Chapter Seventeen

AARON

Tapping the little metal table I’m sitting at, I look at my watch one more time. Forty-five fucking minutes late. I should be used to this. I shouldn’t be irritated, or ready to punch a fucking wall, because this shit will never change. Ever. It’s just a reminder of every practice I missed, every game I couldn’t attend, and all the parties that happened without me.

She can’t ever be on fucking time.

It’s like time doesn’t exist to her.

Her lack of common courtesy for the people around her drives me fucking nuts.

Leaning forward on the table, I try to calm my anger in case she decides to show up. I stare at the concrete below me through the metal slats in the table when the telltale smell that haunted my childhood floats by me.

Looking to the side, I see my mom, cigarette in hand, sunglasses covering her hollow eyes, and her hair looking stringy, unhealthy. She’s frail, skeleton-like in her loose jeans and baggy shirt that’s tied at her thin waist. I remember thinking she was beautiful, despite her drug use, but now the drugs have caught up to her and she’s no longer vibrant. She’s a shell of who she was.

“Hi, baby.” She waves before tossing her cigarette on the ground and stepping on it.

Irritation consumes me when she leans down and gives me a kiss on the cheek; her smoky breath makes my skin crawl.

“I thought you said you were quitting.” It’s the only greeting I can force out without jumping down her throat.

“Oh, that’s the only one today. No biggie.”

It’s always only one, when in reality it’s a pack.

“You’re late, Mom. I told you I have a meeting right after this, so I can’t stay long.”

“You can always make time for me. You always do.” She leans over and pats my hand, which I snag away from her.

“No,” I snap. Her face contorts in surprise. It might be the smoke, or the fact that she’s thoughtlessly late, or maybe because I haven’t seen Amelia in over a week since she called saying she couldn’t make it to volunteer. Whatever it is, I lose my shit. “I can’t run on your time anymore. If you can’t show up on fucking time, it’s your problem, not mine.”

“Aaron.” She presses her hand to her chest and leans back in her chair. “It wasn’t my fault I’m late.”

“It’s never your fault. You never take responsibility for anything.”

“Where is this coming from?”

I hate that she’s so clueless. She doesn’t get it. She’s so fucking blind to what it’s like to be a human being that she doesn’t understand how much she’s hurt me over the years.

I run my hand through my hair and pocket my phone. “Forget it, Mom. I have to go.”

“Why are you leaving? We didn’t get to have breakfast.”

Looking at her, I put my sunglasses on and say, “If you showed up on time, we could have had breakfast together, but you were forty-five minutes late, Mom. I’m not waiting around for you anymore.”

“Aaron, please don’t leave.” She starts her reliable fake cry that washes right over me now, having zero effect.

“I’ll talk to you later.”

I turn to leave when she shouts, “Wait.” When I give her one last glance, she asks, “Can you spare me a twenty, so I can at least get something to eat?”

Fucking hell.

Shaking my head, I pull out my wallet and toss a twenty on the table. “Bye, Mom.”

“I love you, baby.” As I walk away, I can hear her smacking a pack of cigarettes on her palm. Some things will never fucking change. She can afford her vice, but not food.

The drive to work has me itching to make a wrong turn so I can head home and take a shower. That smell, that fucking smell.

Smoke.

It’s a smell that floods my memory, reminding me of empty promises, missed opportunities, and embarrassment. How many times did I bury my head under my covers, hoping and praying she would stop?

Stop everything.

The drinking, the drugs, the smoking. I wanted it to all stop.

But it never did. And it probably never will.

I’m thirty years old and still plagued by her choices. Sometimes all I feel is hate . . . hate for the woman who brought me into this world. Hate for the circumstances in my life.

***

I’m ten minutes late. I hate being fucking late.

