Man of the world, p.22
Man of the World, page 22
I grin. “I’ve created a monster.”
She smiles lasciviously at me. “You certainly have. And this monster is getting hungry.” She takes my face in her hands and draws my face down to meet hers. She kisses me with an open mouth, running her tongue with slow self-assurance along my lips.
I feel a rush of lust mingled with pride at her newfound confidence and an impatience that borders on actual anger at the innocent bride and groom.
I’m not sure how long we make out on the dance floor like a couple of teenagers at the prom, but with an announcement from the DJ, Martin and Lindsey finally take their leave, and the guests begin to trickle out after them. I’m glad the lights are dim as my desire for Carina is becoming embarrassingly apparent.
Carina grabs her purse and takes me by the arm, pulling me toward the elevator. To think, this was the girl who’d avoided sex for all those years.
“I love your enthusiasm,” I tell her with a chuckle.
“It’s my graduation night, buddy. I want to make the most of it.”
Fate must be feeling playful tonight because despite the crush of guests leaving the wedding, we somehow get an elevator to ourselves. I press her against the wall and cover her mouth with mine as soon as the doors slide shut. I have one hand on her breast while the other cups her ass. She tugs at my shirt, pulling it half out of my pants so that she can reach beneath it. Although I’ve felt her touch dozens of times now, the feel of her silky skin against my stomach drives my desire for her up another notch.
Her hand slides up to my chest. I have a crazy fantasy of stopping the elevator and just taking her here, but I retain just enough common sense not to do anything that will get us arrested or thrown out of the hotel. Besides, I want her in a bed, where I can worship every perfect inch of her. No games this time. I want to see her face when we make love.
My heart pounding with more than just lust, we stumble out of the elevator onto our floor. I fumble with the room key and somehow get us inside where I swoop her up into my arms and carry her to bed.
She laughs, her head thrown back as I lay her down.
“Roll over,” I order, and she does.
I unzip her dress as slowly as I can—which isn’t very slowly—and trail kisses down her spine. She makes that sweet humming noise that I love so much as I undo her strapless bra and help her wriggle out of her clothes. Wearing nothing now but a tiny white thong, she rolls onto her back and looks me up and down, shaking her head slowly in disapproval.
“Why are you still dressed?” she asks.
And in very short order, I’m not.
Afterwards, we lie there, bathed in moonlight. We don’t say anything for a long time, long enough for us to catch our breath again. A deep, pleasant exhaustion has enveloped me. Already, I’m regretful that I didn’t tell her how I felt before we made love; I definitely don’t want to go to sleep until I know where we stand.
Before I can find the words, Carina gently removes her hand from under mine. “You know, I didn’t even think about not spending the night together when I booked the room. I’ll go sleep in the other bed.”
I take her hand again. My heart rate, which had just started to slow, kicks up again as a knot ties itself tightly in my belly. “Stay with me. I want to talk to you.”
She turns her head on the pillow to look at me. “About what?”
I’ve faced down terrorists and armed drug dealers in my quest to get a story, but I can’t remember ever feeling this nervous. I take a deep breath. “Why don’t you come to Paris with me?” I blurt out.
It’s not exactly what I’d planned to say, but as soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realize it’s the perfect solution.
“What?” Carina props herself up on her elbows so that she can look at me.
Why didn’t I think of it before?
I sit up. “Come with me. You’re quitting your job anyway. We’ll get an apartment, and you can take cooking classes. You’ll love it.”
“What are you talking about?” She sounds bewildered. “I don’t know anyone in Paris. I don’t even speak French.”
“You know me. And knowing you, you’d be friends with half the city in a month anyway. You’ll learn French in no time. I’ll have to travel, of course, but you’ll be learning to cook, and we can be together when I’m not on assignment.”
I imagine coming home to Carina after every exhausting, heartrending assignment. Coming home to sweetness and playfulness and peace. There’s no way she belongs on a lonely beach north of Los Angeles. She belongs in the City of Lights.
