Chapter 18
Isaac
For the rest of the week, I don’t intentionally avoid Denise. Winter is coming, my work schedule is packed, and it’s the perfect excuse to keep my distance.
While work keeps my mind off her, I’m still occasionally tormented by memories of her. Tasting her lips, her sexy gasps and moans, her tight heat on my fingers that made me desperate to be inside her.
Fuck Matt for coming home when he did.
Then again, his interruption saved me from future disappointment because Denise’s actions spoke volumes. She’s never letting Matt go. She stepped between me and that asshole, standing by him even after he showed he doesn’t deserve her.
I overhead them arguing when I went upstairs. It was muffled, and I was too upset to care what they were saying. They’ve been quiet ever since, and I suspect they’re avoiding me. I guess they’re back to being a happy fucking couple.
That thought unsettles me, especially whenever I see the basement light on. I’m reminded Denise is with Matt, and I’m tempted to do what I suggested that night—take her in front of him, proving to both of them she should be with me.
But that won’t work. Denise seems unwilling to look beyond who we’ve been to each other for the past eight years.
She might want me, but she’ll stick with what’s acceptable in her eyes.
Which I understand. I struggled with my feelings for her at first, but I eventually accepted what I couldn’t change.
I’ll have to accept I can’t change her mind too, and return to my earlier plan.
Bury my feelings.
Keep my distance.
Move on.
Friday evening rolls around. Caleb texts me, asking if I want to meet up at a bar to watch the fights. It’s better watching it at home, but I agree. A noisy sports bar is the perfect place to drown out thoughts about Denise.
My car stays home and I take a taxi because I’m planning to get good and drunk tonight. When I arrive, Caleb’s sitting at the bar, already sipping on a beer.
“Is Weston coming?” I ask after the bartender hands me my drink. The bottle is cold and damp, the first bitter sip hitting my taste buds just right.
“If he gets lucky.” Caleb smirks. “He’s on a date.”
“Good for him.”
His stare lingers on me as he takes another sip of his beer, and I wonder if he heard the jealousy in my voice.
He’s a perceptive guy, and I always thought he chose the wrong career.
He should’ve gone into detective work instead.
I wouldn’t want him in the same room with me and Denise.
He’d figure out I have feelings for her without me even saying anything.
We turn our attention to the overhead TV at the lineup for the prelims, debating the outcomes for each fight. If Weston were here, he’d want to bet money, but we settle on whiskey shots instead.
As the prelims wind down, Caleb and I are several shots of whiskey under the table. Looks like I’m about to win the bet on this round. The guy Caleb’s rooting for is barely holding up, taking blow after blow, stuck on defense.
But in a surprising turnaround, the guy takes his opponent down, pinning him and landing a flurry of punches until the timer runs out.
The bar explodes in cheers as the ref announces the underdog’s win.
Caleb slaps the bar top, laughing his ass off.
I laugh too, even though it’s my turn to drink another shot.
The event ends after one in the morning.
Caleb and I part ways, promising to hang out another time.
My mouth is dry, my brain is wrapped in cotton, and my body is unsteady.
Deep breaths of the cold air outside make me more alert.
After I place a request for another taxi to take me home, I discover a text my mom sent me hours ago.
Hi, dear. Are you still coming on Sunday? What about Denise?
Shit. I forgot to tell Denise about Gordon’s party. I was too busy trying to fuck her. Paranoid I might text that to my mom, I pocket my phone.
When I’m home, my whole body is made of lead as I drag myself to bed after downing a tall glass of water. And yet, even though I’m tired as fuck, I can’t fall asleep. My mind replays that last prelim fight.
Underdog wins are pretty common, but that one spoke to me when I needed its message. That guy was getting his ass handed to him, his loss guaranteed. But he stayed in the game and won.
It reminds me of a moment with Denise. The moment my perception of her changed from like a sister to something more. A month after Camille’s funeral, Denise visited again. I kept to myself, praying she would leave me alone so I could go back to feeling like shit in peace.
She hugged me goodbye when she was finally about to head out. I didn’t return it, but Denise held on to me anyway. Then she pulled back and caressed my face, looking me right in the eye.
Just so you know, I’m never giving up on you.
Her expression and her words were so earnest, and it moved something in me.
It was beautiful. She was beautiful. Then there was this creeping awareness, a cover lifting away, allowing me to notice things I never did.
Like her softness pressed against me, her vanilla and strawberry scent, and her lips, so full and tempting.
I wanted to taste them. I wanted to push her against the nearest wall and taste all of her.
I was hard in seconds, and I couldn’t push her away fast enough. My emotions cycled through shock, confusion, embarrassment, guilt, until finally settling on anger. I snarled at her to leave and don’t come back. She showed up the next day anyway.
It likely wasn’t easy for her to be around me during that time. I was grappling with my feelings for her while also coming to terms with being a widower. But Denise stuck to her word, patiently coaxing me free from the clutches of grief and self-loathing.
She never gave up on me.
I shouldn’t give up on her either.
I should stay in the game too.