21. CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I spend the early part of Monday drifting through my day in a dreamlike trance. Endorphins still flood my system, and I find myself smiling for absolutely no reason. Last night was beyond description. I’ve never felt so loved, so desired, so… cherished. I’m floating on a cloud of joy and wonder.
So this is what it feels like when two people are in love.
I finish my last massage just before three and head into my office to make a dent in the ever-growing mountain of paperwork on my desk. With Lila out, I’m spending more time doing massages and less time doing paperwork, and my desk reflects it. Stacks of insurance claims to file, physicians’ progress reports to fax, and invoices to pay cover every inch of the surface. It’s nearly seven before I lock up and head across the walkway to the house, still cocooned in bliss.
Mark meets me as soon as I come in the side door. “Where have you been?” he barks, his expression terse.
I raise my eyebrows, startled by his sharp tone. “Work. The same place I usually am when I’m not here.” I look at him, noting his dark jeans and white dress shirt. “You look hot. Did I forget we had plans?” I ask, moving closer and wrapping my arms around his waist. “Mmm. You smell nice. New cologne?”
Mark snatches my arms loose from his waist and quickly backs away, positioning his crutches forward. The move forces space between us, and I blink, unsettled by his reaction.
His unmistakable attempt to physically distance himself combined with his unwelcoming body language and tone of voice bewilder me, and my blissful state evaporates rapidly as the mood in the hallway turns frigid.
“We need to talk,” he says abruptly.
Details begin to register with me. It’s Monday, but he’s in a dress shirt and jeans, not workout clothes. His lightly-stubbled beard has been trimmed. He’s wearing a new cologne.
Mark looks like he’s going out, but he doesn’t want me touching him.
A prickle of anxiety runs through me. I put my purse down on the washing machine, regarding him carefully as I try to quell my rising uneasiness. “Okay, let’s talk. What’s up?”
“Last night, you said you loved me. Before you fell asleep,” he adds pointedly. His face is tense, his jaw muscles tight.
My stomach tightens, though I keep my face impassive. “I tell you that all the time. You say it to me, too. Actually, you said it first last night, if I recall,” I reply, disquieted by his agitation.
He shakes his head. “Last night it was different. You said it like… like you’re falling for me.” He stares at me, waiting expectantly.
I swallow hard and my heart pounds. Mark’s figured out I’m in love with him, and he certainly doesn’t look pleased.
This definitely wasn’t the reaction I was expecting after the emotion he showed last night. He looks... Angry? Upset? Stressed? I’m not exactly sure, but his expression doesn’t bode well.
Do I tell him what he wants to hear, or come clean and confess my feelings?
I watch him closely, waiting for some clue to how I should proceed. But he just stands there staring, waiting for my answer, like he’s made an accusation that demands my response.
Finally, I meet his gaze deliberately. “Yes, Mark. I’m in love with you.”
My spirits plummet as he shakes his head vehemently. “Charlie, you aren’t in love with me,” he argues. “You just think you are because we’re together all the time. I’m convenient, and we’ve been intimate, and you’re confusing that with love.”
“No, Mark, I do love you, and I’m pretty sure you’re in love with me, too.”
He flinches – flinches – then shakes his head again. “Things will never work out between us like that, Charlie. You deserve someone who’s whole and healthy. Someone better than me.”
Bells are ringing like fire alarms inside my head. I study Mark carefully, examining his appearance again in combination with what he’s saying.
His clothes, his cologne, his freshly trimmed beard – those things weren’t for my benefit. He was waiting to confront me about my feelings, and not in a good way. So why is he dressed up? And for whom?
An icy chill skates down my spine and settles in the pit of my stomach. No. Surely not.
I speak slowly, praying I’m leaping to the wrong conclusion. “What are you saying, Mark?”
His light blue eyes meet mine and hold them steadily. “I think we should see other people.”
An unseen fist grips my heart and squeezes the air from my lungs. “You’re breaking up with me?”
