27. Liam
On Monday, we cut out of work early for Mac’s bachelor party. As the most whipped groom who has ever lived, he insisted on nothing raucous: no strippers, and no females whatsoever. We’ve spent the day giving him shit about it—one of the guys gave him a tiara and an “I’m the bride!” sash, and he wore them with pride all day long—but the truth is that I suspect I’d be the same way with the right girl.
I bet, with the right girl, I’d look exactly the way Mac does tonight: as if he’d just as soon be home with his fiancée, as if a part of him is eager to put all this behind him.
And that right fucking girl is never going to be Emmy.
That kiss was all I’d thought about from the moment it ended until I saw her on the deck Monday morning. And I’d begun thinking other things too. I’d begun thinking that she felt it, the way it was different with us. That she and I’d had a connection all along, one we didn’t have with anyone else.
I still think it. But she’s made it pretty fucking clear we won’t be exploring it.
It’s on the late side Wednesday when she finally walks into the grocery store. I can tell just by her stride, the precise clip, clip, clip of her heels, that she is all business today. Our eyes meet, and she looks at me as if I’m a stranger and walks past to her office.
“It takes me less time to get off on Pornhub than you just spent watching her walk across the room,” JP says.
“We’ve discussed this before, JP. Being able to finish quickly is nothing you want to brag about.”
“What’s up with you two anyway?” Mac asks. “You act like you hate each other, but it’s all lingering glances and romantic tension whenever you’re in the same room.”
I grin. “Cassie’s been making you watch The Notebook again, hasn’t she?”
“Cassie’s never stopped making me watch The Notebook. I know that goddamned movie by heart at this point.”
“Nothing’s up with us,” I tell him. Nor will it be. It’s done. I’m done with the whole goddamned thing.
I’m wrapping up for the day when she emerges from her office, striding out to the sidewalk as she eviscerates someone on the phone. It’s only the two of us in the store when she walks back in. Her gaze falls to the toolbox in my hand, and I somehow sense her displeasure. “Early day for you.”
I glance at my watch. “It’s after six.”
“I wasn’t complaining,” she says. “You just normally work later.”
I grab my keys. “I have plans.”
She hops onto the same table where she sat last week to bait me. Just as she did then, her legs cross, her foot swinging playfully. “Oh, plans. How exciting. Is it a date?”
She’s smiling, but there’s a glint to that smile, as if she’s hiding a knife behind her back as she asks.
“What was it you said to me the other night?” I ask. “Oh yeah. That’s none of your business. But yes, I have a date.”
A date I desperately wish I hadn’t made.
She leans backward on her palms. “Ah, yes, the hunt for your soulmate. I’m curious about this actually…Do you have other requirements or is it mostly just someone who will notice if you fall through a roof?”
“Well, I’m also looking for a woman who doesn’t fuck random men to get back at her mother or a high school enemy, but that goes without saying for most people.”
She frowns. “Still judging me, then.”
I grab my toolkit. “As I think I mentioned on Saturday, I wasn’t judging you.”
“It would never have worked out with us,” she says softly. I hear a question in her voice, as if she’s hoping I’ll argue.
I walk out the door. “You made sure of that, didn’t you?”
* * *
Talkingto Melanie might have come easily a year ago. Now, it’s a lot like craving a steak and being forced to choose from a vegan menu. Even the best dish won’t suit.
And unfortunately, I came here, I suspect, hoping to find a different version of Emerson—a girl who’s sharp, funny, and tough, and who has an ass that won’t quit—but a version of her who surfs and wants to settle down, a version of her who wouldn’t be quite as hard to win.
And Melanie is not that.
She is chatty, but she isn’t amusing. She has lots of opinions, but I suspect she wouldn’t stand by a single one of them if pushed. And she’s spent the entire dinner trying hard to sell herself, trying to tell me how sought after she is, how well-traveled she is, how generous she is…and the more she sells, the less I’m interested in buying.
The entrees have just arrived, and I’m already wondering how soon I can escape.
“Bridget said you surf?” I ask.
