12. Chapter Twelve
Chapter Twelve
It’s been days, and I haven’t run into Monroe yet, which tells me she’s also steering clear of me. It doesn’t matter that I haven’t come face-to-face with her yet, my mind seeks her out. Whether it be at the bar, the pool, or any of the other places I frequent around the resort, I see her in other people.
Yesterday, I met up with Wendell and Nico at the golf course, and for a split second, I thought I saw Monroe. Every cell, every neuron collectively froze until the woman turned around and she looked nothing like her. After that, I focused on the game, but that disappointment I felt never left.
I thought avoiding her was the solution until it wasn’t. I thought being with her—only once—was the solution until it wasn’t. If anything, my perfectly rational solution for getting her out of my head backfired. Now, images of me buried between her legs, taking my time figuring out what makes her moan, gasp, scream plague me. And it’s driving me nearly insane. I try my best to push those thoughts and my constant hard-on away, but it’s clearly not working.
So, I’ve come up with another plan. A more solid course of action to take before I subsequently explode. Last night, I made a list of activities I can do to fill my time and occupy my head space. This is my last option, so it has to work because I don’t have another idea.
But first, breakfast. The Spiral is a captivating room with its spiral-like design that entices me to look up. This is the spot where they set up the breakfast buffet each morning, and the room’s uniqueness always mesmerizes me. The sleek marble floors guide me to extensive tables filled with a variety of breakfast and brunch dishes. Before anything, I look around for Wendell and spot him right away.
His back is to me, but I could pick him out of a crowd. As I cross the room, I knock into someone and almost lose my balance.
“Sorry…” The words come out of me automatically, but they turn to shards of glass when I take in who I’ve run into.
“There you are, Van Doren. It’s about time we ran into each other,” Braxton Hayes says, his eyes roving over me. “Pun not intended.”
Seeing him at The Cerulean should surprise me, but it doesn’t. Wherever I am, Braxton has never been too far behind. We’re in the same business, and over the years, he’s always popped up when it’s least convenient. He’s a thorn in my side, a roach I can’t quite squash, but he’s mostly harmless. Mostly. My jaw aches from the pressure of grinding my teeth, and I can hear my dentist’s voice in the back of my head, telling me to stop.
But I can’t help my instinctual reaction to seeing Braxton. It doesn’t matter how long we’ve known each other; it doesn’t erase our history or how many years I’ve just happened to run into him on business endeavours. I still have the same reaction.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, even though I know the answer.
He cocks his head and smirks at me. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m here for the signature omelette. And to ruin your career.” Braxton chuckles, but I’m not laughing. He grabs my shoulder, shaking it like we’re old pals. I hate it. “That was a joke, Van Doren. You know, you’re allowed to laugh.”
“You’ve never been all that funny, Hayes. I guess I missed the joke.”
He removes his hand, and his lip curls into a snarl. “Fine. We’ll forget the niceties altogether then.”
Niceties? Now, that is funny. Braxton doesn’t know the definition of nice. He’s a wolf in sheep’s clothes. A fact I unfortunately found out the hard way. Repeatedly. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Wendell coming toward us. And he looks pissed.
“What is he doing here?” he asks.
Wendell gives me a weary look as Braxton’s beady eyes continue to bore into me. Wendell is the picture of wanting to throttle someone, and I couldn’t be prouder.
Braxton sighs. “How many times do I have to say it? I’m here on vacation, just like you are.”
Wendell squints, clearly not believing Braxton. That makes two of us. “I thought vampires burned in the sun.”
This time, I don’t hold my laughter in and snort at Wendell’s remark.
Braxton looks between us. “Very mature.” He walks to the table Wendell just came from. “How’s that fiancée of yours? Should I give her a call? I think I still have her number saved.”
Before my best friend can cause any significant damage, I intervene, using my forearm to stop him from moving any closer to Braxton. His eyes speak volumes. If you don’t kill him, I will. With a shake of my head, he lets out a sigh, giving up the fight for now.
“Should we sit?” Braxton pulls out a chair.
