9. My old friend: Tiffany
I woke up Saturday morning on Benta’s loveseat, a spare comforter wrapped around me, a puddle of drool underneath my cheek, to the distinct sounds of a hookup. Not skin-slapping, breath-gasping actual humping, but something solidly in the second-base vicinity.
My spot in the living room gave me a front-row view of the action, happening on Benta’s kitchen counter. Cammie’s dark bare legs were wrapped around one hell of a jean-covered ass, her pale pink nails digging into the guy’s white T-shirt.
“Ahem.” My subtle throat clear got me nothing, the frantic kissing—if anything—heating up.
“Cam.” I reached for my cell, ready to throw it at her, my eyes instead catching on the time display. And that was when my irritation grew tenfold. Not even eight. On a Saturday morning. I rolled over on the loveseat, throwing the blanket over my head, not at all interested in meeting her date. I had a pretty good idea of who it was, especially when I heard the smooth scrape of an accent whisper her name. I hid under the covers, eavesdropping despite my best attempt to go back to sleep. At some point among their whispered goodbyes, I fell back asleep and was spared anything more ’til noon, when Cammie and Benta pushed me awake and into clothes, promising sushi and sake.
An hour later, and I would scream if I heard Dante’s name one more time. Cammie wouldn’t shut up about him. Granted, I might have been a teensy bit jealous, my own romp envisioned with the strong and silent Italian.
Plus, to be honest, how awkward would it be if this turned into anything—my co-worker and my best friend? Chances were it wouldn’t. In the five years I’d known Cammie, she’d never had a relationship last more than a few months. Her eye … wandered. That was the nicest way to say it. Tell her she couldn’t touch something, and she’d trample your ass in her haste to dig her fingers in. Benta, on the other hand … well, Benta was weird. I could spend an entire week talking about her crazy love life, one that included some of the freakiest sex on the planet.
After two sake bombs, courtesy of my friends, I forgot any irritation about being woken up early. Cammie was freaking beaming at us as she dissected every last moment with Dante, so I couldn’t help but be happy for her on that front too. Not that I could really stay mad at the person keeping me from sleeping on the streets.
We left lunch slightly buzzed, stumbling our way into her apartment, no evidence of flooding present, where she wandered to bed. I found cleaning supplies, determined to be the Best Houseguest Ever and clean the kitchen. I had Spotify playing, a Lysol wipe in hand, and was on a stool, emptying out the cabinet above the fridge, when I moved aside Cammie’s cereal and felt it. My fingers closed on it without thought, pulling it out, the box instantly recognizable, a powder blue one with a tag that made my stomach curl into a tight fist. I stepped off the stool and wondered why, in the jumble of healthy crap that had been in that cabinet—there was a jewelry box with my name on it.
I didn’t have to wonder too much. The box was trademark Vic, my name scrawled in his rough handwriting on a crisp white tag. My denied engagement ring had been Harry Winston, but every birthday, Valentine’s, and “just-because” present was from Tiffany’s.
I sat down on a stool, smoothing the label’s white ribbon with a trembling finger. Half of me wanted to rip off its lid in my haste to see the gift. The other half wanted to drive to the closest dumpster and fling the box inside. Vic had picked this out. Thought of me. Still wanted to spoil me. For a girl who’d spent Christmas ignored by everyone but my two friends, it hit hard. I gently tugged on the ribbon and lifted the lid, seeing a folded note on top.
When I opened the note, the spicy scent of him floated up from the linen stock.
My love,
I will think of you every Christmas for the rest of my life. I hope, whatever you do this year, you are happy.
Always yours,
Vic
I set it down, my heart seizing, the words painful to read. I picked up the box and looked at the pendant earrings, delicate clusters of diamonds that circled a larger stone. Perfect. Not that I had expected anything less. I closed the box and pushed it back, lowering my head ’til it rested on the counter and allowed myself a moment of tears.
I missed him. I loved him as strongly as I did when we were together. Yes, he’d broken my heart. But it had taken every bit of my willpower not to relent when he’d begged for forgiveness, when he’d drunkenly professed his devotion to me from a busy street while I stayed cozy in my old apartment, pretending not to hear. When he’d cried. The man, despite everything else, knew how to get me. Knew how to seduce and how to wrap my heart up so tight that I was scared I’d never rip it free.
I hated him.
I loved him.
I wanted him.
I missed him.
And I really should call and thank him for the gift.