All I can hear are voices on the other end of the line, but none of them seem to talking to me—or each other really. Mostly they’re talking over one another, so if these idiots are calling in with a tip, they aren’t leaving me with a stellar first impression.
“Unless she’s mapped out a small molecule inhibitor that addresses malaria, tell the minion I will be with her in one freaking second,” a woman says. A door slams loudly in the background. “I swear I will butter your little southern biscuit if you don’t stop telling me not to screw this up, Alec. How am I going to screw it up? I’m inviting the man to a party, not negotiating an arms treaty…Yeah, well it’s not my fault that the smart-ass who answers the phone for the Marshals acted like it’s a matter of national security to give me the man’s extension. And you didn’t hear me threaten him with bodily injury, did you? No, I resisted that urge. I’m the very picture of decorum and gentle breeding over here. You can practically hear my petticoats swishing under my fucking dress.”
Something in her voice teases my memory, but I can’t quite place why. She mutters another curse word and blows an air-kiss to whoever it is she’s bickering with, then finally speaks directly into the phone.
“G.I. Joe? Are you still there?”
A chuckle escapes me. Tara, of course. All those threats and the cussing make sense now. The only thing that doesn’t make sense is why Anya’s bestie is calling me. I’m guessing it’s not for a pleasant reason, and that doesn’t bode well for me. No matter how many years of self-defense training and weapons instruction I’ve had, I suspect that an unhappy Tara would give me a run for my money. And since the last time I talked to Anya, I made her cry, I’m probably already on Tara’s shit list. Chris advised me to give Anya some space, which is what I’m doing, but from Tara’s point of view, it might not look like that.
“I’m here. What can I do for you, Tara?”
“You can start by telling me that you’re free Saturday night.”
My social life isn’t exactly buzzing these days, but I’m not sure if it’s in my best interest to tell her that. Not when Tara might have arranged a firing squad for that night and I’m their guest of honor. Curiosity does me in, though, so I tell her I’m free.
“Good. Alec and I are hosting a little get-together after Anya’s showing at the Fenton gallery. The fancy-pants donor types will probably linger until about eight, so we’re thinking she’ll be ready for a drink and unstuffy people by around nine. That work for you?”
My forehead immediately creases, slowly putting together what Tara just said.
“Wait, did she… ” My voice trails off as everything falls into place. “Jesus, did she get that artist thing she applied for?”
“Do you mean the Fenton? AKA, the most prestigious artist-in-residence program in the Southwest? Why, yes, she did.” Tara pauses. “She didn’t tell you?”
I swallow thickly as too many emotions do battle inside of me. I can’t sort them all out, because I’m not only proud and happy, I’m hurt. Proud because Anya makes knowing her feel like a privilege, happy because I know how much she wanted this, and hurt because she didn’t share it with me. I do my best to put all of those feelings aside for a moment, even when I know they’re not going anywhere. It feels like Anya and I are too deep into whatever this is to walk away, but that doesn’t mean we’re going about it in the easiest way possible.
“No,” I admit. “I’ve been down in Texas for a while, though. Maybe she found out when I was gone or something.”
“She’s also convinced herself that being alone will protect her from getting hurt again, even when it’s obvious that’s a shitty plan.” Tara’s tone is wry but gentle. She clears her throat. “Anyway, like I said, nine o’clock. And this fete is a potluck and BYOB, so don’t show up empty-handed unless you want to see a bunch of starving artists and poorly paid academics run you out of the house with our plastic sporks. We aren’t exactly an athletic bunch, so you’ll get away pretty easily, but you can save us from getting short of breath by remembering to bring a covered dish.”
“Bring a covered dish and no one chases me with a spork. Got it.” Tara starts to say goodbye, but I realize there’s something I should ask before she does. “One other question before you go.”
“Yes?” she drawls.
“Does Anya know you’re inviting me?”
She snorts. “Of course she knows. This is not some idiotic romantic comedy in which I play the meddling best friend who supposedly knows what’s best for the plucky heroine despite her protests, okay? Even though I was born to play that role. I made a list of people to invite and she approved it.”
A thrill runs through me. I might be getting ahead of myself, but fuck it, I don’t care. I tell Tara thank you and truly mean it.
“Just make sure you’re there. She needs you to keep showing up, even when she’s trying to protect that beautiful heart of hers in all the wrong ways.” Tara sighs. “And don’t forget, BYOB. I am unaffected by your good looks, G.I. Joe. Your face, that body, and all those tattoos will not get you anywhere with me.”
“I wouldn’t dare,” I say.
I don’t care either way. I’ll bring plenty of whatever Tara tells me to because nothing about my feelings when it comes to Anya have changed. I still want her and believe in the two of us being able to grow this into something more—something real that we can both count on. And I’m willing to go wherever and do whatever it takes to make that a reality. I’ll even attend a potluck hosted by a woman who scares the hell out of me. All that matters now is getting another chance with Anya.
20
Anya
Tara’s house is as hot as an oven. And not even a full-size oven, either. More like a toaster oven.
The bungalow that she and Alec own is tiny to begin with, and it’s currently packed to the rafters with people. All the windows are open, as is the front door, but with this many bodies crammed inside a dollhouse, nothing is going to help.
I stare longingly out the front door from where I’m sitting on the couch, fantasizing about making a run for it and disappearing into the dark, cool night air. Even though this party isn’t too crazy and I appreciate all the effort Tara put into it, my introverted side is clamoring for some relief. All I want to do at this point is go to bed, curl into a ball, and sleep for the next twelve hours or so. But there’s another reason I’m staring at the open door and trying not to cry.
I’m waiting for JT.
I’d hoped to see him already here when I arrived, convinced that if he was, it would mean that he hasn’t moved on. That no matter how stupid I’d been, his love is a steady, patient thing. That whether I deserve him or not, JT is still mine.
But it’s nearly ten thirty and he still hasn’t shown up. Every minute that ticks by feels like a reminder of my stupidity, of letting go of a man who is as close to perfect as another person can be.
My watery eyes drop to the plastic cup in my hand, still half-full of the margarita Tara poured for me an hour ago. And isn’t that just the shit? I’m surrounded by people I adore and who care enough to come celebrate with me, and I can’t even bother with getting drunk. In the kitchen, someone turns up the music and a moody cover of “Stay with Me” starts to play. The opening notes are nearly enough to do me in, just from remembering the night JT and I met, and how what was supposed to be one night of escape turned into something full of possibility.