Anxiety washes over me as I honk my horn, urging the fucker in front of me to move a little faster. Road rage consumes me as my hands grip the steering wheel tightly, threatening to break the damn thing in half from the anger raging through me. It all started with my mom this morning and the rest of the day went downhill. We ordered the wrong tile for one of the master bathrooms we’ve been working on. Racer, acting like a dumbass, jumped on a piece of wood and wound up smacking himself in the head, giving him a concussion and eliminating him from the jobsite for a few days, putting us even further behind. Now I’m fucking late because construction on Southern Tier Expressway is ongoing and to get from my gym to the warehouse, I have no choice but to take it.

Finally the jackass in front of me turns right. I press down on the gas and speed toward the warehouse. Within two minutes I’m cornering on what feels like two wheels into the parking lot and turning my truck off. I didn’t get a chance to take a shower or change out of my gym clothes so I’m coming in hot with only a fresh layer of deodorant coating my underarms.

When I jog through the entrance, everyone is hard at work, putting in the final touches. Next week is Thanksgiving, but more importantly, it’s Amelia’s birthday. Is her boyfriend going to come up and visit? Is she spending the holiday with her dad? I wish I knew.

Things have been strained between us ever since our little pizza party with Amanda, who seems to have killed my chances at moving in on Amelia, or at least made me feel guilty about it. She’s right, Amelia isn’t a cheater.

That doesn’t mean I don’t want her, that I’m not desperate to do everything in my power to make her mine again. It also doesn’t mean I’m backing down from Trey. Not going to fucking happen.

In the brightly lit corner in the back of the warehouse, Amelia is wearing protective goggles, hard at work with a saw in her hand. Relief washes over me. She called in last week and didn’t make it, and part of me wondered if she’s avoiding me. Maybe she was, but I’m glad to see her this week.

Eager to say hi, I’m about to jog over to her when someone grabs my shoulder.

“Didn’t think you would make it today,” Mr. Buster says as he greets me while holding his trusty clipboard at his side.

“Sorry about being late. Traffic was bad, and I had kind of a shitty day today. I lost track of time at the gym.”

Mr. Buster waves me off. “No need to apologize, Aaron. You are my most dedicated volunteer. It’s okay if you’re a little late.”

“It’s never okay to be late,” I mutter. God, I hate this reaction. It’s all because of her. The hairs on my skin prickle, and a light sheen of sweat coats my body. I feel the anger I carry on a daily basis start to boil in the pit of my stomach. To say she’s a hot button for me is an understatement.

“Hey, are you okay?” Mr. Buster turns me to face him. “Your face is a little pale.”

Shake it the fuck off, Walters. Don’t let her invade this safe space you’ve created.

I take a deep breath and nod my head. “Yeah, I’m good. Just a little lightheaded from trying to get here quickly.” I hold up my water bottle. “I’ll down this before I pick up any heavy machinery.”

“Okay.” Mr. Buster eyes me skeptically up and down. “How’s things with Miss Santos?” I can see the knowing gleam in his eyes, the gleam that says, “Have you asked her out yet?”

“We’re just friends.” I pat his shoulder and start to walk away. “Thanks for the kind words though.”

“I don’t know,” Mr. Buster calls out quietly. “I see the way she looks at you when you’re not looking. Those hungry eyes of hers speak volumes for more than just friends.” He raises an eyebrow at me as he quirks his lip to the side. “But just my observation. Get to work, Mr. Walters.”

Hungry eyes. One day. One day I’ll get the chance to act on those hungry eyes. Yeah, I’ve seen them.

On my way to her little construction zone, I take her in. Yoga pants, long-sleeved pink thermal shirt, hair piled on top of her head, and safety goggles wrapped around her head with a pencil tucked behind her ear. Fuck, she’s so damn cute. What I wouldn’t give to be able to walk up behind her, wrap my arms around her waist, and kiss her on the neck. To feel her lean into my touch, to make that low, throaty moan she used to make when I kissed her below her ear.

Fucking hell, I ache for her. I want one more touch, one more kiss, one more night where it’s only us and nothing else. No boyfriends, no sick fathers, no unreliable moms, just us, together with the world tucked away to deal with another day.

But that thought is a far-off dream.