This can’t be happening.
His gaze doesn’t waver, his voice resolute. “I’m not the right man for you, Charlie. You deserve someone better,” he insists. “This is for your own good.”
“I don’t want anyone else. I love you, Mark,” I say, pushing between his crutches to stand in front of him, looking up into his eyes. “And you love me, too.”
“You don’t love me. And I’m not in love with you. We need to see other people,” he repeats firmly. His beautiful blue eyes suddenly turn cold and detached, and it hits me.
That’s why he’s dressed up.
The fist around my heart tightens so much I can scarcely breathe, but I somehow manage to keep my expression neutral. Unable to stop myself, I reach forward and smooth the front of his crisp white shirt, feeling the solid planes of his chest beneath my hand. “We need to see other people, or you do, Mark?” I ask quietly.
He doesn’t answer, which is, of course, my answer.
I feel the blood drain from my face. “So that’s why you’re dressed up? Because you’re already seeing someone else?” My voice sounds distant and hollow.
He has enough decency to look ashamed. “My date will be here in a few minutes.”
Spots dance in front of my eyes, and I feel myself starting to hyperventilate. I snatch my hand off his chest and back away, horrified.
Not now! Pull it together!
I have to get out of here.
Breathe.
Breathe.
The spots fade from my vision and I’m able to maintain my calm expression, though my insides are raging like the sea in a hurricane.
“You’ve always had a gift for efficiency, but this is impressive, even for you. You didn’t waste a single night. I’ll change and leave so I don’t cramp your evening.” I push past him and hurry upstairs, my heart hammering furiously as I will myself not to cry yet. I make it to the safety of my room and wrench off my work clothes, leaving them where they fall as I yank on the jeans and black sweater lying across my chair from yesterday.
Mark is dumping me, not even twenty-four hours after making me feel more loved, more cherished, than I’ve felt in my entire life. And if that weren’t bad enough, he’d already lined up a date before he even bothered to tell me we were through.
Mark did this to me. Mark.
My friend. My protector.
The man I love more than my own life.
He blindsided me. Stabbed me in the back.
No. In the heart.
Shock battles with pain, but pain is quickly winning. I’ve got to get out of here. I can’t be here when another woman shows up for him. I’m not strong enough for that.
My feet pound down the stairs, and I snatch my purse off the washer.
“Where are you going?” he calls from the living room. His voice sounds concerned. He’s probably just trying to figure out how much time he and his date have before I infringe on their evening. He needn’t trouble himself.
“Don’t worry about it. I promise not to interrupt your evening.” I jerk the front door open, slamming it shut behind me. I run to my car, throwing my purse onto the seat and racing out of the driveway. I’m in tears before I reach the corner.
I drive to Lila’s, forgetting until I pull in and see their darkened house that she and Tucker went to an infertility support group meeting. Shit. Now what? They’ll be home later, but after what’s sure to be an emotional, painful evening, they don’t need me intruding on their grief.
There’s no way in hell I can take a chance on finding Mark in bed with someone else tonight. Images of Mark making love to a faceless woman flash rapid-fire through my mind, slashing my heart like a fiery whip.
No.
Not like fire.
Like leather and razor wire.
I drop my head onto the steering wheel and cry, sobbing my eyes out in Lila’s driveway.
I can’t see Mark with someone else. I’ll never survive a discovery so painful. My old darkness will consume me for sure. I need somewhere to lick my wounds.
I find myself at a hotel without remembering driving there. I’ve stayed here before, not long after Lila and I moved here, while we were waiting for an apartment to open up. I mop my face and make myself presentable enough to rent a room and check in. I collapse on the bed, turn off my phone, and dissolve in tears.
How can this be happening?
This is Mark, Mark, the only person on the planet I’ve ever completely and wholeheartedly loved and trusted. How could he do this?
I mean, if he wanted to slow things down or take a break or assess the relationship, fine, let’s talk. But running straight into another woman’s arms?
