Stud by Siskind, Kelly (22)

Twenty-two

 

Ainsley

Clothing purchases were much like dating. Some items, once washed and worn, never fit right again. Some acquisitions were trendy, cool finds that became closet favorites until blacklisted to the kill-me-before-I’m-seen-in-public-with-this-again pile. Other purchases would sit folded in a drawer, overlooked time and again, until you tried them on with new jeans or shoes and realized, wow—I had this gem all along.

Then there was Owen.

Owen was the staple piece. The timeless classic. He was a steady pair of black pumps, the blazer that never went out of style. The Coach purse every woman coveted.

And I ran away from him.

I hadn’t heard from him for the five endless days since I’d left his apartment. I’d replayed our time together ad nauseam. Had reviewed the honest conversations I’d shared with Gay-Not-Gay Owen during our many lunches, along with how our friendship had bled into passion and companionship. Those moments hadn’t been imagined. Neither had the way he’d fit in with my family, or how much we’d laughed, or how intense our time in bed had been. Our dance had been the most romantic gesture this side of The Notebook.

But I hadn’t given him the one thing he’d needed: my trust.

My phone rang from somewhere near me. I’d avoided it recently and had hijacked Rachel’s couch, turning the cushy red sofa into my personal pity-party zone. Kleenex littered the cushions, fashion magazines overtook the floor. I’m pretty sure there was popcorn stuck in my hair. I felt around for my cell, wiggling like a depressed worm, until I found it smooshed between the seat cushions. The name lighting up my screen nearly had me launching it across the room.

Sloane.

I could flush the phone down the toilet or change my number, maybe run over it with Rachel’s motorcycle. Or I could be a grown-up and answer the darn thing. Voting on adult, I hit Talk. My body tensed as I waited for a shrill scream to deafen my eardrum.

“Ainsley?” Sloane’s quiet voice was barely audible.

I pressed the receiver harder to my ear. “Is everything okay?”

Her bitter laugh was answer enough. “No. But I owe you an apology.”

Rachel had morning classes today. Jimmy was working at his winery. That left me in the quiet bungalow, hating how defeated this strong, vibrant woman sounded.

I lay back and stared at the ecru ceiling. “You don’t owe me anything, Sloane. I just wish I hadn’t let it go so long. I should have told you sooner.”

She sighed heavily. “I doubt it would have made a difference. It’s funny, living your life with blinders on. Part of me believed you, when you came to my door. I’d had an inkling for a while, but I wasn’t ready to hear it. Couldn’t fathom my life without Thomas.”

“Don’t blame yourself. I did for a while, when I went through it. It only makes things worse.”

Silence crackled through the line, then, “Men are such assholes.”

“Those who cheat should have to walk around with a shit emoji on their heads.” But I couldn’t picture Owen wearing the offensive accessory. Deep down, in my gut, I knew he hadn’t cheated on me, or on Tessa. Owen’s pain and desperation when explaining the situation hadn’t been fake, and the man practically bled loyalty. Yet I’d still bailed.

Sloane’s breathing grew labored. “I hate how stupid I feel. I thought maybe he’d fooled around a time or two, but the extent of it? How long it’s been going on? His business trips extended each year, he changed his phone password, and he worked late too often to be normal. But he always had an explanation, and I always bought it.” Her voice fell to whisper. “I’m not sure how I’ll ever trust a man again.”

“You deserve happiness, Sloane. When it’s the right person, you will.”

“I don’t know.”

Her despondent words echoed my morose thoughts. I had let my distrust in men taint what I’d had with Owen. Brandon had started working longer, too, near the end. He’d been more protective of his phone and privacy. The memory of my ignorance had nursed my insecurity.

Insecurities I’d projected onto Owen.

When I saw his truck at his apartment last Friday, after he said he’d be out, I assumed he’d lied to me, that he had a woman in his bed. When he explained the damning photographs, I wouldn’t listen. Caroline’s nasty text and Tessa’s diabolical package were bad, but I would have had a meltdown eventually. If he’d missed a date because he was working late, I’d have second-guessed him. If his battery had died on his phone, I’d have wondered why he wasn’t picking up, mind wandering, insecurity growing, until I snapped, just as Sloane worried she would.

My anxiety was ruining my life.

Sloane and I talked a short while longer, but I could barely focus. Queasiness clenched my stomach. We made plans to grab a coffee next week, and as soon as we hung up, I shot to my bare feet and paced a frantic line. I took deep breaths and a longer, harder look at myself.