With me.
Carina leans abruptly away and snaps on the bedside light, then sits up and stares at me. Excitement courses through my veins.
“Are you serious?” Her voice is higher pitched than usual, and in my excitement, I mistake it for enthusiasm.
I nod, smiling like an idiot. “Come with me.”
She stares at me for what feels like a full minute, then she shakes her head and laughs, but there’s something bitter about the sound.
She gives a little snort as she shakes her head. “No.”
29
Carina
Boundaries.
For a delirious moment, I actually got swept up in the idea, imagining myself tucked away in some cozy Parisian apartment with Drew, eating amazing food, shopping for fruit and cheese at the outdoor markets, learning to make pastries from the world’s experts …
Then I remember the blond woman on his deck, and I shake my head. “No.”
“Wait, listen—”
I keep my voice even. “We had an arrangement. It’s over at the end of the summer. Let’s not ruin things by trying to drag it out.”
He flinches at the words ruin things. “Is something wrong? You seem—”
My voice is controlled and quiet. “What’s wrong is that you’re asking me to drop everything, my friends, my family, my shot at a perfectly good cooking school—because believe it or not, they have those in Los Angeles—and move to another country so you can come home to sex and a home cooked meal every couple of weeks.”
Drew’s expression falls, as much at the sarcasm in my tone as at the words. He’s not used to me being anything but sweet and agreeable, and I can see he’s surprised.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice as humble as I’ve ever heard it. “That’s not what I meant at all. What I mean is that I don’t want things with us to end next week—”
A mix of anger and hurt surges through me, hot and unpleasant. I sit up and turn on the bedside lamp, pulling the covers around me like a security blanket. “Oh, you want to continue our little fuck buddy arrangement as long as it’s convenient for you?” I’m proud of myself for keeping my voice steady, even though I feel like I might lose my temper any second.
He flinches at my language. He leans closer to me. “Carina, that’s not how I think of us—”
I affect a worldly, weary tone. “Well, it’s how I think of us. Except that I’m not interested in keeping this up. We had a fun summer, let’s not drag it out.”
His face seems to go pale in the dim light and pain fills his dark eyes. I want to reach for him, but I force myself to remember the blond woman on the deck … at eight in the morning, smoking, wearing nothing but a man’s t-shirt.
He’s not sad about losing me, not really.
He’s only sad about losing the convenience I offer him.
“Carina, please stop interrupting me and hear me out.” He’s starting to sound angry now. “This isn’t how I meant this to go—”
I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter. I appreciate all the fun times, but you know as well as I do that there’s no future for us. I’m ready to move on with my life. I told you at the beginning that you aren’t what I want for the long term.”
Drew scrutinizes me for a long, intense moment. I force myself to look him in the eyes and keep my expression steady. Slowly, however, my anger and self-righteousness start to fade into anxiety and regret. I wanted to hurt him for the blond woman, but I feel like I’ve gone too far, crossed some invisible line, and now I don’t know how to get back.
“I see.” In a single motion, Drew throws back the covers and gets out of bed.
Panic twists in my gut. “Where are you going?” I ask as he gropes for his pants.
“I don’t know,” he mutters, pushing his feet through the legs of his trousers. His voice is as calm as mine and equally devoid of feeling. “Home.”
He pulls on a shirt then sweeps his belongings into his overnight bag before shoving his feet into his dress shoes, grabbing his blazer, and swinging his bag over his shoulder.
“You don’t have to, I said I’d sleep in the other bed.” It’s a stupid thing to say, but the words just fall out of my mouth, sounding bitchier than I’d intended.
“That’s not the point,” he replies. “You want this to be over, it’s over.”
Over. I feel like I’m in a nightmare, frozen to the spot and unable to make it stop. Maybe we should talk about this or something, but I can’t find the words to tell him—
And then he’s gone.