Fuck, this hurts.
My eyes fill with fresh tears at the thought of him with someone else, and once again, I’m left struggling to breathe. Obviously, I grossly misinterpreted last night and read feelings into it on his part that were never there.
My heart physically hurts inside my chest, a stabbing, relentless pain that only worsens the more I think about him. I didn’t know I could hurt this badly. It’s worse than anything I’ve ever experienced, even worse than the shit I survived in Afghanistan.
At least that pain was inflicted by people who hated me.
This was intentionally inflicted by someone who loved me.
Or at least, I thought he did.
And he did it because I told him I loved him.
I ugly-cry for three straight hours before I surrender. I have to numb this pain, this horrible, soul-crushing, knife-in-my-chest pain, and the one surefire way to accomplish that is to get so drunk, I can't even remember my own name.
Is it responsible? Hell, no. A bad idea? Absolutely. But dark thoughts from my past have resurfaced, threatening to drag me under. I have to find a way to forget, at least for a few hours.
I know. It’s a terrible coping mechanism. But right now, I don’t care. I have to stop this pain.
I have to.
The hotel has a bar right next door, one Tom and I have been to a couple of times after work or when we’re hanging out while Maya’s with friends. I glance in the mirror, scrub the mascara trails from my face, and move my handgun from my purse to my belly-band holster.
I tuck my ID and debit card into my pocket and turn my phone back on. Unsurprisingly, I have a slew of texts and missed calls from Lila. Nothing from Mark, though. He’s probably occupied with his date. Tears flood my eyes again.
Fuck it. I turn my phone back off and walk next door to the bar. I sit down at the counter, ordering a shot of tequila. I drain it and set the glass down. “Keep them coming,” I tell the bartender, an older fellow with a timeworn face and somber eyes. “I’m not driving anywhere.”
Four shots later, the tequila has blunted the sharp edges of my pain.
A few more shots, and maybe I won’t feel it at all.
I watch from the window as Charlie peels out of the driveway, slinging gravel everywhere. My heart aches at her distress, even though I know I’m doing what’s best for her in the long run. She deserves someone perfect, not a scarred-up, useless cripple.
But I hate that she’s driving in her frame of mind. It’s not safe. And I hate I’ve upset her this badly.
I pace on my crutches for a solid fifteen minutes before I call Lila. She and Tucker only live five minutes away. By now, Lila’s listening to Charlie curse me. She’s probably joining in. I deserve it, even if this is for Charlie’s own good.
Lila finally answers on my third call. “Hey, Lila. I need to talk to Charlie.”
Even though I know my reasoning is sound, I’ve hurt Charlie, something I never wanted to do. Ending things will be painful for her now, but better for her in the long run, so she can find someone whole. Healthy. Better.
“Charlie’s not with me,” Lila replies.
Irritation flares. “I know she’s there. Tell her to come home so we can talk.”
I hear other voices in the background before Lila speaks again. “Tucker and I went to an infertility support group meeting. It just ended. Did you check the clinic? Maybe she’s there.”
“She’s really not with you?”
“Hang on a second,” she says, and I hear things gradually getting quieter on her end. “Sorry. I had to walk outside because of the noise. What’s going on?”
“Charlie really isn’t with you?”
“No.” She gets very quiet. “What’s going on, Mark?”
I hesitate. “I broke up with her.”
She gasps audibly. “What the fuck, Mark?”
“It’s a long story.”
“I’ve got all goddamn night,” she snaps. “What the hell is going on?”
“She’s in love with me, Lila, and she deserves better. She needs someone whole, someone who can make her happy.”
There’s several seconds of silence before she snarls, “This had better be a fucking joke, Chandler, or I’m going to cut your balls off myself.”
I’m taken aback by the ferocity in her tone. I thought Lila would understand. She should want what’s best for Charlie, too.
“Are you goddamned kidding me?” Lila demands.
“I told her we should see other people, and she got upset and left.”