It doesn’t feel much like a question, and I want to tell him to screw off, but my curiosity to get to the bottom of why he’s really here wins. Besides, I’d rather not start a fight before I’ve had my eggs. So, Wendell and I sit down beside each other, with Braxton across from us.
“Start talking, or I’m ordering room service instead,” Wendell spits.
He’s usually the calm, level-headed one, and I’m the ill-tempered one. But I don’t point out the jarring role reversal. Wendell and I agreed a long time ago that Braxton Hayes was the one person we would never give a second chance to. No matter how much he faked wanting to start over.
I survey Braxton, and he looks the same as he did the last time I saw him, which was a year ago and some change. His slicked-back hair and cheesy smirk really sell the sleazy businessman look he’s clearly aiming for.
“You heard him. Tell us what you want,” I ask. The anticipation makes my skin itch.
He puts his hands up. “Nothing more than to have something to eat with my oldest friends.”
Friends. That is the biggest joke I’ve heard so far today. Friends don’t steal clients from their business partners or try to get the upper hand and narrowly destroy their careers. Braxton has done both, and he’s still breathing. Which shows that I have more restraint than I want to have.
“You lost that right a long time ago,” I seethe.
Braxton looks down at the set table in front of him. He carefully adjusts the fork on his right, ensuring it lines up perfectly with the rest of the silverware.
“Bitter doesn’t suit you, Alden. Everything I did was just business, you know. You would have done the same; you have done the same.” Braxton looks at me knowingly.
“But I know where the line is, Braxton, something you never learned.”
I wouldn’t call it hatred between us, but a shared animosity. Braxton and I have been competing against each other for as long as I can remember. Whether it was over who was the fastest runner in the fifth grade, who could get a girl’s number first, or who could score a client the quickest, it has always been about who can outdo the other. We’ve never known anything else. Maybe we were friends once, but the distrust and bitterness run so deep that I don’t remember it.
Braxton stands from the table. “I thought I’d do you a courtesy and let you know I’m going after Humboldt. That’s my reason for being here.”
“That’s convenient.” I rub my jaw.
“Think what you want. I don’t have time to stroke your ego.” Braxton looks at Wendell. “I’ll leave that job for your partner in crime.”
He nods silently, and I watch him leave the room. I release a loaded breath. Great, he knows Humboldt is here. That makes things a little trickier, but I’ll be damned if I let Braxton sign him before I do.
“He’s trying to take a client from you. Shocker,” Wendell says sarcastically. “How are you going to deal with him?”
I drag a hand down the length of my face. “I don’t know yet. But I’ll think of something.”
He pats my arm. “You’ve always been one to think on your feet. You’ll figure it out.”
I’ll figure it out. But what if I don’t? This isn’t just about securing another client or about taking him right out from under Hayes. Every client that I don’t sign, every time I lose, it’s another chink out of my company’s armour. It’s another failure that my clients see and can use as their excuse for leaving. It’s not about proving that I’m capable to just them, but to the board as well.
Nerves claw at my insides until the room spins, making me feel sick. Wendell continues with his breakfast, never the wiser about the panic slowly forming inside me.
“Excuse me,” I mumble, swiping my thumb and index finger over my forehead and feeling a layer of sweat.
Wendell opens his mouth, and his brows dip with concern, but I rush out of the room. I find the nearest elevator, smash the call button, and slide through the opening door. My eyes snap closed when I collapse against the back. Every pull of breath is uneven, and my hands shake as I attempt to press the button for the tenth floor.
With trembling fingers, I squeeze the left side of my chest. My heart beats as wildly as my mind does. A million thoughts ambush me at once, and I pinch myself harder. It doesn’t help that I’m in a confined space while mid-panic attack. I slam my fist into the side of the metal death box. Once. Twice. Three times. But it does nothing to help, does nothing to ease the building pressure in my chest.
All I have now is a throbbing hand and still no control over my body. I take a sharp breath in, and my dry throat feels like sandpaper. I can’t breathe. Every effort to regain control is draining me. Every gulp of air is painful. At home, when I experience an episode, I’ll rush to the bathroom, turn the shower the coldest it can go, and wait it out. The cold reboots my mind, but I don’t have access to that right now.
