Capture

“No. No, not at all. I don’t regret it at all. First, you are quite handsome, you know. Hot even. I’ll never regret getting me some of all that.” I pointed at him then moved my index finger in a circle, making him laugh lightly and roll his eyes.

Reluctant, slightly embarrassed laughter looked damn good on Martin Sandeke.

“And secondly, you really seemed to know what you were doing, how to make things easier, better for me. Since I was going to lose my virginity at some point, of course I wanted to lose it to an expert.”

He stopped smiling then, the merriment in his eyes waned, and his mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a frown.

“And lastly…” I started, stopped, then decided to abandon being flippant and just be completely honest—however I kept my eyes fastened to my yoga pants.

“Lastly, I was in love with you. I wanted you—and not because of all that,” again I pointed to him with my index finger, moving it in a wagging circle, “but because I wanted you, Martin, and all that you were, and how you made me feel, and how I hoped I made you feel.”

I paused, gathered a breath for courage then met his gaze again, adding, “I wanted you.”

“I was in love with you, too.”

His words made me feel like someone had deflated all my birthday balloons. I gave him a flat smile, my eyes flickering away from his, but I said nothing, because I knew he’d never actually loved me. This knowledge was now bone-deep.

If he’d loved me then he would have chosen us over revenge.

If he’d loved me as I’d loved him, then he wouldn’t be feeling platonic indifference toward me now; he wouldn’t be able to settle for being my friend. He would be struggling as I was struggling.

If he’d loved me as I’d loved him, then a Martin Sandeke google search wouldn’t have yielded pictures of him and a pretty redhead, who I was now convinced—after speaking with Emma—was his last girlfriend.

I glanced at my glass. It was empty again.

“What?”

“What, what?”

“Why did you give me that look?”

“Because I’m out of sangria.”

“No. Before you looked at your glass.” His eyes narrowed with suspicion. “You don’t believe me.” He stated this as though the thought had just occurred to him.

I gave a non-committal shrug and reached for the bottle at my left, intent on pouring a larger glass so it wouldn’t run out quite as fast.

“You don’t believe that I loved you.” He stated this as fact and I felt the mood in the room shift from friendly to antagonistic.

“Meh…” I shrugged again. “What does it matter? It’s in the past.”

“It matters.” His rising anger was tangible.

I felt a spike of furious indignation and tried to distance myself from my feelings on the subject, because, if I didn’t, he was going to end up with a face full of sangria.

Instead I attempted to be pragmatically truthful. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, I’m certain you liked me a lot. And it was obvious you made a valiant—but failed—effort to feel more.”

“Wow.” He breathed, then exhaled again, like I’d knocked the wind out of him. “That’s a really shitty thing to say.”

Yep. He was super-duper mad.

But I couldn’t feel sorry about what I’d said—a little twinge of guilt perhaps, but not sorry. He was the king of blunt (and sharp) honesty. He never pulled his punches. If he didn’t like or couldn’t handle my honesty then that was just too damn bad.

Regardless of the certainty of my own righteousness, discomfort and disquiet made a camp in my chest. I forced myself to look at him. “Listen, twisty britches, listen to the facts—”

“Fuck your facts.” His eyes burned like an inferno, but his voice was surprising low and quiet.

“Well, see, here we go.” I gestured to him with my refilled glass but averted my gaze. “This is an example. Your language. You see no problem talking to me like that, you never did. That’s not how you speak to people you love.”

“It is when you’re passionate about them.”

“No. It’s not okay. It’s disrespectful.”

“We can’t all be frigid robots.”

I ignored this statement, obviously made with the intent to wound, in favor of pointing out the other facts. “And then you chose revenge on your father over us.”

“And you chose your mother’s career over us.”

I nodded. “Yes. Yes I did. Because it was the right thing to do.”

“And God forbid you do anything for yourself. God forbid you be selfish for one single, fucking second and give into your passion, take what you want.” This was said through clenched teeth; I could tell his temper was rising and he was struggling to keep his voice from rising with it.

“At the expense of good, innocent people? That’s not love, Martin. Love is supposed to make you a better person, love is supposed to…to…” I moved my hands in a circle, some of the wine dripping on his leather couch. I wiped at it with the bottom of my shirt as I searched for the right words. “It’s supposed to improve your character, not demolish it. If you loved me—if you wanted what was best for me—then you wouldn’t have wanted me to destroy my mother’s career due to my own selfishness.”

“I wanted you to choose me.” He wasn’t yelling, but I could tell he was barely controlling his impulse to intimidate with volume.

I responded quietly, “And I wanted you to choose me.”

He looked away, the muscle at his temple ticking, the lines of his jaw and lips severe.

I shrugged. “So I chose reason, and you chose passion, and nary the twain shall meet.”

“I chose passion?”

“Yes. Revenge against your father.”

He nodded slowly. “Yes. I was passionate about that.” His words a reluctant confession as his eyes focused over my shoulder.

“It’s the love of your life.” The words slipped out before I could catch them and I wished them back immediately. It was one thing to be honest, it was another thing entirely to bare my bitterness. Martin winced like I’d struck him.

I hadn’t meant it to be mean, but it was mean. My heart constricted with a sharp ache—because I saw my blurted statement caused Martin pain. I didn’t want to hurt him. That was the opposite of what I wanted.

“Barnacles,” I said, shaking my head, trying to figure out how to apologize without sounding even more like a wicked witch. “I’m sorry, Martin. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“That’s right. That’s who you see, and that’s who I am.” His tone was frosty, laden with animosity and sarcasm. “You still think I’m an arrogant asshole, and that’s all I’ll ever be to you.” This last part sounded as though he were talking to himself.

I grimaced. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Waaaay too late.” This statement was paired with a sardonic chuckle.

Another piercing stab nailed me through the heart and I felt cold and a little nauseous. “Okay, well then I’m officially the asshole. I accept the title and all the death stares that accompany it.” Again, I couldn’t meet his eyes; I busied myself by draining my glass.

“Parker.” He sighed, obviously frustrated, rubbing his hands over his face. “Can we move past this?”

I nodded, still swallowing, and eventually was able to answer in earnest—but perhaps a little too loudly and with slurred speech. “Yes! Yes, let us never speak of the past again.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Sandeke,” I leaned forward, depositing my glass on the table and tucking my legs under me on the center cushion, kneeling directly in front of him, “despite my awfulness, I really do want us to be frie—”

“Are you drunk, Kaitlyn?” He cut me off, his eyes glinting with a dangerous mixture of exasperation and barely contained fury.

“No. Just tipsy enough to say what’s on my mind without overthinking it.”

“What were you doing earlier, in your room, before I walked in?”

I held very still and stared at him, a shock of flustering embarrassment crashing through me. His question was unexpected and made me chase my breath. I’m sure I looked guilty because I felt guilty. He was staring at me with contemptuous certainty, like he already knew the answer, like he thought I was a coward.

I felt caught.

Even so, I would never tell him the truth. “I…I was—”

He didn’t give me a chance to lie. “If I kissed you right now, would you remember tomorrow?”

“Why would you…why would you kiss me?” I couldn’t keep up with this conversation.

“Because you’re beautiful. Because I want to.” His gaze was on my mouth and he sounded completely belligerent; meanwhile, my heart was in my throat.

“Do you? Do you really? Or are you just tipsy enough to be feeling nostalgic?”

“No. I’m just tipsy enough to say what I want without overthinking it.” He mimicked my earlier words through clenched teeth.