The hotel room door swings shut behind him with a solid click, leaving me alone, frustrated and furious. Briefly, I consider throwing on some clothes and running after him, begging him to talk to me, but that seems pathetic.
And I’m done with being pathetic.
I pick up his pillow and throw it across the room, narrowly missing a lamp. For a crazy minute, I consider going full-on rockstar and trashing the entire place. I’ve never wanted to throw things and break things the way I do now.
Instead, I get out of bed and pace.
In the end, he was like every other man out there. I was just a prize to him, a trophy he could bring back to Paris, his pretty blow-up doll who’d meet him at the door with a plate of fresh cookies then fuck his brains out when he wasn’t busy doing manly things like traveling all over the world and sleeping with sexy blond reporters.
I would have thought that Drew of all people saw me as more than that, and the fact that he doesn’t hurts even more than the knowledge that our summer fling has come to an end.
And yet, even as I’m pacing the room, I keep seeing the sad, shuttered look in his eyes. I hurt him, and as much as I try to convince myself that he deserved it, I feel horrible about it.
Somewhere in the room, something dings.
It takes me a moment to find Drew’s phone on the dresser. He must have forgotten it in his haste to get away from me.
Wondering if the text might be from Drew himself, I check it, but it’s something else entirely:
Pilar: Mi amor, leaving Brussels for Ukraine tomorrow. It was bittersweet seeing you in LA. I’m sorry we couldn’t make it work, but maybe it is for the best. Maybe things with your new girlfriend will …
The text cuts off. I can’t unlock his phone to read the rest of it.
A cold shiver of doubt makes its way down my spine. “Your new girlfriend” … Did Drew tell Pilar about me?
I force myself to consider other alternatives.
Maybe this is a hypothetical girlfriend who doesn’t actually exist … or, God forbid, could she be talking about another girlfriend who isn’t me?
Even if Drew told her about us, it doesn’t mean they didn’t hook up … but it does make it seem less likely.
I force myself to remember the sight of Pilar on the deck, with her bare legs, her cigarette smoke, her voluptuous chest, but outrage fails me, leaving a queasy exhaustion in its place. Instead of Pilar, the only image I can conjure up is Drew’s face, first bright with excitement, then crushed when I told him I was ready to move on.
But what about that invitation, the one to be his personal chef-slash-sex-bot in France? I can’t seem to summon up the indignation I felt earlier, either. Sure, maybe he just wanted to extend our summer fling … but is it possible that maybe he really wanted to be with me?
I shake the phone as if doing so could unlock it, and with it, the secrets to Drew’s mind.
But no luck. I continue pacing around the room, parsing every snatch of conversation, every look that Drew and I have shared that I can remember from over the summer. I bounce from anger to hope to guilt and back to anger. Finally, exhausted, I go back to bed and fall asleep, still curled up on one side in case he decides to come back.
When I wake up the next morning, though, the empty space beside me is still there. I stare at his pillow for a few minutes, then check my phone, in case he’s found a way to call me. Nothing.
I can’t text him—and I wouldn’t know what to say anyway. I feel like I should apologize, but I’m not sure what for. I look at the clock. I’m supposed to be at a post-wedding brunch in half an hour. It’s the last thing I want to be doing right now, but it’s also my last bridesmaid duty and the last time I’ll see Lindsay until she’s back from her honeymoon. I can’t skip it.
I shower and dress and make myself as pretty as I can, considering I don’t feel pretty at all, then head down to the hotel restaurant. I make up a story about Drew needing to meet people back in LA for anyone who inquires about his absence, and I laugh and smile my way through what feels like an endless brunch.
I don’t even notice the food.
The interminable meal eventually ends, and the bride and groom are seen off in a shower of good wishes. I’m free to go, but I’m dreading going back home and confronting Drew. Will we be able to talk things over like rational adults? Will we fight again? Worst of all, will we just ignore each other until it’s time for him to leave?
