Chapter 17
Luke
I ring the bell outside of Cassie’s office, bottle of wine in hand. My heart feels like a jackhammer, pounding away on my resolve to remain cool, to not let my desperation show. I’ve been patient, a gentleman (other than that part where I weaseled my way into her launch), agreeable to livestreams and public humiliation. Tonight, I finally have Cassie all to myself. This could go two ways: 1) I hold it together, or 2) I lose it and blurt out everything I’ve been wanting to say to Cassie since the night we broke up.
I take a deep breath to calm my jitters. Seconds later, Cassie flips the deadlock and lets me inside.
She immediately eyeballs the wine bottle and scrunches her brow. “I hope that wasn’t expensive.”
“Ten bucks. I’m not about to waste any more money on you.” It was supposed to be a joke, but it came off bad.
“Good,” Cassie replies. She doesn’t seem offended. “I already owe you enough as it is.”
She grabs the bottle and leads me to her apartment.
Her studio is warm and inviting, a little boho-style mixed with modern design and rustic chic. (I’ve learned a lot from my interior designer.) She sets the wine on the butcher block island and motions me over. I slide onto one of the bar stools and fold my hands on the counter.
“Let’s decide on food first,” she says.
We agree on pizza from Papa Macaroni’s, Endless Feast for me, and ham and onion for her.
“It’ll be here in thirty,” she says after punching everything into her phone.
“Great. Until then, should we imbibe?” I grab the neck of the wine bottle.
“Just a little,” she says. “I’ve been trying to cut back.”
“Smart. We should drink water instead.”
Cassie turns around and digs through one of her drawers, which by the sound of it, is overstuffed. She fights with a pair of tongs and a spatula, finally managing to shove the drawer closed with her hip.
“After the week I’ve had, I deserve a little wine.” She slaps the corkscrew into my hand, and I go to work.
With full glasses, we head to the small dining table beside the staircase and sit. Cassie pulls her laptop in front of her and starts clicking on the keys.
“I’ve received nine emails from your neighbors,” she says. “I haven’t had a chance to read any of them.”
Cassie’s in boss mode. Her jaw is set, her eyes are awash in the blue glow of her screen, and her tear troughs are pronounced.
“How much did you sleep last night?” I ask.
She shrugs, not taking her eyes off the screen. “Four or five?”
“Hours?”
“Minutes.”
My jaw drops. “You stayed up all night working?”
“I took a nap this afternoon.”
“Are you sure you have the energy to do this tonight?”
She looks at me. Her laptop keys go silent. “Why wouldn’t I?”
I scoot her wine glass closer to her.
She contemplates the wine for a moment, breathes in deeply, and then picks up the glass and takes a gulp. And then another.
“Whoah.” I hold my hands up like stop signs. “You better ease into it.”
“I’m fine,” she says and refocuses on her computer.
I tug on her screen until the laptop makes an obtuse angle. “Cassie. I think you might be working too hard.”
She glances at me, shrugs only her right shoulder this time.
“Why don’t you relax for a minute,” I say. “We can look at those emails in a bit.”
“You’re here to help me research.”
I don’t let her comment discourage me. I’m still determined to turn this into a date.
“And, actually...” I grab her laptop and push it gently, slowly to the side, so I don’t trigger any withdrawal symptoms. “I already did some research. Let me show you.”
I pull my phone from my back pocket and click on the Pages app. The spiel I wrote is in a document named “ForCassie.” I open it and hand my phone over to her.
“What’s this?” she asks cautiously.
“Read it.”
I watch her eyes move left to right as she ingests my words. A smile breaks her tired features. As she scrolls, it grows wider.
“This is amazing,” she says when she’s done. “Where did you find all this information?”
I tell her about my trip to the Charleston Historical Foundation, my run-in with the slightly grumpy volunteer, my hours of studying and compiling the source materials.
Cassie drops back in her chair, her muscles going limp. The first time I’ve seen her relaxed tonight. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure,” I say. “But that’s not all.”
I tell her about my conversation with Janice, the details about my ghost, Betsy, and the presumed ghost of Lou Lou the cat. On cue, Cassie’s cat jumps onto the table and walks lazily to Cassie, its fluffy tail waving seductively.
“This is Pudge,” she says after nuzzling the cat.
“Here, kitty kitty.” I try to entice the cat with my wagging pointer finger.
Cassie giggles. “You’re such a dog person.”
“You know I like cats. They just don’t always like me.”
Pudge does a one-eighty and sniffs my finger. Satisfied, she goes to work nudging me with her cheeks. I feel like her personal masseuse.
“I think she does like you,” Cassie says looking surprised.