The sound of the saw cuts out. Amelia pulls off her goggles, sticking them on the top of her head, and brushes her hand against the wood, pushing the sawdust out of the way.

“Nice curve. I’m impressed.”

Quickly, she turns around and when she sees me, a small smile passes over her lips. Five years ago, that smile used to stretch across her face, now it’s the smile she gives everyone.

It’s not special for me.

“You’re late, Walters.” She looks me up and down. “And not properly dressed.” She motions to my shirt. “What’s with the cut-off sleeves? I never pictured you as one of those guys.”

“Didn’t have time to change after my workout, and I can’t wear sleeves when I lift weights.”

“Why? Do you pop holes in the sleeves?” She chuckles, but when I nod my head, her jovial laugh falls flat. “No way, you don’t pop holes in sleeves when you work out.”

“I do, but that was just once. I mainly go sleeveless because it’s less restricting on my arms.”

Shaking her head, she says, “That’s ridiculous. You’re ridiculous. You shouldn’t be popping sleeves open with your biceps.”

“It’s not an everyday thing.”

She puts her hands on her hips. “It should be a never-a-day thing. Honestly, the relationship gods must hate me.”

“What?” I ask, chuckling from her outrage.

She shakes me off. “Never mind.” Letting out a long breath, she takes in her work. “Get your goggles, Walters. We have a long night ahead of us.”

And just like that, we seem to be back to normal. Maybe she needed a little break. Maybe things were getting too heavy for her. Whatever it was, it’s over and I couldn’t be happier.

We spend the next twenty minutes cutting out giant pieces of wood for the post office we need to put together. I try to keep my eyes fixed on the wood, but I can’t help but look in Amelia’s direction every once in a while, and dare I say it? I caught her once staring at me, at least that’s what I’m chalking it up to, even though she asked me a question when I caught her looking. Could Mr. Buster be right?

We’re both sanding down the jagged edges of the large pieces of wood we cut out when I ask, “So your birthday is coming up. What do you plan on doing?”

“I’m going to have Thanksgiving with my dad in the afternoon, and then I’m driving to the city to spend the weekend with Trey.” She swallows hard, avoiding all eye contact.

Fucking Trey.

“Right,” I answer lamely. I don’t know how else to respond to that. Should I offer up a high five? Maybe a thumbs up? Both are stupid responses. Growing a pair, I say, “Trey, huh? Haven’t seen him around much.”

Haven’t seen him in many years actually. Last time I saw him was when I went to visit him for the summer. Worst idea ever.

When I take in Amelia’s reaction to my comment, I notice her shoulders slouch and her posture looks defeated. Okay, maybe not the best thing to say, but I mean, come on. Where is this dude? If Amelia moved away to be with her family, I would take every fucking opportunity to go see her. She needs supporting. Does he know how close she is to her dad? Has he even visited once?

Amelia eyes me. “He’s been working extra hours lately. He would be here if he could. He’s trying.”

She sounds a bit defensive. I might have hit a soft spot. “Speaking of working hard, remember when I used to visit you when you were working at A.C. Moore?” I use air quotes when I say working. Amelia has never hated a job more in her life because people came in at night after eating dinner at the buffet next door, smelling like rotten Chinese food and wanting her help. The smell had been so overwhelming that at nights, she’d begged to work in the stockroom. When they told her she had to work on the floor, out of spite, she would work at a snail’s pace.

“Ugh, that godforsaken job. If I knew old ladies were going to come traipsing in smelling like General Tso’s, I would have never applied for the job.”

“You made me bring you a bottle of Febreeze once.”

“Yes, and I went around spraying customers when they weren’t looking.”

“Which landed you in your manager’s office.” Oh man, was she spicy that day. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so mad.

“I regret nothing.”

“It’s a miracle you lasted six months.” My sandpaper wears down so I trade my scrap for a new piece. When the grain hits the wood, the tension in my shoulders starts to relax. Some people hate sanding, but I find it therapeutic, especially when I’m sitting comfortably talking to Amelia. Up until now, it’s been a shit day, but filling the space around me with her laughter and witty comments has brought calm.