So instead of driving home, I ask Bree and Annabelle if they want to hang out with me in the touristy little town nearby for the rest of the morning. Archer has already headed back to LA to cover a lunch shift at the restaurant where he waits tables, and Annabelle quickly agrees. Bree hesitates but after studying me for a moment says yes. Brianna isn’t the warm, fuzzy type, but she can be remarkably perceptive at times. Maybe she’s picked up on the lonely and confused vibes that I’m trying to hide.
I wonder if the one-night stand she’d hoped for materialized. I wish I knew her secret to uncomplicated, no-strings dalliances, but now’s not the time to ask. I just want some simple, no-drama time with my sisters.
30
Carina
“I can’t believe she’s going to be sixty,” Annabelle says.
We’re wandering around an upscale little boutique in Old Town Temecula, talking about what we can do for our mother’s birthday which is coming up in a few weeks. I’m distracted and unfocused, and my stomach feels like it’s tied in seventeen different knots.
“That’s because she doesn’t look a day over forty-five,” Bree replies to Annabelle, admiring a handprinted silk scarf that hangs from a wooden dowel. She lets it flow through her fingers then drops it. “We should be so lucky.”
I press my lips together. Brianna, being as fit and disciplined as she is, has nothing to worry about.
“What do you think Mommy would like?” I pick up a cashmere shawl and stroke it. It’s too warm for summer in LA, but I can see her wearing it up at the lake house in the evening as she sits on the deck with my dad, drinking wine.
Annabelle runs her finger along the rim of an overpriced glass bowl. “What do you get the woman who has everything?”
It’s true—our mother has a happy marriage, meaningful work raising money for good causes, a beautiful house in Bel Air, a vacation home by a lake, three devoted children and, thank God, she’s in excellent health.
“Grandchildren, obviously,” Brianna replies, a smile in her voice. “Get on it, you two.”
For some reason, she and Annabelle both look at me with impish expressions.
“Well, don’t look at me!” I snap. “I have a career to think of, in case you’d forgotten.” I throw the shawl back on its shelf but not before I catch the two of them exchanging a glance with each other.
“That’s it.” Brianna grabs me by the arm. “We’re going to go sit down somewhere and you’re going to tell us what’s wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong!”
“Sorry, but Bree’s right.” Annabelle looks at me apologetically. “You haven’t been yourself all day.”
“I’m fine,” I insist, but the two of them are already marching me outside and into a coffee shop a few doors down.
Bree commandeers a table in the corner well away from other patrons, and we all sit down. “Spill,” she orders. “Did something happen with Drew? You were all over each other last night.”
I glare at her, but the combination of Bree’s stern look and Annabelle’s concerned one is too much for me, especially given that all summer I haven’t had anyone I could unburden myself to about Drew.
“It just didn’t work out,” I mumble.
“It never works out.” Bree doesn’t mince words. “Why are you upset about this one?”
I pick up the menu and pretend to be looking at it but it might as well be in Chinese for all the sense it makes. I stare at it until I realize that my sisters aren’t going to let me get away with not answering.
Still staring at the menu, I swallow, embarrassed to admit why Drew was important but not sure if I can explain why I got so caught up in him otherwise.
“He was the first guy I ever slept with,” I say in a very quiet voice.
Bree narrows her eyes. “When you knew him in college? You had a relationship then?”
I shake my head. “No. We were just friends then. I mean just this summer.”
The two of them stare at me. Annabelle’s mouth is actually hanging open. “Your first …?”
I nod.
“You mean I’ve slept with more guys than you?” The look of astonishment on her face would be comical if I weren’t in such a terrible mood.
“Have you slept with more than one guy?” I ask. She nods. “Then yeah.”
Even Bree looks like she’s at a loss for words for a moment then she gets back on track. “Okay … there’s a lot to unpack here. Tell us more about Drew and your relationship.”
