I nod, biting my lip.
“What’d you tell him?” she asks.
“That I’d think about it,” I say.
Rach rolls her eyes. “Which means you’re going to say no.”
“I need a break from men,” I say. “And even if I didn’t, I don’t need to go out with the identical twin of the guy whose face I’d really love to punch right now. It’s confusing. And I don’t need that in my life.”
“Amen, sister.” Rachael laughs before heading back out to the floor.
Peering out toward my tables, I observe Ian for a minute or so, watching him scroll through his phone before tapping out a text and then turning his attention toward the sidewalk outside, people watching.
He’s so sweet and from what I can tell, genuine.
Then again, apparently I’m a horrible judge of character.
I can’t pick the good ones from the bad ones to save my life.
As soon as Ian’s order is up, I run it out to him, making sure to grab a warm bottle of maple syrup on my way.
“You’re not going to regret this,” I tell him.
“These things are like crack, I hear,” he says. “Is it true you only get one?”
“Yeah,” I say.
He spreads a pat of cinnamon butter across the ‘cake. “Sounds like a genius marketing ploy.”
“Right?”
“Anyway,” he says. “I’m going out with some friends this Friday. Dos Rios. If you and your friends want to meet up for drinks, cool. If not, no big deal. Just thought I’d ask.”
“Never been to Dos Rios. Is it any good?”
“It’s incredible,” he says. “Best margaritas in the city. You like margaritas?”
“Margaritas are my jam.”
Ian chuckles. “Then you should go. If not for me, then for the margaritas. They’ll change your life.”
“Now that sounds like a marketing ploy.” I give him a playful wink. “I’ll be back in a bit.”
He slices into his Brentwood pancake and I head off to check on another table, wiping the dopey grin off my face before I get there. I can’t remember the last time I smiled like that, over something so silly, but Ian’s so easy to talk to. He puts me at ease without even trying. He’s disarming in a way that Isaiah never was.
I suppose one margarita never hurt anyone …
Thirty-Six
Maritza
* * *
Melrose is on her third hibiscus margarita by the time Ian and his friends show up to Dos Rios Friday night.
“Hey.” Ian takes the chair next to mine at the high-top table we saved. A few of his friends, all of them suit-and-tie business types, fill in around us. His golden gaze lights when it finds mine in the dark bar. “Glad you could make it.”
“Thanks for the invite,” I say, the taste of flowers and tequila on my tongue.
“It’s crazy how much you look like him,” Melrose leans over me, pointing her finger in Ian’s face.
“Right,” I place my hand around her arm and guide her back to her spot, “since they’re identical twins. Ian, this is Melrose, my cousin.”
“You two must get mixed up all the time,” she says, her elbow in front of me as her chin rests on her hand.
Ian nods. “It happens more than I like.”
He looks to me.
“But it isn’t always a bad thing,” he adds.
Melrose’s jaw falls and she nudges me, making an awkward deal out of nothing. “Can I ask you something, Ian?”
“Anything,” he says as another one of his friends approaches the table and starts handing out bottles of Dos Equis like it’s going out of style—two per person. These guys don’t mess around, though I imagine working in finance has got to be stressful. It’s so unpredictable, so volatile at times. Too many highs and lows for the average person to handle. “What do you want to know?”
“So what’s the deal with your brother?” Mel asks. “Why is he such a fucking dickwad?”
I hide my eyes in my hand. Here we go. Once the filter comes off, it’s impossible to put it back on.
“Can we not make tonight about him?” I ask.
Ian takes a sip of his beer as his gaze passes between the two of us. “I don’t know why he is the way he is. I just know that the only thing we have in common is the way we look. Other than that, we’re night and day in every way possible.”
“Who just freaking ghosts the nicest, smartest, prettiest girl in the world?” Melrose asks, barely trying to hide the slur in her voice.
Ian looks to me, his lips curled at one side. “A fool. That’s who.”
My cheeks warm as I turn my attention to my margarita, twisting the stem of the glass between my fingers.
“My brother hates commitment. He’s a closed book. He holds grudges longer than any bastard I know. He has a nephew he won’t acknowledge. And see, the thing about my brother is that if he’s not in control at all times, you’ll lose him. He’ll turn his back on you and not think twice,” Ian says, taking a generous swig. “My family singlehandedly blames him for what happened to my father a decade ago. He’s got demons.”
“What happened to your father?” Melrose asks.
I elbow her in the ribs. “Mel, enough. It’s none of our business.”
Ian picks at the label on his bottle for a moment. “He died in an accident when we were seventeen.”
My hand lifts to his. “Oh, god. I’m so sorry to hear that.”
He offers an equally as apologetic smile and holds my gaze before his expression softens. “What do you say you finish that drink so I can buy you another one?”
“You really don’t have to—”
His mouth pulls up at the sides and for a split second, I see Isaiah in him more than I ever have before, in the mischievous, sexy smirk that once made me fall harder than I ever anticipated.
But the man sitting in front of me is the furthest thing from the man who once wrapped his arms around me and pointed out constellations on a perfect spring evening, and it isn’t fair to compare the two of them after learning what I’ve learned, after experiencing what I’ve experienced, after feeling the way I’ve felt.
I don’t know Ian quite yet.
And as it turns out, I never really knew Isaiah.
The only thing I do know is that I’ll never allow a man to make me feel half as disposable as Isaiah made me feel.
Never again.
Thirty-Seven
Isaiah
* * *
Nervous is not a sensation I’m familiar with.
Scared is a feeling I’ve ever truly known once before, when my life literally flashed before my eyes and settled in a cloud of smoke so dark I couldn’t see the screaming comrade in front of me.
But none of that compares to the way I feel right now, standing outside Maritza’s café, watching her stride across the checkered floor in her little black shorts and little green apron, smiling at everyone she passes, not a care in the world.
There’s something light and buoyant about her, and for a moment, like a woman who moved on from the meaningless fling she had eight months ago and found someone new to love her and treat her the way she deserves.