I feel like my body isn’t my own, that something has invaded it and taken it out for a test drive. Stubbornness takes over, and the fact that I don’t want to die in an elevator belts louder than any other thought. My mind ping-pongs and diverts my attention from my panic. Budget reports. Meetings. Monroe .
“Alden?” I recognize the voice, but I don’t address it. My eyes shut tight.
My mind must have conjured her.
A sigh fills the elevator, and my body tingles. “If you’re not getting out, then move.”
My breathing stops altogether when I realize that she’s really here. My eyes pop open, and black hair and long legs flood my vision. Monroe is here and witnessing my panic attack. Maybe if I don’t say anything, don’t address her, she won’t notice.
Her shoulder bumps into my arm as she moves around me, settling into the back corner.
“Can you press the button for the eighth floor?”
My brain sends a signal to my arm, telling it to lift, to hit the button, but it’s no use. It’s not responding.
She curses under her breath and smashes the button. “I don’t know what I ever did to you, but if you want to ignore me, then fine. But I promise you I can play that game better than you can.”
It’s not you. I want to say, but I don’t think I can speak.
My head feels heavy, like a fifty-pound weight, as I turn to look at her. She meets my eyes then, two balls of flames darting across my face. I manage a weak smile, but she turns away.
I deserve that.
I choose to concentrate on the floor numbers ascending and not on the battle raging inside me. Calm down, or she’ll see right through you.
“I’m sorry,” I manage after a lull.
Monroe blinks, her face unmoving. “Are you drunk? Why are you apologizing to me?”
My body doesn’t react to her words, but I want to laugh. She’s right. Under normal circumstances, I would never apologize to her. But this situation is far from my normal.
“I-I don’t know.”
“Well, don’t. It’s unsettling. We made it clear that nothing would change if we slept together, so don’t go changing on me now.” Monroe clears her throat and mutters, “I might get the wrong idea.”
My blood turns to ice. I wouldn’t want that to happen.
The tense, deafening silence lingers before the elevator jolts between floors, and I lose my balance. Monroe doesn’t even flinch, whereas I crash into the side of the elevator. My arm throbs. I feel her eyes on me, watching me closely.
“Are you okay?”
I nod. But I’m anything but fine.
“You don’t look okay. Actually, you look pale.”
One, two steps, and she’s right in front of me.
“And you’re sweating. A lot. I know this is Florida, but I’ve never seen that much sweat before.”
Her musings threaten to expose me, so I plow through my panic to show her I’m fine.
“You’re paying me a lot of attention, Monroe. Maybe I’m the one who might get the wrong idea.”
She ignores me, and her eyes continue to survey me. I frown. Monroe’s face lights up with sudden realization, and I wish I could hide.
“You’re not okay.” She steps closer, and her eyes widen. My body recoils.
“I-I’m fine,” I growl. I want her to look away. To not see what is so obviously wrong with me.
Monroe stares at my chest and watches it stutter as I fail to keep my breathing under control.
“You’re having a panic attack, aren’t you?”
I shake my head but remain silent. Monroe is so close to me that I can see the way her forehead creases, how her eyebrows pinch.
Her hand lifts, but she hesitates. “Can I touch you?”
No . I want to scream, but my strength dwindles. I should tell her to leave me to deal with this alone, like I always have, but I can’t fight it anymore.
Giving in, I nod, and Monroe’s hand is on my arm in an instant. Her touch is light, but it grounds me. Then she’s biting her lip, looking around the elevator like she’s trying to figure out what to do.
“What can I do?” she asks.
Bile rises in my throat. I don’t want her here. I don’t want her to see me like this.
“N-nothing.” I force the words out. “There’s nothing.”
Every time I have a panic attack, they take a part of me I can never get back. They make me feel small, weak, and I don’t want Monroe to look at me and see the same thing. She already has such a low opinion of me; she doesn’t need more fodder.
Her eyes narrow into slits. “Alden. Let me help you.” It isn’t a question.
I relent because my whole body aches. “I-I can’t…” I swallow down a shard of glass. “I can’t breathe.”
