Chapter Twenty
If possible, Marcee’s night went from bad to worse.
Her session with Dr. Crowley left her raw and angry, as her insinuation she and Remy weren’t dealing with the big issues in their relationship sank hooks into her skin that wouldn’t let go.
Marcee knew she was right. She’d already admitted as much to herself.
The truth always hurt worse when it came from someone you trusted, though.
All she wanted was to collapse on her couch with a cold beer, something greasy, and mope with Freddie Mercury.
Alex was at a conference, so Marcee wasn’t expecting a car parked in the driveway when she pulled up. To further complicate things, it was Remy.
“Great. Just great,” she muttered, throwing the gear shift into park and turning off the car.
There was no subtle way to tell your boyfriend to go home, especially one as intuitive as Remy.
She needed quiet and stillness, time for her nervous system to calm the hell down.
As much as she loved him, she knew she was a walking time bomb.
The front door was unlocked, so she pushed inside and threw her coat and bag into the corner. After changing into pajamas, she followed her nose to the kitchen, garlic and oregano permeating the air as Remy unpacked Italian takeout onto the kitchen table, the sleeves of his sweater rolled up.
“Hi there.” He came around the table and kissed her, smiling against her lips. When she pulled back, he didn’t comment. “I got the manicotti for you.”
As he poured a glass of wine and handed it to her, Marcee stifled a sigh.
Normally, she’d be salivating at the melted cheese and bag of breadsticks, but the only thing she had room for in her stomach that night was anger and resentment.
It was thoughtful and sweet, what Remy was doing.
Rational Marcee knew, but irrational Marcee didn’t care, and that bitch was winning out.
Irrational Marcee knew she wasn’t good enough for someone like him.
She knew he would run the second he saw who she really was.
Her wireless device set up in the kitchen played some sort of easy pop and the cheery lyrics were like nails on a chalkboard.
“How was your day?” Remy asked, taking a seat and pouring a glass for himself.
As usual, every part of him managed to draw her in, as arousing as the first time they met: the sharp edges of his jaw that flexed as he chewed, or the slope where his neck met his shoulders, muscular from years in the gym.
Marcee wondered how many times Lola sat across from him thinking the same thing.
“Alexa, play Halestorm.” She put the glass of wine on the table next to her plate and headed for the refrigerator, restless energy buzzing in her legs. “My day was utter shit.”
“Ah, sorry about that. I was really hoping training would go well.” When she didn’t respond, he asked quietly, “It’s okay I’m here, right?”
She plucked a bottle of beer from the refrigerator shelf and closed the door.
Was she being petty and contrary? Yes. Was she sorry for it?
Maybe just a little. “Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?
” Even though they weren’t telling each other the truth about things.
Even though she was shredded to ribbons and wondering if he’d met up with his old girlfriend two months ago.
Even though she was a walking train wreck with pounds of emotional baggage and scar tissue.
Sure, it was dandy.
“You seem on edge. Thought perhaps you might want to be alone.”
Of course she wanted to be alone. But she also didn’t want him to leave. She grabbed the bottle opener from the drawer next to the sink. “It’s fine.” God, her dumbassery was rolling off in turbulent waves.
Marcee didn’t even bother to pick the top up after popping it off the pale ale, choosing to leave it on the counter next to the bottle opener.
Music blasted through her tiny kitchen and a small, petty part of her rejoiced at the wince on Remy’s face.
Hell, she’d been uncomfortable and upset all day.
Why should she be the only one? It was partially his fault.
“So,” he started, eyeing her as she plopped into a chair at the opposite end of the table. “Your session with Cope…”
“Yup. Fun times.” The container of manicotti was in front of her, dripping cheese and piping hot. The smell made her stomach churn. “I don’t think I can eat right now.”
Bass flooded through the speaker and Remy rubbed a hand across his forehead. “Can we lower the music? It’s hard to hear you.”
“Alexa, turn the volume down.” She took a swig of the beer, glaring at the table. “Better?”
She wasn’t getting off so easy. Remy spooned salad onto his plate and pushed it across the table. “Tell me about it. Here, you need to eat something.”