“I like to go down to Costa Rica,” she says. “That way I’m contributing to their economy too. So, you know, I visit all the shops and I make sure I tip—that kind of thing. I just think it’s important to give back.”
“So you don’t surf locally?” I ask, politely restraining the urge to suggest that shopping in Costa Rica isn’t the same as contributing.
“I went down to the wharf once in Santa Cruz,” she says.
The wharf is where you learn to surf, which tells me Melanie has surfed, but does not actually surf. And why the fuck does it matter anyway? When Emerson said, “I’d look too good in a bikini. I’d be a distraction,” I’d laughed.
Five minutes ago, she was telling me she’s thinking about volunteering to play with the dogs at the animal shelter. “They just break my heart, you know? I want to adopt every single one of them.”
Before that, she was telling me how she can’t drive through San Francisco anymore because all the homelessness makes her cry.
I’m guessing Melanie has never spent several hours unloading sandbags without telling everyone she did it. I bet she’s never quietly cuddled a dog she purports to hate without talking about how much it made her want to cry. I bet she’s never gotten someone fired to protect a colleague.
And it isn’t necessary that she do those things. But with Emerson, I liked the way it felt like I was peeling back layers, getting closer to the sweet spot, while Melanie’s outer layers are already too sweet, the sort that makes me think what lies beneath them has probably begun to decay.
Melanie says she can’t surf at the wharf anymore because of an ex who’s obsessed with her, and then says Bridget told her I used to surf with Luke Taylor before he joined the tour. Before I can even confirm this, she starts telling me how she saw Luke and his wife walking into a restaurant once in Hawaii, which she somehow spins into a fifteen-minute story about her and her friend waiting in the parking lot for Luke and Juliet to finish dinner.
While I’m pretending to listen, my phone vibrates. I wait until she’s chugging her wine and asking the waiter for another to glance at it.
The Princess
How’s your date?
I wonder if Emmy’s down at the bar, doing her level best to ruin someone’s night. I swear to God, she’s ruining mine without even being in the same section of town.
Stop thinking about Emmy.
“So tell me about your job,” says Melanie, who seems to have finally exhausted the topics of charities she cares about, exes who are obsessed with her, and friends of mine she’s stalked.
It’s too broad a question to reflect any actual interest, and I’m saved from replying by some acquaintance of Melanie’s who walks over to the table.
I glance at my phone as they chat and discover another text from Emerson.
The Princess
Is she pretending to be fascinated by your job yet? You should pull out your little hammer. That might interest her.
It’s not all that little. Which I assume you know. I’ve caught you looking in that direction more than once.
I can’t believe you’re texting me about your dick size when you’re on a date with someone else.
You STARTED that conversation.
Yes, but a gentleman would have refused to participate in it.
She’s right. I’m going to stop. I put my phone away just as Melanie’s friend leaves, and I spend the rest of the meal listening to Melanie talk about how much she hates cancer.
I sort of thought everyone hated cancer.
Melanie goes to the bathroom while I pay the bill. Against my better judgment, I pick up my phone again.
So, is there a reason you’re texting me about my dick on a Wednesday night?
The Princess
Maybe it’s because I’ve been wet for hours thinking about how you might put it to use.
Bullshit. You’re just trying to mess up my date.
Seems to me that you’re the one messing it up by texting another woman, but I can provide proof. Hang on.
I wait, my whole body tied in knots, to see what she’ll say next. I know she’s just trying to bait me, but it’s fucking working anyway.
There’s nothing I want in the entire world right now more than a glimpse of her proof.
Melanie comes out, and I tuck my phone away before I walk her to her car. “I had such a nice time,” she says. “It’s cool that we both surf.”
“Yeah,” I say, and I’m already edging away. “Thanks for coming out.”
Her smile starts to fade as she realizes the date didn’t go so well after all. I’m being rude, I guess, but I can’t bring myself to care. I wave to her and turn toward my truck, already pulling out my vibrating phone.
Emerson’s sent a photo—I see a long leg stretched above her desk and suspended from one heel—a thong.
A thong with a tiny wet spot dead in the center.
Fuck.
She’s at the office right now in those fucking heels with her panties off.
And I’m tired of being toyed with.