“Of course she got upset,” she retorts. I fall silent. Her voice is razor-sharp when she speaks again. “What did you say to her?”
“I - I needed her to know I was serious.”
There’s another silence. “Do not tell me you’re seeing someone else,” she hisses.
“She had to see I meant it,” I insist, though when I hear myself say the words out loud, they make much less sense now than they did when I was pacing around my room last night.
She’s quiet for long moments. “Who is she?” Her voice is low, feral, and I’m stunned by the venom in her tone. “Who the fuck did you leave her for?”
“There isn’t anyone else. I just needed Charlie to believe there was.”
Her anger pulses through the phone, and when she speaks, I wish she hadn’t. “So you lied, just to fucking crush her, all because you can’t pull your head out of your own ass.”
“It’s not like that,” I protest.
Except it’s exactly like that. Well, the first part, anyway.
“I love you, Mark, but you’re a real asshole.”
“Lila,” I say, but the line has gone dead, and I know she’s hung up.
I lay my phone down on the table slowly. Breaking up with Charlie was the right thing to do for her, but I’ve gone about it all wrong. Lila’s right. I hurt Charlie on purpose. And I lied to her. I can’t remember ever lying to her before.
The problem is, I don’t know how to fix this without giving her false hope. She deserves better, and I have to let her go for her own good, no matter how much it hurts.
I’m so emotionally wrung out after losing our baby and sitting in a support group crying with other women in similar situations that I don’t have the emotional energy to coddle Mark. A better person would tell him his true value has nothing to do with physical abilities or disabilities. Not me. I call him an asshole and threaten to cut his balls off, and I mean every word of it.
Charlie’s got to be devastated, and since she’s not with me and not with Mark, I’m guessing she’s somewhere getting drunk.
Tucker comes outside to find me pacing furiously. I’ve called Charlie’s phone, but she’s not picking up, and I’ve sent a dozen texts that have gone unanswered as well.
“What’s wrong?” His eyes are instantly worried.
I tell him what Mark’s done, and his jaw drops. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“I wish I were. I swear to God, I’m going to kill him.”
Tucker looks dumbfounded. I lay my hand on his chest. “We need to find her.”
He nods. “Let me take you home. You’re supposed to be resting. I’ll go look for her.”
“She’s probably getting shit-faced somewhere,” I say worriedly, and his expression mirrors mine. Charlie drunk, upset, and armed could go sideways in a heartbeat.
“Don’t worry. I’ll find her,” he promises, but he drives faster than normal in his race to drop me off.
As soon as he walks me into the house, he kisses me on the head and jogs back to his truck, promising to update me. I dial Tom’s number. “What’s up?” he greets me.
I don’t give him specifics. I just tell him Charlie left her house really upset, and she’s probably getting drunk somewhere and I’m worried.
“I’m on it,” he says. “Maya’s at my sister’s house all week for fall break. Either Tucker or I will find her. We’ve got this, Lila. Try not to worry.”
Easier said than done.
If anything happens to Charlie, losing his balls will be the least of Mark’s worries, because I’ll rip him limb from limb. And that’s not the hormone shots talking – that’s my sister-rage, and I mean every damn word.
I consider calling Mark, but I’m too pissed to do this over the phone. I burst into Charlie’s house without bothering to knock. Mark’s sitting on the steps, elbows on his knees, crutches leaning against the wall.
“What the fuck, Mark?” I demand.
He doesn’t look pissed, merely resigned. “I can’t talk about it.”
“The fuck you can’t. What the hell is your problem?”
“Not now, Tucker. Please, just find her and make sure she’s okay.”
I glare, fighting the urge to punch him. “Yeah. Because people are perfectly fine after they’ve been betrayed by someone who claimed to love them,” I snap.
He recoils at my words, but I don’t care. I spin on my heel, slamming the door so hard it rattles.
Tom calls me a couple of hours later, after I’ve worn a path in the carpet and called Charlie another dozen times without an answer. “She’s at a bar on Seventh.”