Yeah, I’ve fucking missed her. This.

I hate that she’ll be with another man to celebrate her birthday. I took the job of spoiling Amelia quite seriously. But it’s not my job anymore.

I can try to spoil her from a distance, and I have to be content with that.

***

I hop out of my truck quickly and approach Amelia’s car. When she gets out, I say, “Hey, I was thinking about walking down the street to the diner to get something to eat. Never really got dinner tonight. Do you want to join me?”

I hold my breath, knowing there is a ninety percent chance she’s going to turn me down. We had a pretty good night, building the post office. We joked, kept our conversation light and casual, and then parted to our respective cars. But I wasn’t ready to say good night to her. I wasn’t quite ready to let her go. Next week we won’t have volunteering time because of the holiday, which means I probably won’t see her for two weeks. Fuck that.

Amelia twists her lip to the side, my question considered in that pretty head of hers.

Say yes, please fucking say yes.

“I, uh, I didn’t really eat dinner either,” she says as she plays with her keys.

I can’t help the smile that crosses my face.

“I guess that would explain the snarls you were making at the wood earlier. Looks like we need to get some food in you before you go completely hangry on me.”

Her eyes lift up, a little spark of humor in them. “I wasn’t snarling at the wood.”

“You kind of were, but I won’t tell anyone. Let me grab a sweatshirt real quick because my nipples are harder than stone in this shirt, and then we can walk over together.”

Her eyes go to my shirt quickly before they pop back, realizing she was staring at my pecs. Stare away, babe.

“Hurry up, I don’t have all night.” She crosses her arms over her chest, but the lightness in her voice says she’ll wait for me.

It takes me all but a minute to sprint into my house, run up to my room, grab a sweatshirt, and then meet Amelia outside while I put on my sweatshirt.

“Good Lord that was fast.”

I cringe slightly. “Uh, I’m starving.” I’m not at all happy to spend more time with you, to get at least one more hour with you. Right.

The walk to the diner is slightly awkward; we don’t say much, which makes me nervous, but once we’re seated, I say, “Do you remember that Thanksgiving when we tried to make every dish on our own?” We could both cook okay, but Thanksgiving dishes are in a different league.

“Oh, God. My poor father.” She giggles, and it’s the sweetest sound. “What did he say when he tasted the bean casserole?”

“You have to gently sauté the onions, Bedelia, not burn them to a crisp,” I say in a deep voice, imitating her father.

“Beth didn’t stop laughing for an hour after that. God, we tried so hard. How did we get so many dishes so wrong?” she asks, while wiping tears of laughter from under her eyes.

“The only two who ate everything and didn’t complain were your nephews. They’ll be ladykillers when they’re older. Always eating whatever is put before them.”

When she stops laughing, Amelia leans forward in her chair and says, “So, any women in your life?” She looks genuinely interested, as if we truly are great friends and she’s looking for dirt. Some of the best and long-lasting relationships start as friends, so I take advantage of this moment, not trying to dwell on the shift in the way we have to act around each other.

“Any women? I noticed how you made that plural. Are you assuming I’m a playboy, Miss Santos?” I sit back in my chair, presenting a playful challenge.

She’s not fazed by my question as she shrugs casually. “I just assumed.” She pauses and looks around for a second before she says, “I mean, you wear cut-off shirts now. Only men who carry around a brothel of women in their back pocket wear cut-off shirts.”

“A brothel of women?” My laughs draws the attention of the few diners who share the restaurant with us. “There is no brothel in my back pocket, and you’re so wrong about cut-off sleeves. Mr. Harrison, three houses down, wears cut-off sleeves, and he’s a happily married man.”

Amelia quirks her eyebrow at me. “Have you seen him around the Tai Chi class Mrs. Gossling has on Saturday afternoon in her front yard? Pure player, that Mr. Harrison.”