Owen had proven his devotion time and again, but I couldn’t see those photos for what they’d been—proof his ex-wife was a nasty, vengeful woman—because I’d been waiting for him to mess up the whole time.

Owen wasn’t too good to be true. He was truly good.

Now here I was, another woman hurting him.

Shaken, I studied Rachel and Jimmy’s bungalow, my safe haven the past five days. The large windows bathed the plants and overstuffed red sectional (and Kleenex and magazines) in sunlight. Stacks of her viticulture textbooks filled a bookcase next to her desk. Jimmy’s badass motorcycle boots were at the front door, next to her Mary Janes. The couple also had a killer wine cellar in the lower level that had come in handy.

But my favorite was the framed quote hung in the entryway:

“If you obey all the rules, you miss all the fun.” ~ Katharine Hepburn.

The space was warm and inviting, and I was thrilled Rachel had found contentment in her life. I’d only find my happy if I released the hurt I’d nurtured, quit assuming I wasn’t capable of sustaining a healthy relationship. Owen wasn’t Brandon. Trusting him would be so very hard, but living without him would be harder.

It was harder.

My mind clearer than it had been in weeks, I rescued my phone from the couch and went to pull up his name, only to find a text from him. The ceiling pressed closer. The walls inched toward me. It was like I was back in the Evil Bathroom, air trapped in my throat.

Swallowing hard, I read his message: We need to talk.

I relaxed slightly. That better be the I forgive you for being a moron we need to talk, and not the I need closure we need to talk…unless he truly was seeking finality, wanting to put an official end to our relationship. It couldn’t happen. Not like this. Not when I’d finally woken up and understood the extent of my baggage. And not the Samsonite carry-on variety. My issues would barely fit into a Tumi Alpha luggage set.

Rachel walked in as I was about to detonate. Eyes wide, she dropped her keys on her table by the door. “Why do you look radioactive?”

“I screwed up.” So, so badly.

“Were you infomercial surfing again? Do I need to confiscate your credit card?”

“The Clever Cutter was a great purchase.” The sauna pants were maybe over the top. And ugly. I had a problem. “This is an Owen emergency. He messaged.”

She sat on her barstool and patted the one beside her. “Tell Auntie Rachel everything.”

I rolled my eyes, but obliged. “I’m self-sabotaging.”

Kicking my dangling feet like a child, I spewed my sad realization, reliving how I’d derailed my relationship. Each admission made my mistakes more blatant. Rachel sat in her chinos and ironed buttoned-down, nodding and listening. My chin trembled.

When I finished, she tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear. “You owe him an apology.”

If he took me back, I’d owe him a kidney. “He was right to push me away. I mean, his mother abandoned him, his ex-wife is making his life hell, and I didn’t stand by him. Why would he forgive me?” I spun my phone on the counter, my head spinning with it.

“Before you reach nuclear freak out, you should sit with this for a bit. I know you love him, and I’m pretty sure he loves you. But if you guys get back together, you have to trust him. Like I trust Jimmy. Like your mother trusts your father. Without that, it won’t work. You need to be sure you can give him all of you, for both your sakes.” When I didn’t reply, she added, “Gwen will be here Friday. We’ll have the weekend together, then you’ll be back in San Francisco Monday. That’s another five days to get your head straight. Tell him you’ll talk then.”

“What if he decides I’m not worth waiting for?” Five days could be the difference between keeping him and losing him.

“He loves you, Ainsley. Give yourselves the time you both need.”

Unsure it was the right move, I flipped over my phone and typed. I’d like to talk. Meet Monday at noon at our picnic table? I hit Send before I overthought it to death. Please be the right move.

I’ll be there. The speed of his response buoyed my mood, but the reply was short. There were no sweet endearments. No clues as to how he felt.

It was the wrong move. Definitely wrong. I should have written more, apologized, grovelled. “I don’t need time. Time is silly. I’ll just tell him I’m madly in love with him and will never hurt him again and want to have his babies.”

Rachel swiped the phone from my hand. “Consider this confiscated.” She strutted toward the front door and ransacked my purse next, stealing my credit card. “And this. You’ll get them both back Monday. No rash decisions. Nothing will change in five days.”

So why did it feel like my vital organs were migrating to my throat?