“Is she okay?”
I can hear the frown in his tone. “She is, but the long-haired cretin sitting way too close to her may not be when I get to her.”
“Put me on speaker and don’t hang up.”
He does, but the bar is so loud, it’s difficult to decipher what’s happening. Then I hear Charlie explaining to someone in a loud, slurred voice that she’s no longer broken, and that she can have sex now, but Mark doesn’t want her anymore.
Oh God.
I hear Tom’s voice, quiet but determined. “If you make so much as one crude comment or hit on my friend here, I promise you’ll spend the next two months in traction.”
“It’s her choice, asshole,” a raspy voice says.
“And whether you leave in an ambulance is yours.” I hear a rustle, and I know Tom’s taking off his jacket, ready to fight over Charlie.
I swear to God, I’m going to fucking kill Mark.
“Nice talking to you,” Tom says then, and I grin. I’d bet money as soon as the cretin got a look at Tom’s muscles, he reconsidered his life choices.
“Hi, Charlie,” I hear Tom say.
“Well, hey, Tom.” Charlie stumbles over her words, and I groan. She’s drunk off her ass. “What’re you doing here?”
“I was in the neighborhood. How about you?”
“I’m here to get drunk,” she announces. “Very, very drunk.”
“I think you’ve succeeded,” Tom says, and she giggles.
He takes me off speakerphone. “I’ve got her,” he says.
“I’ll call Tucker. We’ll come get her.”
“It’s okay. I'm guessing she’s going to need you more tomorrow.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. I’ll call when I get her settled. She can sleep it off at my house.”
“Thanks, Tom. I appreciate this.”
“I’m just glad I got here when I did. The vultures were circling.”
When he hangs up, I call Tucker and tell him to come home.
I swear to God, I’m going to find my rustiest razor blade to castrate Mark if he hurts Charlie any more than she’s already been hurt.
Everything’s spinning. The room, the weird man next to me, the lights. The weird man asks why I’m here tonight. I’m explaining how Mark no longer wants me when he disappears without a word. Tom slides into the weird man’s now-empty barstool next to me.
“What’re you doing here?” My words sound strange, and my tongue is thick.
Tom catches the eye of the bartender, and I raise my empty shot glass. “Another one,” I crow, but the bartender looks at Tom.
“How about a cranberry juice for my friend?” he says.
“With tequila,” I call after him. The bartender nods, returning with a glass of icy red liquid. I take a sip and turn to Tom, nearly sliding off my stool. “He’s a good bartender. The good ones make drinks so you can’t taste the alcohol. It just sneaks up on you.”
“You just sip on that,” he says, and I see him hold out his credit card. “Settle her up.”
I frown. “I can pay my own bill.”
“I know. This is my bill,” he says, and though it doesn’t sound right, I don’t argue with him. He’s pretty smart.
The bartender returns with Tom’s card, eying me. “She’s gonna hate herself in the morning.”
“Probably before then,” Tom says, as I chase my straw around the rim of the cup with my lips. Damn thing keeps moving. “I need to take you home,” he says to me, pulling his jacket on.
No!
I can’t go home.
He’s there. With her.
I don’t know who she is, but I can’t go home.
Panic rises in my throat. “I can’t go home. They’re having sex. I can’t go home.”
“Okay, okay,” he says quickly, looking confused. “I’ll take you to my house.”
I shake my head and nearly topple off the barstool, but strong arms steady me. I reach into my back pocket and drag out my key card. “I have a room next door. See?”
Tom takes it from my hand. “Fine. Let’s get you back to your hotel.” He helps me off the barstool, and I nearly fall, but he steers me through the bar and into the chilly night air. I stagger again. Everything around me is rocking like a boat in the ocean. Tom grips my arm as I wobble.
“You’re going to break an ankle,” he says. “Hang on. I’m picking you up.” He sweeps me up in his arms and walks through the parking lot toward the hotel.
