Chapter Fifteen
FIFTEEN
“My God, Elle,” Fisher says as he jumps from his Jeep and lopes up the steps two at a time. “How long have you been here?”
I don’t answer; can’t answer. Because a) I have no idea, and b) my jaw is clenched to keep my teeth from chattering.
He helps me up and steers me inside, right to the living room and the spot on the couch closest to the fireplace.
After wrapping me in a large, fluffy blanket from a basket near the hearth, he lights a fire, which draws my eyes first to his broad shoulders, and then to those framed photos on the mantel.
It’s all too fucking perfect. Why couldn’t I see that before?
He disappears into the kitchen and returns a few minutes later with a steaming mug.
Hot water and lemon, naturally. Because even in my fantasy, it would strain credulity for a guy to keep herbal tea on hand.
After he gives it to me, he perches on the edge of the ottoman at my feet.
He’s got that notch of concern between his brows again, and his eyes scan me like he’s checking for signs of hypothermia.
“Are you all right?” he asks while I cradle the mug and breathe in the warmth. “Did something happen?”
I take one cautious sip, then another, letting the hot liquid seep into the void inside me. At last, I lean forward to set the mug on the tray in the center of the ottoman, no doubt placed there by some high-priced interior decorator, and fish my phone from my pocket.
“Why did you lie?”
His brows dive downward. “I—what?”
I click on one of the links at random, opening a story about a bachelor auction for charity at which he was the prize, and hold it out to him, inches from his face.
“Why did you lie to me about who you are?” By some miracle my voice is still quiet, but its evenness, the little pause between words, makes my emotional state clear even before I toss my phone face down onto the ottoman, where it almost hits his thigh and bounces dangerously close to the half-full mug.
“I didn’t—” he begins. But something about my expression stops him short.
He clamps his mouth shut, presses his lips together, as if trying to iron out some better, more honest words.
“For a long time, I assumed you knew who I was. Everyone seems to, whether I tell them or not. When I started to suspect maybe you didn’t, I …
” His long fingers pluck at the blanket’s heavy fringe.
I can’t feel the movement, yet somehow, it’s as if he’s touching me, and I know I should instinctively recoil from it, given what’s happened.
But I don’t.
“It was that afternoon you first came here, the day your laptop died, and you seemed … surprised by this house, and I started to wonder … or maybe hope is a better word …” He’s looking into the fire now, rather than at me; the play of light and shadow over his face makes his angular features sharper yet, and when he swallows, his Adam’s apple jerks in his throat.
“But I, uh, I convinced myself it was no big deal, either way. Then we, um, we went out, and you said some things that confirmed my hunch. When you came here for dinner and we talked about where we’d grown up, I knew you didn’t know, that I should tell you, but I …
” He pauses again, and the crackle of the flames is loud in the otherwise silent room.
One shoulder rises and falls. “I like you. A lot. And, well, you seemed to return the feeling. It was really nice.”
“What was nice?” My voice is sharp. “Getting away with deception? Making a fool out of me?”
His gaze swings back to me, and even through the glare of firelight on his glasses, I can see the sorrow in his expression.
“Being able to imagine, even for a little while, that someone could like me for … me.” His dark eyes scrape over me, like he’s gathering up one last look. “I guess that’s all over now.”
Those words would be my cue to leave, if I needed one. But I don’t.
Leave, that is.
I pluck the blanket off my knees, not because I’m too warm but because I’m suddenly afraid of how cozy I feel here.
“You get that it’s not simply a matter of whether I like you anymore, right?
I don’t even feel I know you. And—oh my God, Fisher.
” Even his name feels strange to me now, like I can feel that Roman numeral hanging off the end of it. “I slept with you.”
Color sweeps across his cheekbones; I catch a brief glimpse of it before he hangs his head.
“I know. I’m sorry. I should’ve told you before things got that far.
And I meant to. But then you … No. Sorry.
” I’m honestly a little worried he might hurt himself saying sorry so many times in a row, because lord knows he hasn’t had much practice.