Monroe’s expression lightens, compassion blinking back at me. She nods once, understanding. My chest hurts, and I can barely catch my breath as she guides me to the ground. Quietly, we sit together on the floor of the elevator, not saying a word.
“Did you know a shrimp’s heart is in its head?” she asks. Her voice startles me.
What the hell is she saying?
I can’t answer her, so I shake my head.
“Technically, it’s on the thorax, but the exoskeleton covers both parts, so it’s still somewhat true. Isn’t that interesting?”
I look at her. “Are you having a s-stroke?”
“No,” she breathes. “But neither are you. You’re okay, Alden. Just breathe.”
I swallow and focus on my breaths. Counting each one. Her rambling actually distracts me long enough to lose track of how out of breath I feel. We stay seated on the floor, with Monroe observing me, for a long time. Or what feels like a long time.
You’re not dying. Just breathe.
“Better?”
“Getting there,” I mumble and rub my chest.
Monroe hums, “Good.”
“How did you know?”
Her head rolls to the side. “Know what? The shrimp thing? I am a fountain of useless but factual information. It’s both a blessing and a curse.”
I shake my head. “No. That I was having a panic attack.”
Monroe grimaces. “I guess I’ve seen the signs enough times in the mirror.”
That’s more information than I wanted to know about her, but it makes sense. It takes one to know one.
“Have you had these for a while? The panic attacks?”
“Yes.” I keep my answer short. She doesn’t need to know more than that.
The ding of the elevator bursts the moment, and Monroe shoots up, offering me her hand.
“I thought nothing about you would surprise me anymore. But here we are.”
I look at it, her words tumbling around in my head. When I don’t take her hand, she rolls her eyes. She turns and exits the elevator.
Just before I lose sight of her, I whisper hoarsely, “Don’t tell anyone.”
Monroe looks over her shoulder. “I can keep a secret.”
When she disappears, I struggle to my feet, and by the time I get my key card out and make it into my room, I’m breathing normally again. And my heart thumps at a manageable rate. It’s never taken me less than an hour to get myself out of a panic attack, but this time I did. Being that vulnerable in front of Monroe weighs on me like a lead balloon, but it also feels freeing, knowing that I didn’t have to explain anything to her.
I didn’t have to put on the mask I wear for everyone else. And she helped me even when she didn’t need to. Even when she shouldn’t extend any sort of kindness to me, she did anyway. My lids droop with exhaustion as I hit my bed, letting my eyes close.
I wake up in a dark room. The only source of light comes from the bathroom one I must have left on. Still shaken from my panic attack earlier and from the woman who has invaded my thoughts and hasn’t left, I decide to indulge in one of the few things that brings me comfort these days. And with Braxton lingering just around the corner, ready and willing to turn my world upside down, the need to lose myself for a while is endless.
During the elevator ride down, my mind is preoccupied with thoughts of Monroe. Of the interaction earlier. I can’t seem to think of anything else.
How did you know?
I guess I’ve seen the signs enough times in the mirror.
I haven’t been in the bar long, still in my head and debating if I shouldn’t just find something else to busy myself with. But I never make the smart decision when I’m rampant with too many consuming thoughts. The bottle of whisky that I ordered comes, and I don’t stop myself as I pour my first glass to the brim. My first of many.
I take a generous sip and feel the way the alcohol slides down my throat and hits my empty stomach. I can feel the self-destructive side of myself laugh as I inhale another gulp of whisky. It’s getting quite the kick out of all this mayhem. I scrub my hand over my face and sigh heavily into the glass. One whisky turns into two and then three. I pause when I feel someone sit down next to me. Braxton has a shit-eating grin on his face as he watches me.
Just what I need.
Without hesitation, he pulls a bar stool out and ignores my scowl. Continuing to nurse my drink, I roll my eyes at him. I feel more than tipsy already. Maybe guzzling down three glasses of whisky in just under half an hour wasn’t a great idea. Because Braxton is spinning and my defences to counter him are down.
“You might want to pace yourself,” Braxton says.
That ship has sailed. I wince from the burn and ignore my own thoughts to slow it down.
“If I wanted your opinion…” I trail off, losing my train of thought. “Well, I don’t. So mind your own business.”