A bag of breadsticks was positioned in the middle of the table, so Marcee snatched one and took a bite, choking it down. “What’s there to tell? Cope shut me down when I tried to talk to her. I bared my soul, and she couldn’t care less.”
A frustrated frown marred his face. “Don’t give up on her.”
He didn’t get it. How could he? He’d never been through something like that.
“There wasn’t a single person whose opinion mattered more to me than the image in the mirror or the numbers on the scale.
That was the final say.” Marcee shook her head, tossing down the nub of bread.
“Not even Eli could bring me back from the edge, and he was the only person in the world who really saw me. And look what that got him.”
She regretted the words as soon as she said them.
She wasn’t ready to talk about Eli, or those last few months of high school before she left for college.
Maybe it was because she was thinking about all of it earlier, and Remy’s past, too.
Or maybe it was the few texts Eli had sent checking in on her after New York.
Those kinds of things always had a way of coming out, especially when they’d been locked away for far too long.
Quiet fell between them, aside from the music playing in the background.
Crumbs smooshed beneath her fingertips, scattering in pellets of salt and garlic across the table.
She was at an intersection of the past and present, warring with her own faults and insecurities while frustration and despair for Cope ate at her.
“You’ll get through to her, Marcee.” Remy took a sip of his wine, shoulders tense as he watched her over the rim. His poker face was immaculate. “Who is Eli?”
“My best friend in high school. My first—everything, I guess,” she whispered, eyes locked on the table. One crumb, two crumbs, three crumbs. Just about the same number of bits and pieces of her life she’d given to Remy, and he’d given to her. “I ruined his life.”
Marcee risked a glance at the end of the table. He studied her, eyebrows drawn together as if she was a riddle he couldn’t solve. If he knew the truth, she wondered if he’d even want to? Who would want to be with a coward like her?
“Talk to me, Marcee. You can talk to me, you know.”
“What do you call what we’re doing right now?”
“What you’re doing is passive-aggressively avoiding the subject,” he retorted, an edge entering his voice for the first time. Good, she deserved it. She deserved all of it.
She drained the last bit of her beer before answering.
“Eli was my best friend in high school. He was the greatest soccer player I’d ever met and the only person who knew about my shitty parents and still stood by me.
He loved me, I loved him. And then I blew it all up, including his life and future, and never looked back.
End of story.” Lies. End of a chapter, maybe.
“How did you ruin his life?”
“What does any of this have to do with Cassidy Cope?” she countered, even though she knew she was the one who brought up Eli. Why the fuck did she do that, anyway? The whole trip to New York was a mistake.
“Damn it, Marcee!” Remy blurted, leaning across the table, palms flat against the surface.
His tone was hard and abrasive enough that she leaned back, caught off guard.
“I am trying to get to know you. Why won’t you let me?
” His face softened, the beautiful edges lined with pain.
Softly, he repeated it. “Why won’t you let me? ”
Panic and irritation and fear twisted through her insides, spasming up her throat and loosening her tongue.
“Are you?” Marcee’s voice climbed an octave.
“You want to know me. Fine. Great. You want to know about all the times I went to school in dirty clothes and no lunch money because my parents spent our money on new paint? You want to know about how the school janitor used to let me in early so I could shower in the girls’ locker room and would even buy me shampoo?
Pretty sexy, huh?” She stood, gripping the edge of the table as it all came tumbling out.
Her chest was so tight she gasped for air.
“You want to know how bad it hurt when my heart stopped beating on the field and I spent a week in the hospital? Or do you want to know about how Eli was chasing after me the night he got hit by a car and ended up paralyzed? How I destroyed the career of the most promising player in the country because he tried to help me, and I called it a betrayal?” A choked sob escaped.
“I called it a fucking betrayal even as I left him in the hospital and didn’t speak to him again for six years.
I am a goddamned coward, and I mess up everything I touch. ”
The table blurred as tears of frustration and self-pity spilled over, dripping down her cheeks and onto the breadcrumbs. ‘Just Pretend’ by Bad Omens played in the background, each beat haunting the room.
“Is that what you want to know?” she whispered, voice cracking.
“Marcee…”
Her chair toppled over as she turned and rushed from the room. She should’ve asked him to leave the moment she got home. Nothing good was ever going to come from tonight.