Out of the full lips that parted every time he spoke.
Out of the scent of him I loved to steal.
“You see her once a month?” I stumbled over the words, not quite believing them. It fought the villainous archetype of Nash I’d built in my head.
The one that kept me safe from pesky attachments and reminded me this was not the same guy that packed me lunches and steadied me after the Able incident.
Nash pierced the salmon with a fork at the same time my stomach let loose an obnoxious growl. “I see her nearly every weekend.” He waved the salmon in my face, showing off its flawless medium cook. “I’m eating this if you don’t, and your stomach sounds fucking pissed at you.”
I ignored the food, latching onto a piece of my past that didn’t feel tainted. “How does Betty look?”
He shoveled the fork into his mouth. “Strong.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means she’s keeping herself fed and smiles when I’m looking.”
“And when you’re not looking?”
“She stares wherever Dad should be, eyes leaking like a broken faucet. If we’re at the dinner table, she eyes the empty chair. If we’re in the living room, she eyes the La-Z-Boy. If we’re in the car, she stares down the steering wheel at every stoplight like it should be him driving instead of me.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you asked, and maybe you care.”
“Maybe? Of course, I care about Betty. I love her.”
“Are you eating or what?”
Why do you keep trying to feed me, you confusing, fucked-up villain?
The words sat at the tip of my tongue, begging to be unleashed. I had no energy for a fight, so I swallowed them. They tasted like poor decisions and a forlorn appetite.
My eyes tracked each bite of his. I allowed myself two and half seconds of misery before I turned away from the food and clutched my phone like it was my only connection to Ben. (It was.)
“No,” I forced myself to answer. “I’m not your charity case.”
Ben loved me.
Nash confused me.
And at the end of the day, lust was just a consolation prize for love.
For someone who thrived on confrontation, I could list avoidance under the “skills” column of my resume.
The construction worker glared at me beneath the sun’s harsh rays. “Again?”
I swiped the hair out my face, wishing I could flick some guilt off with it. “Last time. I swear.”
I’d said that the last four times I asked him to move it.
“A little to the left.”
“Maybe slightly lower.”
“Ohh… that’s too low. Higher?”
“To the right.”
Ninety percent sure the Prescott Hotels sign currently sat where it had started.
“Like this?” He shifted the hunk of metal higher above the entrance.
“Yes. We’re good.”
His relief slithered across his body. He took the opportunity to dismiss me with his back. Loitering by the double doors, I wished for a cigarette habit or something to keep me outside and away from the office, where the feeding saga continued in full force.
Nash brought me decadent dishes every day, and I declined every day.
My willpower resembled a starving puppy’s, jaw snapping open at the slightest whiff of food.
The sun brought spots to my eyes. Two delivery men jostled me out of their way. A giant chrome refrigerator sat on a trolley between them, Nash’s persistency written all over it.
What. The. Fuck.
My eyes fluttered with rapid blinks. I pinched my forearm—twice—to assure myself that I hadn’t hallucinated a damn fridge. Not just any fridge. One of those smart ones with a tablet built into the door.
Turning to the construction worker, I rubbed at my eyes and squinted at him. “Did you see that?”
He dipped his head down as if that would spare him my attention. “See what?”
“Never mind.”
Palming my phone, I pulled up the Eastridge United app.
Durga: What’s the number for a good shrink? I think my boss needs psychiatric help.
Benkinersophobia: Funny. I feel the same way about one of my employees.
Durga: Fire them. Let me work for you instead.
Benkinersophobia: Consider this your job offer—forty hours a week, easy access clothing only. I’ll allow kneepads given the labor requirements.
His next text came right after.
Benkinersophobia: Really, though, you good?
Durga: I will be.
Durga: I missed you this weekend.
Benkinersophobia: I spent the weekend with family. Usually, I can message you fine, but my mom’s hiding something from me. I spent the past few days trying to figure it out.
Durga: Did you?
Benkinersophobia: No, but I will. I always get what I want. You should know this by now.
Durga: You sound like my boss.
Benkinersophobia: Fuck your boss.
I already did.
Benkinersophobia: (The curse not the verb. Don’t actually fuck your boss.)
Too late.
My fingers flew across the keyboard until a shadow darkened the screen. Two shiny chestnut loafers entered my vision. I trailed them to their owner.
Not again.
That same déjà vu tickled my head, begging me to listen to it.
You know Brandon from somewhere. Figure it out. This is important, Emery.
Still nothing.
“I’m not interested.” Rough heartbeats ate their way up my throat. Pocketing my phone, I quirked a brow and played it cool. “Can’t take a hint, Mr. Vu?”
“Mr. Vu is my father.”
“Mr. Vu is also you. Great conversation. Let’s never do it again.” I feigned left and swerved right, feeling like the next Odell Beckham when Brandon fell for the juke.
“Miss Winthrop, we have to talk.” His fingers curled around my wrist, releasing when I jerked it away. “This is important. You’re not in trouble.”
“No shit.” I swiveled and snapped my glare to him. “I’m well aware I didn’t do anything wrong. I didn’t break any laws. I don’t care about whatever three-lettered government agency you came from. It means nothing to me. You mean nothing to me.” A bruise would form around my wrist, but I refused to cradle it. “You’re looking at the wrong Winthrop, and newsflash, I haven’t seen my dad in years. I have work to do. Have a shitty day. I know I will.”
The metal door handle cooled my palm, but I still ran thirty degrees hotter inside. I pivoted and staggered back when my eyes caught and held Nash’s through the door’s reflection. His narrowed eyes flicked from me to Brandon and back to me.
Two fingers toyed with the cuff on one hand, like he was gearing for a fight. Being his victim appealed less to me than a conversation with the S.E.C.’s lapdog, so I swung the glass door open and shouldered past him.