My five-day sentence was a challenge. Gwen turned up on day two, and I pleaded with her to get my phone from Rachel. She compromised by returning my credit card, but the traitor parroted Rachel, claiming if I couldn’t return to Owen with clear eyes and a full heart (Friday Night Lights forever) we’d be doomed to fail.

I was ready to open up to him, excessive baggage be damned, but they were right. Ten days apart was nothing in the scheme of life, and I hadn’t fully decompressed from the past week’s shock. It also gave me time to finally make my special gift for him.

So instead of professing my love to Owen, I worked on my website and drank and hiked and talked and laughed with the girls, beyond thankful to have them in my life.

Until Monday arrived and my ever-vigilant, supposed best friends still wouldn’t give me my phone. I glowered at them. “You said five days. It’s been five days.”

Taller than me, Gwen held my phone in the air. “Now it’s just fun. We have bets on when you’ll start pulling out your hair.”

I was about to launch myself at her, when my cell buzzed. We all froze. Then I lunged, but she used her CrossFit muscles to hold me at arm’s length. She and Rachel crowded over my phone, the one not in my hands. They sighed in unison.

“He’s such a dreamboat,” Rachel said.

“Is it Owen?”

She grinned. “Yeah.”

I reached for the tiny cellphone that housed my heart. “Give it here.”

“Back off, buttercup. You still have two hours.” Gwen held it at distance, the screen facing me. “But you can read it.”

“This must be how Cinderella felt about her awful stepsisters.” My irritable tone slipped into a whisper as I read Owen’s text:

I can’t live without you.

My pulse pitter-pattered, tears gathering in my eyes as I clutched my throat. More bubbles appeared below, but Gwen pulled my lifeline away before I could glimpse his next message. “Are you trying to kill me?”

Instead of continuing to humor them, I attacked. I pounced on Gwen, tickling her armpits until my phone flew into the air. My dive to capture it ended with me face-first on the plush couch. “Victory!” I crowed. Then I ran.

I locked myself in the bathroom, cradling my one tether to the man I loved as though it were Waterford crystal. I devoured his words greedily.

I plan to melt my glass into one sheet and break it in two. Half for you. Half for me.

If there was any remaining doubt he was devoted to me, it vanished. I was his matching piece of glass, and he was mine.

I pulled the silver chain from around my neck, a delicate strand with his blue shard hanging from the end. The top of the glass was encased in wisps of wound silver wire. I’d found the glass in my pocket the day I’d driven here. Had kept it close, hoping it could help me see the light. The day he’d texted, I’d evaded Rachel and had descended on a jeweler in town, begging for a rush job.

Unable to contain the swelling of my emotions any longer, I wrote: I’m so sorry.

Me too.

I love you.

What the fuck?

I shouldn’t have written it in a text. Those words were meant to inspire enraptured kissing and voracious sex. Wild, voracious make-up sex. And I sent them in a stupid text. There were no bouncing balls to hint at a reply. I couldn’t see his face or read his body language. No wonder the girls had kept my phone from me. Total self-sabotage.

When the dots showed, I pressed my fist to my mouth.

I had to read that ten times. My heart’s about to burst through my chest.

Mine was pumping as hard. Have we made up then?

Doesn’t count until I’ve seen you naked.

Sign me up for that extracurricular activity. See you at 12.

Vibrating as fast as Blue Bunny, I unlocked the bathroom door to find my friends squished in the same chair. They were facing Rachel’s computer and my yet-to-be-live website.

“Who gave you permission to creep my work?”

Rachel waved an impatient hand at me. “Shush. We’re reading.”

I was a minute from having a stroke. This was my grand finale. My swan song. My chance to leave a positive mark in women’s lives. And my friends were analyzing it.

I could only hope my new business would bring me as much joy as learning about wine brought Rachel, as much fulfillment as working at the adoption agency afforded Gwen. I hoped when reality set in with Owen and me, we’d truly be able to move past this painful speedbump.

For now, I fidgeted as my friends studied my website. When their silence became oppressive, I said, “Tell me if it sucks, already.”

Gwen stood, nearly sending Rachel tumbling to the floor when her side of the desk chair dipped. She motioned me over. My friends flanked me as we studied my fledgling start-up.

It was the seven-letter word for caring for something dear, namely ourselves. Pushing through the hard times—whether personal or health related—and finding beauty again. It also paid homage to the queen of reinvention herself, Madonna, whose music inspired many solo dance parties in front of my bedroom mirror, thanks to my mom’s CDs.

