Not to mention, I’m sitting on this man’s countertop like it’s my own. “I’m getting married.” Holding out my left hand, I dangle my fingers.
“I’m aware.” His deadpan tone cuts through my drunken giddiness, sobering me up instantly.
“We set a date.”
“When?” His voice is gruff, his eyes piercing as he watches me.
“July 19 th , next year.”
He dips his head in a single nod before turning to his sister. “I’m heading out. No other company when I’m gone. And by company, I mean guys.”
She shifts her weight to one side and props her hand on her hip. “Who am I going to have over? Skylar has a man, and Smith’s going out with you, so…”
Victor rolls his eyes. “Make sure Izzy behaves. You know how crazy she gets.”
“I learned from the best, big brother.”
I swallow a burp and then giggle. “You got it.”
His lip twitches. “Never mind.”
“Did you know?” I hadn’t planned to ask Isabella this particular question, but it must be because I’m faded and relaxed after smoking some of Victor’s weed stash. And what a stash it is. Twenty perfectly rolled blunts that he keeps tucked away under his bed. His unmade bed. The bed that I’m lying on as my eyes follow the beams in the ceiling. His sheets don’t smell like him. They smell like they’ve been freshly laundered, which I guess is a good thing, based on all the sex he and Esme have had on this very bed. I should get up from this incredibly personal space, but Isabella is stretched out on the only love sofa in his room. He and Esme probably fuck there too. Ugh .
I hadn’t planned on making myself comfortable while Isabella searched for his stash. But now that I’m lying here, I find moving nearly impossible. Not even for more pizza that we left downstairs in the kitchen.
“Know what?”
Know what, what ? Oh, right. I mentally slap my forehead. I asked her a question.
Isabella’s head tips toward me, her arm hanging off the couch as she brings the joint to her lips, taking a few puffs. I only had five hits before letting her have the rest, and I’m toast. She must be so high right now. “That you were in love with my brother?” She asks the question as if she already knows the answer.
The hell? Oh shit. I’ve been found out. If it weren’t for the weed in my system mellowing me out, I’d be scrambling for an explanation. “You knew?” I ask instead, lying on my stomach and tucking my arms beneath my chin.
“Dude, it was so obvious.” She peers at me with a mix of amusement and pity. “You used to stare at him all the time when you didn’t think he noticed. But I noticed. Especially how devastated you always looked when he started banging a new girl.”
“He said he didn’t know.”
“He didn’t. I sure as shit wasn’t going to tell him. Because if he had known, there would’ve been no stopping him from taking what he wanted.”
“Take what?” I let out a halfhearted chuckle. “My virginity?”
“Everything. That’s who seventeen-year-old Victor was. He got off on the high of making his willing victims lose their fucking minds over him. And after they did and the chase was over, he’d just as quickly move on.”
The weight of her words hits me like a splash of cold water, nearly sobering me. “So seventeen-year-old Victor isn’t the same as twenty-two-year-old Victor?”
“Hold on a sec.” She lifts her head from the couch. “You just said, ‘he said he didn’t know.’ You guys have talked about this?”
“We have.”
Isabella’s jaw might as well be on the floor as I share the details of the conversation I overheard between Victor and Esme. I only briefly mention my subsequent talk with Esme without disclosing the specifics. As I fill her in on the dialogue between me and Victor, she gradually recovers from her shock, now appearing somewhat conflicted.
“Damn” is all she says when I’m through. “What happens now?”
“Nothing. We talked about it, and now we can move on.”
“Sort of like closure?”
I snap my finger and point at her. “Exactly.”
“Or it’s the beginning of something.”
Her comment is insane; I brush it away with a chuckle. “We would still have to want each other for that to happen, and we don’t. Because…hello.” I wiggle my left hand.
She snorts a laugh, then takes a hit from her joint. “Says the girl lying in my brother’s bed.”