“How are your launch plans going?” I ask after Pudge snubs us both and jumps from the table.
Cassie leans back and covers her face with both hands. “Good,” she says when her face reappears. She stretches her arms to the sides and yawns. “Everything is set to go on Tuesday. We have radio segments set up in Atlanta and Tampa. I spent all day yesterday making TikTok videos. Thirty of them.” She groans. “I hate TikTok.”
“That took you all day?”
“I’m not good at lip-syncing. Also, I had to get ready. I couldn’t let people see me like this.” She presents herself to me with a grand gesture.
My expression sours.
“What?” she asks.
“Ninety-nine percent of the women on this planet would die to look like you do now.” Cassie looks gorgeous with her hair wrapped in a bun on the top of her head, the updo emphasizing her high cheekbones.
“If they died to look like me, they’d just be rotten corpses,” Cassie says.
I break into laughter. “That took a dark turn. I think it’s called a figure of speech. Meaning you don’t take it literally.”
“I literally smell like ground cumin,” she says, “I haven’t showered in two days.”
“Are you coming on to me?”
“If you want to smell like a beef enchilada, then sure.”
I scratch above my ear. “I mean no disrespect, but I would patiently await our food by myself if you wanted to take a shower.”
Cassie bugs her eyes. “Do I really stink?”
I shake my head feverishly. “No, not at all. But if you’re worried about your pits, a short shower does all kinds of wonders.”
She sticks her nose into her armpit. She still feels comfortable with me after all our years apart. A good sign.
“You know. Actually. I may take you up on that,” she says. “The food is already paid for, and I left a note telling them to ring the bell.”
I nod. “Me and Pudge will use the time to get to know each other better.” Pudge is sitting on the back of the couch, oblivious of my intentions.
“I’ll only be five minutes. Or ten.”
“Don’t fall asleep in there. I’m not going in to wake you.”
“You better not.”
She climbs to the loft to grab a change of clothes and comes down with a pair of sweats and a towel. I plop onto the couch and forcefully deposit Pudge onto my lap. She puts up with my rubbing for a few minutes and then deploys her claws and flicks her butt in my face. I get the hint and shoo her away.
Cassie’s ten minutes turn into fifteen. The doorbell buzzes and I head through the office to grab the pizza. I set the boxes on her coffee table to keep her away from her laptop for as long as possible. This way we can eat casually on the couch and avoid all talk of business, livestreams, stats, and launches.
I transfer our wine glasses to the coffee table, grab a couple of plates and some napkins. Before settling back onto the couch, I eye Cassie’s Bluetooth speaker and successfully connect to it. I click on my Taylor Swift playlist on Spotify, and then I sit down and wait.
A few minutes later Cassie settles onto the couch next to me, combing her wet hair. Clumps frame her face and rest on her shoulders. She’s wearing gray joggers and a matching zip-up sweatshirt, but the zipper is undone revealing a tight yellow top that exposes a line of skin at her waist. I let my eyes linger there for a moment.
Cassie dives into the pizza like she hasn’t eaten all day, which I’m guessing she hasn’t. Back when we were dating, she often forgot to eat when she was working intensely on a project.
“This is amazing,” she says after her third slice.
“Papa Mac knows pizza.”
Cassie nods.
“You feel better?” I ask.
“So much,” Cassie says before taking a generous bite.
I honestly couldn’t smell her before, but now I can, a soft powder scent mixed with a hint of the ocean. I smile. She hasn’t stopped using Old Spice deodorant. Fiji with Palm Trees.
“What are you smirking about?” Cassie says.
“Nothing. I’m just eating.”
“If you want me to trust you, you have to stop lying to me.”
My face descends and my body temperature drops a few degrees.
Cassie swipes my arm and laughs. “Gotcha.” She points at me.
Temperature returns to 98.6 Fahrenheit, maybe a little higher.
“Good one,” I say and then stuff my face to give my heart rate a chance to stabilize.
After Cassie finishes her fourth slice, she empties her wine glass before standing up to grab the open bottle from the kitchen island. She brings it back to the couch and offers to refill my glass.
“No,” I say, “I’ve had enough.”
She shrugs. “Suit yourself.” And then she fills her slender glass to the rim. A splash of wine escapes her glass and falls onto her joggers.
After a generous sip, she reclines as she savors the taste. We sit silently while Taylor sings over the Bluetooth speaker.
“You don’t even like Taylor Swift,” Cassie says.
“I like what you like.”
She raises an eyebrow at me. “You hate her voice.”
“Hate is a strong word. I just think she sounds like a ten-year-old.”
“You have strange musical tastes.”
“Aerosmith is classic.”
