“But I think you’ve probably earned yourself a break?” I add.
That smile returns, broad shoulders relaxing as he looses a sigh. “I think you’re probably right.” He juts a chin toward my coffee. “What about you? Maybe we can swap that for something stronger?”
I’ve already watched him sink a beer—otherwise, I’m sure this offer wouldn’t have come. James has always been good at keeping boundaries in place with his employees, where Will has not. But now he wants a drink. With me.
I’d have been content even if my excursion only went as far as watching him from a distance. It’s better than sitting at home alone, tempted to embrace the company of a mother who’s mastered an art of cruelty so casual that you often don’t know you’ve been wounded until you find yourself bleeding many hours later. But this…this is everything I’ve dreamed of.
“I think I’d like that,” I say with a level of chill I don’t feel.
“Excellent.” A naughty grin stretches across his face, and I’m left a little breathless by how inviting it is. I flash a grin back at him, ignoring the rising alarm in the back of my mind. We have the distinct energy of two teenagers bunking off school.
“What d’you fancy?” he asks.
What would the alluring cool girl order? “Assuming they don’t stock any of our stuff, I’ll have an old-fashioned, please.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, so you mean business.”
I laugh. “I do.”
“D’you know what, I’ll have the same.” He gets up from his seat andbegins to head for the bar, but something makes him spin back around. “Hey, it’s Christmas—shall I make it two apiece?”
“The barisslow…”
He winks and sets off without another word. And as he walks away, as he leans over the bar to order our drinks from the bartender, I can feel something shifting in my brain, a question rising up that I’m doing my best to shove down. But I can’t escape the thought that I’m playing with fire. Until I’m sure what happened with my exes can never happen again, I need to keep my distance from romantic interests. But James…James is not like anyone I’ve dated before. The worst thing you could accuse him of being is boring. And even then, Mr. Double Old-Fashioneds is showing me that he might be more fun than I’ve given him credit for.
You’ve got to stop this, Natalie. You can’t go there.
My infatuations always end in tears, I know that. It’s why I’ve so diligently sworn off any romantic relationships for years. It’s tough, starving myself of the one thing that’s brought me…if not release, then distraction from my other problems for so long. But I’ve learned that until I heal, until I fix what’s inherently broken within me, romance only compounds my problems in the long run. What happened with my last ex is a stark reminder of that, the pain from the fallout so bad that it still sometimes has me gasping awake at night, covered in a sheen of sweat. The cost of that relationship was too high. I’m still paying it. Perhaps I’ll always be paying it.
Dear Marc,
I suppose, in some ways, you were where it all began. My first, in more ways than one.
I hate how much your opinion of me made up my opinion of myself. I hate that I ever let anyone have that much control over my self-esteem. If I hadn’t been so weak, my life would look very different. Becky was right, you never really liked me for me. And I might have seen through the nice words if I hadn’t been so insecure.
Perhaps I might even be normal.
What happened was a shock. But that shock was like dunking my whole body in ice water. It woke up something inside me. I now live in constant fear of that thing. I’m trying to starve it out, but I don’t think it’s working. It wants feeding.
If only you hadn’t brought it to life.
3
Ex Number One
Marc
You can still hear the cringe prom music from the school hall, even if it is a bit faint. The corridor is dark, as is the classroom we’re in. It’s kind of creepy. Like a scene from a horror movie before the two teens who’ve snuck off get murdered. Marc says it’s better to keep the room dark, though. And Marc’s smart. Or at least he says he’s smart, and people seem to agree.
Apparently, no one should be coming this way, but I can’t help but feel nervous every time I hear the slamming of a door echo from somewhere in the school. It’s an old, pile-of-shit building. The roof blew off one winter. Nothing is soundproof. Which is part and parcel of why I feel about as comfortable as I would in a one-to-one with our pervy careers adviser in the library, but here I am.
“For god’s sake, Natalie! Would you relax a bit?”
I want to bite back and ask Marc how I’m supposed to relax with Latin textbooks digging into my back. He has me on the teacher’s desk, and he’s standing between my legs. One hand is grabbing at my chest, feeling more padded bra than anything else, and the other is between my legs. I’ve never really stopped to reflect on how I’d feel if myyounger sister was dating someone like Marc. But perhaps that’s intentional. Perhaps I know I’d then like him less.
“I’m relaxed,” I lie. And he’s obviously heard the lie. His nostrils flare for a second and that faraway look glazes over his blue eyes. I hate it when he gets that look—it always means he’s pulling away from me. And he does, physically. Suddenly, the skin on my body where his hands were feels ice-cold, almost as cold as the look he’s giving me, dark curls falling into his eyes, dark brows stitched together.
God, he’s so hot. He’s so hot and he’s mine.
