“Actually,” she storms, “it isn’t. It’s simple. Tell me the truth. Who is he? Why is he here? Where have you been the last five years?”
This is spiraling out of control so quickly I’m not sure there’s a way to reverse course.
“Those questions might seem simple, but the answers to them aren’t,” I say, searching her face for some sign that she’ll let this go, but I know Adair better than that. She’s too stubborn to let anything go, especially when it comes to our relationship.
“Let me put it another way,” she says, “that’s the door.” She points to it. “Why don’t you go catch up with your friend? Come back when you’re ready to be honest with me.”
“I can’t tell you everything,” I say, adding quickly, “not yet.”
“And I can’t let another man lie to me, manipulate me, and treat me like I’m an idiot,” she seethes. “Not ever. Goodbye, Sterling.”
“Adair—” I begin.
“Goodbye.” There’s no room in her voice for further argument, so I do what she wants, hope it’s a sign of good faith to her, and leave.
Adair thinks she wants answers, but that’s something she has never understood. Sometimes a lie is kinder than the truth. Sometimes ignorance is salvation.
12
Sterling
The Past
The earthy scent of coffee wakes me. I open one eye to find a mug being held in front of my face. It’s at this point I discover someone has started a jackhammer in my brain. I wince, closing my eyes again and flopping against the couch.
“Leave it,” I groan to whatever saint has come to care for me in my final hours, because I have to be dying. “Actually, find me something harder to drink.”
The trick, I’m learning, is to not stop drinking long enough for the hangover to catch up with you. Some people call it hair of the dog. I just think of it as survival skills.
“That’s going to be a hard no,” Adair says sharply over the pounding in my head. “You’re drying out.”
Oh fuck. I roll to the side and open my eyes just enough to peek at her. She’s in one of my t-shirts, and damn, it looks good on her. The frown she’s wearing is meant to display her disapproval. Instead, the downturn of her lips forms a tempting pout. I should have known I couldn’t avoid her forever. I was stupid to think I could resist Adair. She’s not a temptation. She’s an inevitability.
“Did you…” I search the fuzz that is last night’s memories for her. “… stay the night?”
“You mean, did I watch over your drunk ass so that you didn’t die in your sleep? Yeah, I did that.” She places the coffee mug on the table and walks over to the window. A second later, the blinds open, and I blink wildly.
“Please, no,” I croak. “Less light or more booze. Your choice, Lucky.”
She huffs dramatically, but twists them closed again. “I don’t think you should call me that anymore.”
“It’s your name.”
“It’s not,” she snaps. “It’s the kind of thing that a boyfriend calls his girlfriend.”
Something swims back to me from last night. It involves that word—boyfriend—my fist and some guy. Sitting up, I realize that it’s not just my head pounding. I reach up to discover my eye is swollen. I don’t need a mirror to know I have a black eye.
“I guess my streak is over,” I mutter.
“What streak?” Adair crosses her arms and glares. It’s probably a move to look less interested, but I know she is. Why else would she still be here?
“Fighting. It’s been…” I do some quick mental math. “… almost a year and a half since I kicked someone’s ass.”
“Your streak is still intact. You mostly got your ass kicked,” she tells me.
“That’s not how I remember it.” More is coming back to me. I definitely gave as good as I got. Not that I expect her to know the parameters of what successful ass-kicking entails. People in Valmont probably still settle arguments with a gentlemen’s duel.
“Trust me,” she says. “I wasn’t impressed.”
Ouch. That hurts. Maybe she does know the perimeters, because impressing the girl? That’s pretty much the point. At least, when it comes to fights over girls.
“You told him to stop,” I say, recalling what triggered me.
“I didn’t need you to punch him.”
I throw my legs over the side of the couch. “I think that’s exactly what you needed.”
“No,” she says. “The last thing I need is some drunk guy causing trouble and nearly getting arrested.”
“Some drunk guy?” I repeat. “I hope you’re talking about…”
“Jeremy,” she fills in the blank. “I’m not. He wasn’t drunk.”
“What are you saying?” There’s a reason I’ve been avoiding her, because somehow, despite everything, we haven’t actually ended things. Sure, it was implied, and, yeah, I’d been the one to walk out on her.
But seeing her now, in a t-shirt that’s two times too big for her, her creamy legs on display, and her attitude turned up to eleven, I’m not sure I’m ready to commit to that.
“Look, I owed you one.” She grabs her jeans and starts to pull them on. “That’s all this is. I should get going.”
“Don’t,” I blurt out. She’s so surprised that she drops her pants, which is better for so many reasons. Standing, a sharp pain pierces my skull, and I grab my forehead.
Adair takes a step closer, remembers she hates me, and stops.
Now that I’m on my feet, I realize that the floor is oddly clear. I look around my dorm room. The empty bottles are gone. There are no dirty clothes on the floor. My books are back on the coffee table.
“Did you clean?” I ask in a confused voice.
“I am capable of cleaning, and I wasn’t about to sit around in your personal garbage dump all night.” She blows a strand of hair out of her face. Probably so she can focus her murderous gaze more intensely on me. “What is wrong with you?”
Where to begin? I have a choice to make. The best thing for both of us is to push her buttons until she’s walks out my door and never looks back. I don’t belong in her world. That’s clearer every second we spend together. I’m not even sure why she bothers if she’s just using me to get back at her father. In the long run, I’ll hurt her, and she’ll wreck me. Why not skip to the shitty part now?
Except that I’m as selfish as she is. I don’t want to save her the pain. I don’t want to save myself the pain. I want her for as long as I can have her.
“I told you I don’t drink.” I try a grin on her. Her face remains stony, but I think I see her eyes soften. “Can I have that coffee now?”
She picks it up and passes it to me. “Ready to dry out?”
“That’s probably a good idea,” I admit. “Look, you don’t have to stick around.”
Please do, though, I add silently.