The homepage had a collage of client images, including one of Sherise at her son’s wedding, beaming in the blue halter dress that fit her curves like a glove. I had tiered packages from full closet overhauls, to accent bundles—affordable options where key purchases could elevate a wardrobe. I also offered style consultations, facilitating hair and makeup appointments.

My favorite was our Screw the Ex Special: Let us melt down your wedding ring and turn it into the design of your choice! I’d also planned to give each client a personal gift from Aazam’s Sweet Treats.

All I had to do was hit Publish.

Rachel kissed my cheek. “It’s wonderful.”

“So proud of you,” Gwen said.

I inhaled deeply, then sent my business into the world.

The marching band I’d expected didn’t show. No fireworks exploded. We stared at the unmoving screen, tapping our toes.

I shrugged. “I guess that’s that. Now you two mother hens need to clear the way so I can get to my man.”

Gwen did that observant thing of hers where she basically looked into my soul. “Do you trust him?”

“Yes.” Not a lick of hesitation.

Rachel did a little bounce. “Are you ready for love?”

I snickered. “That’s an Elton John song.”

“And your point is?”

“Yes, I’m ready—for him, for it all. I’m sure I’ll have my freak-out moments. We’ll just have to work through them. But if I don’t get in my car soon and kiss his beautiful face and neck and his entire body, I will implode.”

Gwen raised her hands in surrender. “I’d rather not witness that.” She swatted my behind. “Be gone with you.”

My drive to the Habitat build was a tad loopy. I belted out the words to every song I knew, not caring when another driver could see me. I danced in my seat. I was high. Crazed. Filled to the brim with my life changes and the knowledge that a super sexy man would soon get attacked by moi. The sight of his truck near the Habitat build had me humming the chorus to George Michael’s “I Want Your Sex.”

I nearly jammed my toe into the curb as I hurried out my door…but I paused.

I hadn’t visited the Habitat site in a while. People were milling about, none I recognized, but the first grouping of six townhouses had been freshly stuccoed in a mix of pastels, small patches of grass and bright green bushes warming up the exterior. I’d been coordinating the audio systems with Nick and Felipe, installation organized for a few weeks from now. Families would move in this spring.

I couldn’t believe my hands had helped build those walls, that I’d had a part in changing someone’s life. It also meant more knowing Anton had put his mark on the project. We hadn’t seen each other since becoming non-enemies, but we’d both contributed to the community, together.

Feeling swathed in warmth, I turned my attention to the playground at the end of the street. My wacky energy from the drive returned. Owen was over there. So close, yet so far.

I speed walked. I ran. I raced the blowing clouds up above. My first glimpse of him stole my breath. He was tall and broad and handsome, pacing restlessly in front of our picnic table. He must have sensed me. Or maybe he heard me call, “Get over here!”

His head whipped my way, then he was moving, too. His jog pushed into a run that had us crashing into each other as he crushed me to his chest and spun me around. “So fucking sorry.” His fingers dug into my ribs, his other hand tangling in my hair as he hugged the stuffing out of me. “I’m sorry as hell I let you walk out that door. Sorry I brought Tessa into your life.”

I pawed at his back and shoulders, wanting to touch all of him at once, but there was something I had to do first. Still clutching him tight, I said, “I’m the one who owes you an apology. I should have trusted you. I do trust you.”

“But I should have given you time. Not shut down.”

Our hearts were pressed close, pounding out our apologies. “Can we kiss now?”

His rumbling chuckle vibrated through me. Angling his head down, his hungry lips went to work, coaxing mine open. His breath was hot, our mouths and tongues moving in sync. Everything about him felt right, destined. He tasted like goodness and loyalty and the type of man you fought for. Our level of PDA shot from mild to arrest worthy.

Panting, my construction hunk pulled away. “Come sit for sec.”

“But the kissing?”

He licked his lips. “Doll, we’re not done with the kissing, but we need to talk.”

Ignoring my grumbles, Owen led me to our picnic table. He straddled the bench and had me sit opposite him, our bent knees touching. “I really am sorry, Ainsley. As much as I’m dying to make out and get you home, I need you to hear me, believe me. Giving up on us was the wrong choice.”