“That makes it sound like I think you bear some responsibility for what happened, and you absolutely do not. I saw you standing there, in my office, with your wet hair, wearing my clothes, and you just looked so …” I think for a minute he’s going to say beautiful again, at which point I really will walk out.
But what he says instead is, “real. So comfortable and … I don’t know another word.
” So he says the same one again. “Real. And I wanted that. Wanted you. And so I kissed you. And then I—”
I interject: “And then you fu—”
“No.” He jumps to his feet and cuts off my word while it’s still a soft sound, before it becomes a harsh one.
“I mean, if that’s what it was to you, or all you wanted it to be, then that’s …
you’re entitled to your feelings. Of course.
” He’s pacing now in front of the bookcase.
“I just … I want you to know it was more than that to me.”
If I were Elizabeth Bennet, I’d have the perfect stinging retort.
I’d make him hurt for all the ways he’s hurt me.
But I’m not Elizabeth and I don’t have a pithy comeback.
In fact, I’m afraid that what I do have runs dangerously close to sympathy.
His words from earlier wind their way through my thoughts.
What must it be like never to know whether someone likes you for yourself, and not your family name or your family’s money?
But I can’t let him off easy because of that. I can’t.
“When you say I look real,” I ask after a moment, “is that a dig at all these women?” I pick up my phone, gesture with it to indicate the scores of pictures I’ve seen. I mean, my God, the man once judged a beauty contest! “Or is it a dig at me?”
His sharp inhalation brings his restless pacing to a halt. He squeezes shut his eyes. “Can you—will you come into the kitchen with me?”
I was not expecting that. “Why?”
“Because this is hard to talk about, and I’m not good at conversation, as you know.
But I’ve found it helps if I do something physical at the same time.
Preferably something with my hands.” It’s the first indication I’ve had that maybe I’m not the only anxious, restless, messy one in this—well, I’m not sure I should say relationship now.
“Like cooking?” I ask, understanding beginning to dawn.
“Or working out. Or debugging code. But I figured if I invited you to come upstairs with me—”
“I’d throw this mug of hot water at you and walk out the door? Yeah.”
He shrugs, as if he knows he deserves that and more. “Also, the other options don’t produce anything you can eat,” he remarks as he walks through the doorway and into the dining room, treating me to an eye-level view of his ass in that deliciously worn pair of jeans.
I narrowly avoid quipping, I beg to differ. I remind myself that I’m angry at him, that he hurt me. That a lie by omission is still a lie.
I also get up and follow him into the kitchen.
But I take the mug with me, just in case.
By the time I get there, he’s already begun to gather ingredients from the fridge and the pantry, and as I slide onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar, he bangs a stockpot onto the stove, sloshes some oil into it, and turns on the gas.
“It’s not that I ever thought that any of the other women I’ve dated”—he starts peeling carrots and piling them on a cutting board—“or any of the women who’ve made it clear they wanted to date me”—celery next, and occasionally a word is muffled by running water—“weren’t real. I don’t mean to—”
He twirls a large knife in the air as he fishes for the right words.
“Dehumanize them?” I suggest.
Whack. The knife slices crisply through three carrots at a time.
“Definitely not. But it was only after I met you that I understood what I’d been sensing then.
Those women weren’t being themselves with me.
Maybe they thought they couldn’t be. For sure none of them called me ‘salty’ or dumped salsa in my lap,” he says with an attempt at a smile.
“They never told me they were scared or let me see them cry. Not real tears, anyway. Dammit.” Another sharp stroke of the blade, and for just a minute, I think he might have cut himself.
“That makes it sound like I got off on your pain, doesn’t it? I swear I am not a horrible person.”
“I know you’re not,” I say quietly. Sincerely. “Misguided, maybe. With a ridiculously inflated ego. But not horrible. I’m sure those women believed it was to their advantage to look a certain way. Act a certain way. Because they knew … as I didn’t … that you could pretty much have your pick.”
The vegetable chopping has slowed while I’ve been speaking, and now he lays the knife aside.
He wipes his hands on a towel and turns toward the freezer, as much to hide his expression, I think, as to rummage for another ingredient.
“The thing is, I never had much luck convincing myself that, without my dad’s money, a single one of them would pick me. ”