Cassie makes a yuck face, then she leans her head back and closes her eyes, holding her wine glass close to her heart. We sit in silence again.
The song segues into Innocent, a slower beat.
“Do you want to dance?” I ask.
Cassie lifts her head and squints at me. “Dance? With you?”
I look behind me. “I don’t think Betsy or Lou Lou followed me here, so, yeah.”
Cassie lifts one corner of her lips. “I only just recently decided you might not be a jerk.”
“I’m...flattered?”
“Okay. I’ll dance.” She stands, wine glass still in hand.
“You have to put that down though.”
She looks at the glass. “Oh.” She sets it on the coffee table and strolls over to me, a little wobbly. She’s already had too much to drink. Always the lightweight.
Maybe I should sit her back down, brew her some coffee, and call it a night. Taylor Swift’s repeated declarations that you aren’t what you did spur me onward. I’m not who I was. I’m not what I did. I hope Cassie believes it.
“I haven’t done this in forever,” Cassie says. She’s anchored in front of me, arms to her sides.
I smile down at her. “I’ll remind you.” I clasp her right hand in my left and reach around, pulling her closer, leaving some light between us.
We rock back and forth tentatively, our bodies stiff like we’re at an eighth-grade dance. Cassie focuses on the knickknacks beside her flat screen TV, her wet hair inches from my face. The scent of her shampoo is a woody lavender with citrus notes. Clean. Fresh. Captivating.
As the song rolls on, we both relax, our hips becoming more fluid, moving of their own accord along with the gentle swells of the music.
Cassie’s eyes track left, pausing on my chest. She inhales deeply, and as she exhales, I feel the remaining tension in her muscles escape.
“This is nice,” she says. She flicks her eyes up to mine.
“It is,” I say. I bow my head, closing some of the gap between our faces. When I smile, she meets my eyes and smiles faintly.
“We’re supposed to be researching,” she says.
“I like this better.”
Cassie licks her lips and then rests her temple against my chest. My breath hitches. I widen my eyes at the large window across from me, at the building next door with its aging bricks and streaks of efflorescence. We stay like this until the song ends, me barely able to breathe, Cassie like warm taffy under my hands.
The next song has a peppier beat. Cassie lifts her head and looks at me guiltily. To distract her from whatever inner turmoil she must be feeling, I lift our clasped hands and spin her around before dipping her over my knee. It works, she laughs, and the doubt or guilt she might have felt fades from her eyes.
After I pull her back to her feet, we stand chest to chest, still holding hands. Cassie’s smile turns to a frown. She lifts her chin and locks her eyes onto mine.
“If I’m going to let myself get close to you again, I need to know everything.”
“I’ve told you everything.”
“No. I need details. I don’t know why. I just need to know how you ended up making out with Rose, why you almost kissed your secretary.”
“I told you everything in the email, the day after we broke up. You were ghosting me, so I... Did you get the email?”
Cassie nods. “I did. But I deleted it. I didn’t want to know. Now, I guess I do.”
I wrap my hands around Cassie’s forearms. “Are you sure?” The thought of rehashing my mistakes doesn’t settle well. I don’t want to cause Cassie more pain. I don’t want to share intimate details that might turn her away.
“Yes. I’m sure,” she says.
But if the details of my indiscretions will help her heal, I won’t deny her. So, I tell her about the night Rose came over in that godforsaken tube top with that cheap box of wine. How I should have told her to leave. How instead I let her cry mind numbingly about her breakup, and how I drank away my discomfort and inhibitions. “Her tank top went down, and then I made some poor decisions.”
Cassie and I are on the couch now. She finishes her glass of wine and moves to refill the glass.
“You might want to rethink that,” I say as gently as possible. “Believe me, I know what can happen when you drink yourself into oblivion to avoid uncomfortable situations.”
Cassie pauses with her hand wrapped around the neck of the bottle. She studies me for a moment and then lifts the bottle to her lips and takes a swig. She presents the bottle to me, but I shake my head and hold up both hands. She shrugs and then sets the bottle loudly on the coffee table.
“Tell me about the other hussy. I mean, secretary.”
I tell her about the flirting, how I’d thought it was harmless entertainment, how I ignored the subtle guilt I felt whenever I paid Jani too intimate of a compliment. I don’t make excuses for myself. I just tell her the facts. That Jani tried to kiss me, and I fired her.
“Cassie, the night you found out I cheated, I was going to—”
Cassie jumps off the couch. She rubs her arms. “I’m kind of cold. Do you need a blanket?”
I straighten. “No. I’m good.”
“I’ll—I’ll be right back.”