Such simple words, the candor behind them a balm to my healing wounds. I pushed my fingers into the front of his thick hair, letting my hands drag over his scalp, down the back of his neck and shoulders, coming to rest on his firm chest. “I know you are, but this is on me. I assumed the worst. Even though I knew you’d never cheat on me, I couldn’t stop my mind from going there. Never again, though. I trust you.” I pulled my necklace from under my cashmere sweater and placed the weight of it against my thudding heart. “I love you.”

His forehead crumpled, emotion gathering in his eyes. He touched the glass, a gentle slide of his fingers down the pendant, then he gripped my ass and hauled me onto his lap. I linked my legs around his back.

“I love you,” he whispered. A bruising kiss followed, leaving me breathless. “So damn much.”

I needed more, those three words over and over. “Say it again.”

Tugging me closer, he nosed my cheek. “So damn much.”

I swatted his thick bicep. “Not that part, smartass.”

“Oh. Okay.” He nodded, a playful grin spreading. “I think I know what you’re after.” Reverently, he cupped my cheeks. “I”—he nipped to my earlobe—“love”—he dragged his lips along my jaw—“you”—he covered my face with a thousand soft kisses.

I sighed. “That’s better.” The urge to shred his clothing lessened, those words and his strong arms my perfect salve. I snuggled in closer. “My website is live.”

“I’m so proud of you,” he said into my hair. “I have no doubt you’ll succeed.”

I sure hoped so. “I’ll advertise at gyms and salons, places women go when stressed. Tap into my target market like we discussed. I still have a few key clients who’ll keep me afloat, but I fired the rest. It’s a risk, but I’m happier for it.” Like I was happier for allowing myself to find love.

He drew lazy patterns on my back. “I nearly finished that second maple table this week. Barely slept.”

Guilt bloomed. “I’m sick that I left you, especially after what she did.” She Who Must Not Be Named. “Can we throw her in jail? Send her on the first trip to Mars?”

“Unlikely. And it doesn’t matter. She doesn’t matter. She’s done her worst, and we survived. But…” His hands paused their intimate strokes. “I have something to ask you. It might freak you out, and I want you to understand it’s not something I want now, but it was an issue for me in the past. So I think I need to be clear about it this time, with you.”

That didn’t sound good. His heavy exhale when I leaned back to gauge his weighted expression didn’t inspire confidence, either. “Consider me freaking out.”

His attention shifted past me, to the jungle gym. It wasn’t busy—a couple of tykes mucked about on the slide. “I want kids, Ainsley. Not anytime soon, but what we have is far from casual, and I can’t get serious with someone without making that clear.”

He wants kids. Kids with me, one day. How could I have questioned his fidelity? Believed, even for a second, his love wasn’t true?

Awash with relief, I laughed. Giddy delight rolled through my belly in an uncontrollable wave. Owen caught my crazy, both of us laughing at absolutely nothing. Finally, I wiped my eyes. “We’ll have ten, if that’s what you want. They’ll be stylish and read smarty-pants books, and…oh, the dancing. Two will be ballet stars, one will do the Hip Hop video circuit, and the rest will take the Broadway and ballroom worlds by storm. They’ll make a reality TV series about us.”

He wasn’t laughing any longer. He pressed his forehead to mine. “I love you, Ainsley.”

I bit my lip. “I love you so much.”

There was no describing this thick swelling in my heart. I wouldn’t want to, anyway. It was private. A slice of paradise just for us.

I inched my hands down his pecs, over the wonderland of his abs, to his waistband. I traced the ridge of his belt toward his back and dipped my hands inside his briefs, grazing the top of his fine behind. “To prove my valor, I plan to torture Emmett until he tells me what your tattoo means, then I’ll torture you with the knowledge. Use it to demand sexual favors.”

“How does messing with my mind prove your valor?”

“Just go with it.”

He unleashed an impish smirk. “He told me, this week.”

Ex-squeeze me? “How did I miss that?”

“I think he felt bad for me.”

I squeezed my legs tighter around his back. “And?” When his smirk widened, I fisted the front of his shirt and pulled him close. “Now’s not the time to hold out on me, cowboy. My form of punishment involves lack of sex.”

He slapped my ass. “I’ll take it under advisement. How about we go to your place and get naked?”

The bugger ignored my ultimatum, but my willpower waned. I was weak, needy. “Will you tell me eventually?”

Keeping me clutched to his chest, he kicked his leg over the bench and stood. He walked us to our cars while I did my best koala impression, legs hooked around his middle. “If you stick around, maybe.”

I pressed my face into his warm neck. “I’m not going anywhere.”