He lets out a soft chuckle and makes himself comfortable. He grabs a glass from behind the bar and pours himself a drink from my bottle.
He takes a sip. “Not my first choice, but it’s pretty good for whisky.” He turns the glass around in his hands. “Though I prefer gin, this isn’t bad.”
“Of course you do,” I mutter and polish off my glass. I reach for the bottle.
I might as well just drink from the bottle at this point. It’s where my night is headed, but since I’m in public, I have to at least pretend to be a gentleman. Braxton is faster than me, though. My reflexes are slow from the alcohol, and he moves the bottle away. Now I’m fucking annoyed.
“Are you looking for a fight? Because you’ll find one if you don’t hand me that bottle.”
Braxton looks worried, and I snort. It’s a little late for that sentiment.
“Do you think we’ll ever be able to go back to the way things were?” he asks.
“I don’t know.” I sigh and set down my empty glass with a loud bang. “Why don’t you start by leaving? Right now. You don’t want to fight me for Humboldt, because you will lose.”
Braxton laughs quietly and shakes his head. “You know I can’t do that. And from where I’m sitting, you don’t look like you’re in any position to tell me to throw in the towel. Maybe you should take your own advice.”
“You can fuck off now.”
“There it is.” Braxton gestures to me. “I knew this pathetic display wasn’t the real hand you were showing.”
I almost reach out and strangle him. But that would get me nowhere, no matter how much I want to do it. He’s trying to agitate me. It’s part of his strategy. I take a breath and refocus.
“You don’t know me, Hayes. You haven’t in a long time.”
I make a move for the bottle, but like the dickhead he is, he moves it out of my reach.
Smacking the bar in anger, I say, “Who knew you still had a soft spot for me? Caring about my liver poisoning seems the least you could do after everything.”
I stop talking because I realize what I’ve just said. I hope he ignores it.
“I don’t care.” He moves the bottle back, setting it between us. “But I’d rather go head-to-head with you when you’re at your best.”
“Whatever mood I was in to drink before, you’ve ruined.”
Braxton frowns. “We were friends once, if you remember.”
The balls on this guy, seriously.
“I don’t think we were ever friends, Hayes. Just convenient competitors. It’s always been that way, so don’t categorize it differently now.”
I look at the bottle but don’t reach for it. He doesn’t respond to my bout of anger right away. He just takes a big sip from his glass.
“You’re right. We’ve never been friends. Not after what happened.” His eyes glaze over. “Do you still get those panic attacks?”
“What did you just say?” My anger is tangible.
“Don’t pretend you didn’t hear me.” He pauses, looking down. “That shake in your hand isn’t just because of the whisky, right?”
I look down and watch how my hand shakes when I hold my glass. Residual tremors.
“You don’t know anything,” I fume and shove my hand into my pocket.
“Right.” Braxton takes another long sip. “I know more than you think, Alden. We’ve known each other for too long to pretend that we don’t.” Another sip. “I’ve always been jealous of you, you know?” It’s so low I think I don’t hear him correctly.
“And I just won Miss Universe last month.”
He must see how much I don’t believe him because he continues. “It’s true. We all grew up together, but out of all our friends, your life seemed… perfect.”
His words sit between us before I address them. “My life was far from perfect, Hayes. Or did you forget the shit storm I went through before I even finished high school?”
Braxton’s eyes darken by the second. “I didn’t forget.” He rubs his nose. “I guess that’s the outsider’s perspective talking. Always thinking the grass is greener on the other side, even when it probably isn’t.”
I don’t know what he’s been smoking, but it’s turning him into a poorly written greeting card. I’ve had enough of whatever point he’s beating around.
“For as mysterious and calculated as you pretend to be, Van Doren, it’s not as hard to read you as you think it is.”
I quirk a brow, not understanding where this is going.
“Are you making a point sometime soon? My buzz is wearing off.”
“My point is that anyone who looks hard enough will see what your problem really is from a mile away.”
“My problem?” I sniff. “That’s insightful coming from you.”
I can’t take any more psychoanalysis from the psycho himself. It takes everything in me not to shove this glass down his throat just so I won’t have to hear him talk anymore.