The thought of Mr. Harrison being a player makes me full-on belly laugh. The man sports a basketball-sized beer belly, has a horseshoe hairdo—you know, where he’s bald on top but has a ring of hair around his head—and he wears Velcro black shoes, even with shorts. He is the farthest thing from a playboy.

“You couldn’t be more wrong about the both of us. If anything, Mr. Harrison and I are the most loyal men on the street. No brothel pockets here.”

“Okay, so any special lady in your life?”

I can’t help it; I ask, “Besides you?”

Her cheeks go red as her eyes cast toward the table. She clears her throat, and says, “Uh, yeah.”

Loving how much I embarrassed her, I say, “Well, let’s see. Mrs. Ferguson is a special lady to me, kind of like a grandma—”

“I meant are you dating anyone. Honestly, why do you always make me say the damn words?”

I chuckle. “It’s more fun that way.” She rolls her eyes. “And for the record, no. Haven’t really been able to move on since you. I’ve had a few short relationships here and there, but that’s it. It’s been impossible to replace you in my heart, Amelia.”

And just like that, our fun conversation is blanketed by a layer of intense confessions. And I’m not fucking sorry about it.

“Oh,” is all she says as the waitress steps to our table.

Awkwardly, the tension thick between us, I order a burger with fries and Amelia gets a cup of clam chowder with a side of cherry pie. Some things never change.

When the waitress walks away, I decide to keep the conversation heavy. I want to dive deep into her feelings. I want to know about the days, the year after we broke up. Even though I know it will kill me, I need to know.

“How long did it take you to get over me?”

She peers up at me, a little surprise in her face from my question. “A long time,” she answers on a long exhale. So, perhaps this relationship with Trey the wonder boy hasn’t been going on long then.

“Did you hate me?”

She nods. “Every day.” That fucking hurts. “But it was a hate love. I loved you so damn much, Aaron, and for you to just rip away the one thing I cared most about”—she shakes her head and plays with the silverware on the table—“I was so furious. That anger turned into hate, but the hate never really took. I wanted to hate you. I wanted to hurt you. I wanted you to suffer as much as I was, but deep down, all I truly wanted was for you to take me back.”

I blow out a long breath as I grip the back of my neck. “Fuck, I’m sorry, Amelia.”

She shrugs. “What’s done is done, right?”

I guess so.

Pressing my lips tightly together, I prepare for my next question. “And this other guy—”

“Trey.”

“Yes, Trey.” His name coming out of my mouth feels like a bunch of razor blades scraping across my tongue. “Is he good to you? Does he treat you well?”

“He does,” she answers somberly.

“Does he treat you better than I did?”

Please say no.

She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she chews on the side of her lip, her eyes cast down. What is she thinking? Is she comparing me to Trey? Am I winning? Or does Trey take the cake? My assumption? Trey wins. He always wins.

“That’s hard to answer. You’re different.” She sighs. “When we were together, we were spontaneous, kind of crazy; we threw caution to the wind and I felt alive.” She now looks me in the eye. “But with Trey there is order. We live together and our lives have a rhythm. We’re older. We work. Go out. Spend time with friends. It’s . . . good. Aaron, I know you’ve told me why you broke up with me. I get it. I do. But when I met Trey, my studies were going well, and I was breathing again. I missed you and still felt sad and bereft, but I felt more like me again. There was something so familiar about him though, and we clicked. He’s been by my side ever since. I don’t think he would ever hurt me like you did.”

I nod, hating that answer but wondering one thing. “Maybe he won’t hurt you as much as I hurt you because you don’t love him like you loved me.” I stare at her hazel eyes as I say, “The harder you love, the harder you fall.”

Her mouth parts, her breath escaping her as she analyzes my words. I can see her processing what I said. And I know the minute she realizes I’m right, because her eyes slightly water.

I don’t press her any more. Our food arrives, and we talk little the rest of the night as awkward silence fills our time together. This may have become a time of uncomfortable conversation, but I don’t regret it because there is now one thing I’ve learned.

She doesn’t love him like she loved me.