She leaves me there staring at the blank television, wondering what’s going through her head. Did I give her what she needed? The gory, unflattering details. Play-by-plays of the worst decisions of my life.
I half expect her to hide away in the loft and never come down. Five minutes later she returns carrying a patchwork quilt.
“Is that one of Granny’s?” I ask.
She nods. “Nana unloaded most of Granny’s quilts onto the family. She was afraid moths were going to eat them in the attic.”
“She was probably right.”
Cassie settles on the couch, props her feet on the cushion between us, and spreads the blanket over them. She leans against the armrest, her body tucked snuggly into the corner of the couch.
“Have you fixed up Nana’s house?” I ask.
Cassie shakes her head. “Not yet. I will though. I just need a little more time.”
“I know you will.” I offer a smile to try to soften her hardened features. I love Boss Cassie, but I don’t want her to return just yet.
“After we broke up, I couldn’t date,” she says. She looks at me steadily. “I was afraid I would fall in love with another cheater.”
I look down at my empty wine glass and clear my throat. Maybe I could use another sip or two. I reach past Cassie, grab the bottle, and fill my glass.
“And then I married a wet rag,” Cassie continues. “Michael is a great guy, but we were boring together. There wasn’t a spark. It felt safe. Textbook. But it was a mistake.”
“I’m sorry.”
Cassie presses her hand to her forehead. “Sorry doesn’t fix it.”
“I know. I don’t know how to fix it. I’m just trying—”
“Stop. It’s enough. I don’t want to hear any more. Can we just listen to the music?”
“Sure.”
Except I’d rather get it all out, tell Cassie that after we broke up, I threw myself into my work, sometimes sleeping at the office because I couldn’t stand to sleep alone in my own bed. Mostly, I want to tell Cassie about the whole mess with Macy, how Macy and I fought every day, how I was miserable, but I stayed to prove to myself that I could commit, believing Macy’s kid was mine, falling in love with that little heartbeat, the little boy with two hands and two feet. And the crushing blow when I found out Gabe wasn’t mine. How it split me in two, dredged up every wrong I’d ever committed, and made me atone for every lie. How I mourned for months, and how finally, I came out the other side. A changed man. The man I am now.
But Cassie isn’t ready for my split open heart. She has her own to deal with, the split caused by me. I know sorry doesn’t fix the past, but maybe if I keep saying it, she’ll believe me.
“Cassie.”
I glance over. She’s cuddled under her blanket, clutching it to her neck as she sleeps on her side. Her peaceful expression bears no hint of anger. I watch the gentle in and out of her breath, trace her fingers with my eyes, imagine running my hands through her damp, lavender-scented hair, but I can’t sit here staring at her forever. It’s time for me to leave.
Rather than wake her, I decide to write a note. I enter the kitchen and quietly open and close drawers until I find a pen and paper.
You fell asleep and I didn’t want to wake you. Enjoy your nap, sleepyhead. I’ll text you tomorrow.
I set the note on the island and then swing around and walk back to the couch. She’s still sleeping soundly, a faint smile on her lips. Is she dreaming of me or a roomful of fluffy cats? I’m betting on the fluffy cats.
The quilt has fallen to her waist. I lean over and gingerly grasp the binding and pull it up to her shoulders. She stirs. Opens her eyes.
“Hey, sleepy,” I whisper.
Cassie
Luke hovers over me, his model features defying reality. No one should be this handsome. The low light casts shadows in the hollows of his cheeks, deepens the intensity of his brown eyes, draws highlights on his cheekbones and perfectly sculpted chin. I don’t know, maybe it’s the wine, but I’ve never seen him like this—so open and vulnerable.
I reach around his neck and pull his face toward mine. He offers no resistance, willingly closing the space between us. Our lips touch and my blood becomes warm, my heart readily pumping it through my arms, into my fingers, to the tips of my toes. Luke’s kisses have always made me come undone, but this redefines “unraveling.”
I pull myself upright and Luke sits in the space I created. We grasp each other like the floor beneath us is going to crumble and drop away, but then Luke pulls away. He places his hands on my shoulders.
“You’re tipsy,” he says.
I assess my level of inebriation. Yes, my brain is spinning, twirling with reckless abandon like a joyful ballerina, but I can’t tell if it’s the alcohol or Luke’s lips. I don’t care. “No, I’m not.” My voice is raspy.
“You’re not in your right mind,” Luke says. “I should go.”
As he stands, gravity presses heavily against me. My body stops floating and drops to the couch with a disorienting thud. “Don’t go,” is all I can manage.
Luke leans over, kisses me on the forehead. “Get some sleep, Cassie.” And then he heads out the door.