As I jolt upright, the swift motion reminds me I’m still high as fuck. “It’s not?—”
“It’s not what? I’ve watched you smell his pillow twice now. You know he has sex with your best friend in that bed, right?”
“Of course I know they have sex. Amazing sex.” I roll my eyes. “They have it all the freaking time all over my house. She’s always like yes, Victor, fuck me harder. Right there, yeah, just like that. Give me your big dick, Daddy. ”
Isabella wrinkles her nose. “First of all, gross. And she calls him Daddy ? Double fucking gross. Third of all, you missed your calling as a phone-sex operator.”
“Is that still a thing?”
“Fuck if I know. But you sound hot.”
“Shut up.” I throw one of Victor’s pillows at her. It misses her by a long shot, landing with a soft thud in the middle of the hardwood floor. “I think it’s great that they have lots and lots and lots of sex.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“You sound like Liv. She says great sex doesn’t equal a great relationship, and I agree with her. But can you have a great relationship with bad sex?”
“How bad?”
“Like this.” I jut my hips up and down in a rigid, rhythmless thrusting motion, throwing in a bang, bang, bang for good measure.
Isabella slumps over on the couch, laughing with tears in her eyes. “Oh shit. That’s great. You’re such a dork. I can’t.”
“I’m serious, Iz,” I say, even as I laugh. “I’m tired of faking orgasms. But if I don’t, I’ll hurt Ian’s feelings, and he’ll get pissed at me. And when he gets pissed, he gets so mad. Like scary mad. Then it’s a me problem and not a we problem. I’m the selfish one. I’m the ungrateful one. I’m the emotionally damaged one. I’m the one not in tune with my own body. I’m the spoiled one.” Hot tears run down my face. When did I start crying?
It’s been a week of extremes for Ian and me since our weekend at the Brathwaite, with moments of pure bliss followed by moments of deep frustration, to downright rage.
Isabella is at my side instantly, pulling me into her arms. “What can I do? Have Victor kick his ass? Because he will. He’ll kick anyone’s ass for me—probably for you too.”
I laugh, but it gets all choked up with my tears. “No. Don’t. Ian’s not the fighting type. He’d probably sue.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time someone tried to sue Victor for kicking their ass. But they never win. My dad makes everything go away.”
“For real? How? What happen—? You know what? It doesn’t matter. No one’s fighting my man.”
“Respectfully, Skylar, your man sounds like a total douche.”
“He’s not, though,” I whine, sitting up straight and wiping my tears. “He just has his moods. He’s under a lot of pressure at work.”
“My longest relationship lasted six months, and I’ve been blissfully single for over a year, so I’m probably not the best source for relationship advice. From my limited experience, if a man who says he loves you makes you feel unlovable and inadequate, blames you for everything, and makes you feel unsafe, even if it happens just once, that’s one time too many.”
I nod, hearing and agreeing with what she’s saying, but she doesn’t understand. “I can’t give up on him like his ex did. They were supposed to get married, and she cheated on him. It broke his heart. And his mom—” I shake my head. “It’ll break him, Iz.”
Ian’s biological mother surrendered him to the state when he was seven years old. The Davenports, wanting a son after having four girls, welcomed Ian into their home through fostering after his first four placements failed. They adopted him soon after, surrounding him with abundant love and creating a safe and secure environment every child deserves. But the wounds left behind by his mother never fully healed, leaving angry, jagged scars in their wake.
“You know what you need?” Isabella asks, smiling at me through her own watery eyes.
“What?”
“More booze. Something stronger. Oh, and more cookies! I’ll be right back.” She climbs off the bed and hurries out of the room, almost skidding in her socks as she reaches the stairs.
“Careful,” I say, giggling.
“You didn’t see that,” she calls out, stomping down the stairs.
“But I did, though.” I lie back on Victor’s bed, closing my eyes against the grit behind my lids. I hate my contacts. I blink my eyes open and stare aimlessly at the ceiling as I try to imagine the next five years of my life.