On the walk back home, I ask Amelia about her plans for Thanksgiving, if she’s taking food to her dad’s place or if they’re making a meal at the nursing home. She answers politely, not adding much. I know I threw her for a loop at dinner, and she’s trying to recover, so it’s okay.

When we make it to her door, she unlocks it but turns to me before she walks in.

Staring at the Nike emblem on my sweatshirt she says, “You know, Aaron, when I first met you, I thought you were this knight in shining armor, someone to sweep me off my feet and bring me Buffalo chicken pizza because I was craving it.” I chuckle, thinking back to all the times I brought her Nirchi’s. “And then we started to get serious after a few months. I realized I didn’t want to say good night to you without sleeping in your arms. I didn’t want to wake up without you next to me. I was in love. I knew it right away. There was no questioning the feeling you gave me whenever you were around, or whenever I thought about you for that matter.”

“I felt the same way.” I step up and take her hand in mine. I’m convincing myself it’s friendly handholding, that it’s for comfort, but my body reacts in an entirely different way when her fingers grip mine. Her palm presses against mine, and it’s heaven.

“And then we celebrated our one-year anniversary. You went all out and even chose to include my father in the plans, along with Amanda. That night, I knew. You were the man I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. You were the man I wanted to grow old with. You were the man, the only man I wanted to start a family with.”

Fuck if I didn’t think the same thing.

I pull her a little closer. Her free hand goes to my chest as her eyes meet mine. Can she feel how fast my heart is beating? Can she tell how much she still owns me? Can she see the desperation in my eyes? I want her to know, even though she’s with someone else, she’s the only woman I’ve ever wanted.

“Do you still want a family?” I ask her as her hand glides to my chest and then to my face.

I want to kiss her. But I feel the distance she is creating. I feel miles away, despite how close she actually is.

“I don’t know anymore. What I do know is that you were the one who was supposed to give me all of that.”

Past tense.

Past fucking tense.

Regret pummels me in the chest.

“I still can’t believe you took it all away.” She grips my shirt in anger. I don’t blame her. I’m angry at myself as well.

But then I start to get angry for a different reason. I am a good man. I am respected and respectable, something Amelia’s dad told me should be the main aim for a man. I shouldn’t have to beg. Yes, of course I want Amelia back, but she needs to want me back, and I doubt she’ll want me if I have to beg. What we had was incredible, and I know without a doubt that if we get back together—when we get back together—it will be even better. I stood up to Mom this morning. I stood up for me, and I think it’s time to do the same with Amelia.

“Part of me wants to beg you to give me another chance, Amelia. I want you to stay here for Thanksgiving, for your birthday. But, I won’t beg. As you said before, deep down, even though you were justifiably angry with me, all you truly wanted was for me to take you back. Well, I’m here now. I hurt you, and I’m so fucking sorry. But I don’t think I deserve to suffer for that mistake over and over again. I haven’t stopped loving you, Amelia. I doubt I ever will. I’m still the man you fell in love with, only a much wiser version. And more buff, as you have pointed out a few times.” I dip down to be closer to eye level and smile. She barely manages a smile. Her beautiful eyes fill with tears.

“Amelia, please stay here for Thanksgiving. I’d love to take you to see your father. And please stay for your birthday so I can spoil you. I won’t make a move. I won’t touch you unless you want me to.”

Closing her eyes tightly, she presses her head against my chest, and I take the opportunity to pull her into a hug. I kiss the top of her head and relish this brief moment.

“I can’t,” she whispers. In an instant, my throat closes tight as anguish washes over me.

I can’t. Therefore, she won’t.

Okay.

I am not begging.

Pushing against my chest, she puts some distance between us. “I’m sorry, Aaron.”

“Amelia.” I want to say more, but I won’t. She’s made up her mind on this, and to keep fighting her on it is a weakness.

She turns and walks into her house, quietly shutting the door behind her, leaving me on her porch with nothing but the chilly November night surrounding me.

For the first time since Amelia came back into my life, I have the horrible feeling I’ve truly lost her forever.

She’s chosen him.