“There’s that wit,” Braxton says dryly. “Ever since we were kids, you’ve had that gift. It made me want to slug you every time I saw you.”
I laugh. Actually, genuinely laugh. Braxton gives in, and it feels like old times when he would stay late at my office and we’d shoot the shit over whatever expensive bottle of booze I had at the time. And that’s why I know he’s building up to something.
My smile falters. “Just say it, Braxton.”
I recoil from the use of his first name. It feels too personal for who we are to each other now. My wariness of him seeps so far into my bones that it sounds strange leaving my mouth. He must think the same because he stares at me, and his body tenses.
“I loved her, too…” he admits softly.
I shut my eyes, hoping that if I don’t look at him, it’ll make the swirling vortex of emotions that have risen to the surface go back to where they came from. I didn’t just hear that. Another damning blow. My heart squeezes like a soaked sponge, and my head throbs in time with my racing pulse. Why did he have to bring her up? Why?
My eyes open, and I see the painful expression on Braxton’s face, one that undoubtedly mirrors mine. Fuck him. Fuck this. I can’t deal with this right now. Or ever again.
“Don’t. Don’t say any more, Hayes,” I plead.
“But she chose you. On more than one occasion,” he rasps, his voice tinged with bitterness. He ignores me. “You always knew exactly what to say to her, which drove me up the wall. It was only a few years ago that I realized that she never wanted me to begin with.”
I wish I was anywhere else. I wish the ground would just swallow me whole. I want to escape, but my body is stuck. And I’m paralyzed by his words, paralyzed by the memories.
“Why are you bringing up the past? Why now?” I demand. My voice is rough and wobbly, and I feel an awful prick form behind my eyes.
Braxton’s face drops. “It’s not the past to me,” he snarls. “I lie awake every night and think about her. Constantly. I think about how everything ended.” He pauses, catching his ragged breath. “I’ve tried to leave it in the past, but it torments me. Doesn’t it torment you, Alden?”
His rage suffocates me, making it hard to breathe.
Of course, it torments me. I want to tell him, but I don’t. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of being right.
“I’ve been on every sleeping pill out there. I’ve tried meditation and hypnosis and fucking recreational drugs. But nothing helps. Nothing. I can’t sleep without obsessing about her.” Braxton continues, his chest rising and falling fast.
Forget any type of conventional torture because this is mine. And it is my permanent hell. Being forced to listen to Braxton tear open a wound I thought I had stitched up is my deserving punishment. I wasn’t there for Evelyn when it mattered, when she needed me most, and I’ll pay for that until the day I die. The guilt I felt then, the guilt that still lingers, consumes me.
I made a choice, and it’s haunted me for the past two decades. Just thinking about it now makes my chest hurt like there’s something heavy on it. Whenever I dare to think of Lynnie—to think of that night—I feel like I am sitting in a boat that is slowly filling with water. There is no other outcome other than sinking. It’s inevitable.
I school my features. “What do you want me to say? That I feel bad for you? Because I don’t.”
Braxton locks eyes with me. His fury is visible. “You let her down, and I’m here to make sure you never forget it.”
Guilt gnaws on my ribs, manifesting my emotions into something ugly as I glare daggers at him.
“She was my girlfriend, not yours. As much as I’m sure you wanted her to be.” It’s a low blow, but he started it. He crossed the line, and I’m done playing nice.
His jaw ticks. “You need to remember what you did.”
“I’ll never forget.” My voice quivers. “I’ll never stop regretting that day for as long as I live. And I don’t need you to remind me of that.”
He pulls back, seeming somewhat satisfied with my answer. He downs the rest of his drink in one go, his eyes still filled with sorrow. And tosses a few bills on the counter next to me.
“The next time that you think that there’s only just business between us, think again,” he says. “Thanks for the drink.”
I don’t get the chance to say anything else, not that I know what to say. I wrestle with going after him but can’t bring myself to face him. There isn’t much I regret, but if there is one thing I truly regret, it’s that night with Evelyn. The mistakes we make when we’re young usually lead to growth. They don’t normally cling to us like a red wine stain on a pristine white carpet.