I lean my head back and giggle at the whirling kaleidoscope above me. “The stars are spinning.”
“I’m sure everything is.” He stops by his car and grabs a backpack, then carries me through the hotel lobby. I wave at the desk clerk, who grins and winks her heavily-mascaraed false eyelashes at me. I shut my eyes as the elevator whirs and lurches before jerking to a halt. Tom carries me down the hall and unlocks my door without setting me down. He shuts it behind him and deposits me in the center of the bed. I flop back, and everything spins again.
Tom looks at me and hesitates. “Um,” he says, then pauses. “I’m going to take your shoes and socks off,” he says, reaching for my feet.
I close my eyes. “Okay.”
“Do you want to sleep in your jeans?”
“Nope,” I say, shaking my head. The room spins crazily again.
I hear him sigh. “Okay. Can I help you take your jeans off?”
His brown eyes look worried, but I’m not sure why. “Okay.” I reach for my holster. “You should take this,” I say, handing him my gun. His eyes widen before he takes it from me and places it on the dresser. I unbutton and unzip my jeans, trying to slide them down, but I can’t seem to lift my hips and fumble with my clothes at the same time.
I hear him chuckle. “Sit still,” he says. He scoops me up, turns down the sheets, and puts me down again, covering me with the sheet before reaching for me.
“What are you doing?”
“Keeping you covered,” he explains, sliding my jeans down my legs beneath the sheet.
“That’s sweet,” I mumble. He just shakes his head.
“Are you okay sleeping in your sweater?”
I make a face. “It’s too hot.” He turns and rifles through his backpack. I sit up and yank off my sweater, but my bra clasp isn't cooperating. I'm struggling to unhook my bra when he produces a soft gray shirt and sighs.
“Be still,” he says again, sitting down behind me. Warm fingers unclasp my bra, pushing the straps off my shoulders before pulling the shirt over my head. “Slide your bra off and put your arms through the sleeves,” he instructs. I get the bra off, but can’t find the damn armhole. I hear him chuckle again before guiding my arm through the sleeve.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
“You’re going to have a rough morning, kiddo.”
Tears fill my eyes. “It was going to suck anyway. Now it’ll just suck with a headache.”
Tom folds my clothes and places them on the dresser beside my handgun. He’s lowering himself into the chair by the door when I stop him. “Please don’t leave me.”
“I’m not leaving, Charlie. I’ll be right here.”
I bite my lip. “I need somebody beside me. To keep the nightmares away.”
He studies my face. “Then I’ll stay beside you.” He sits down on top of the covers next to me, leaning against the headboard. I sit up, frowning.
“What’s wrong, Charlie?”
“You have to be under the covers, or I can’t turn over.”
“Fine. Let me change clothes first.” He digs through his backpack before stepping into the bathroom and changing into shorts.
I frown again. “You didn’t change your shirt.”
“I gave my shirt to you.”
“Oh. Do you want it back?” I reach for the hem to pull it off.
He shakes his head with a grin. “No, Charlie. You keep it.” He gets into the bed next to me. I scoot over so my back is against his side while I face the door, closing my eyes.
“Please keep me safe,” I whisper, and tears fill my eyes.
“I promise, Charlie, you’re safe with me.”
I reach for his bear paw-sized hand and drag it under my head, tucking it palm up against my cheek. I hope he doesn’t mind tears dripping into his hand. “Thanks, Tom.”
That’s the last thing I remember.
My phone buzzes with a text in the middle of the night. It’s Tom.
“She’s at the hotel on Seventh Street. She’s asleep, and I’m standing guard.”
“Is she okay?” I text immediately.
“She’s had a lot of tequila. A LOT. It’s going to be a rough morning.”
“Bring her to my house when you head in to work. Tara’s going to cover her patients.”
“I’ll text you in the morning when I see how she is.”
“Call if she needs me,” I type, and a thumbs up comes back almost immediately.
I’m going to fucking kill Mark when I get my hands on him.