Chapter 14

FIVE MONTHS LATER

You know the phrase,"I'd take a bullet for …" whoever—your best friend, your child, your spouse, your sister?

People love to use that as the modern standard for declaring their level of devotion.

I'm going to propose we change this.

I mean, why is taking a bullet so hard anyway? Painful, certainly, but statistically unlikely for most of us.

I propose we change the phrase to, "I'd wear Spanx to a party full of strangers for you."

That feels way more likely to happen, arguably just as painful, and (depending on how good a shot your opponent is) potentially a longer time commitment.

Even if it doesn't catch on, this is how much I love my sister. I am wearing Spanx at a party full of strangers for her.

Of course, it's her engagement party and I'm her maid of honor, so not showing up would be kind of a dick move.

After Savannah finally met Ian in person, they both fell hard and fast. Maybe it's because they were so isolated and living so close together for so long, or maybe they were just both lucky enough to know right away.

From the time they met in person to the time he proposed was less than two months. That was three months ago. So, yeah, it took more time to plan this party than it took for them to fall in love.

The party is at Le Petite Bistro, ironically. Because Ian is a tech hotshot in Austin, the guest list is long and intimidating. Thank god, Ian must have known how out of my league this event is, because someone on his staff sent over a selection of dresses for me to choose from.

I ended up picking a black, body-con, cape dress. It's elegant enough that I fit in with this high-rolling crowd, but the flowing cape makes me feel ever so slightly like a Sith lord. He even sent a pair of stacked-heel, Mary Jane Doc Martens. The pièce de résistance is the black leather clutch he sent along that has Vader helmets embossed on it.

I feel like someone had it made just for me.

Which is one of the reasons I'm clutching it like I'm a toddler with her lovey. It's soothing to have some tiny piece of something that feels like mine in this sea of unfamiliarity in which I've found myself.

The sea of unfamiliarity being my sister falling in love with and getting engaged to one of the most eligible bachelors in Austin.

Since Ian came into her life, her world has been flipped upside down. To a much lesser extent, mine has as well. I didn't realize how much I worried about her until she was suddenly out of debt and actually happy. Of course, the money is a tiny part of it, for her anyway. I have no doubt she would love Ian even if he wasn't rich. Having her lawyer's fees vanish like the physical body of a dead Jedi … well that's a bonus.

Marrying Ian is everything I could have ever wanted for her.

I just can't help but feel … ever so slightly … superfluous to her life all of a sudden.

Which of course makes me feel like a horrible person. Because her love and happiness are what matters here.

And it's not like I won't still be her sister. It's just … if this is her social crowd from now on? Holy smokes am I ever out classed! I've been trying to make polite conversation with these people all evening and it's exhausting.

Thank goodness the wedding itself is going to be much smaller. Two weeks from now, Ian is flying us all down to some swanky resort in Belize for a week on a private island. The guest list there is limited to only the wedding party, families, and a few close friends.

Which should be wonderful and relaxing and not at all sheer torture as I try to avoid running into Martin when we're trapped together on a deserted island!

Cluck my life.

And then, just like the devil he is, the mere thought of him seemed to have summoned him, because there he is, across the room by the entrance, talking to a couple that look like they could have stepped out of a magazine.

The man is ruggedly handsome, the woman so beautiful she has to be an actress.

Martin pauses when he sees me. He's in a suit and stops with his drink half way to his mouth.

My heart seems to clench in that moment when our gazes catch from across the room. His gaze roams over me, like he's drinking in every detail. He swallows visibly and I swear I see the muscle in his jaw tick from across the room. But that's ridiculous, right?

A) I don't have super vision, so how could I have seen that, and B) if he looked at me the way I imagined he did, it would imply he's missed me.

And surely if he's missed me, he would have done something about it before now.

Ergo, I must be imagining it, since he looks amazing and my heart is a traitorous, needy bitch.

He nods at me before finally taking a sip. I turn away quickly, because giving my imagination free rein is not helpful!

I slip into the crowd and make my way over to the bar to order myself a gin and tonic, which—damn it!—is now my favorite drink. Not that I have money in my budget for things like gin. Or tonic for that matter. But since it's an open bar paid for with a tiny fraction of Ian's sizable wealth, I might as well enjoy it while I can.

Unfortunately, the second I step away from the bar, drink in hand, Martin is there.

Damn it! Did I Beetlejuice him into existence by thinking about him too much?

"It's good to see you, Princess," he murmurs with that smirk of his.

It's amazing to see you.

It's horrible to see you. Soul crushing.

Why are you here? Why are you the best friend of my sister's fiancé?

Is this what the rest of my life is going to be like? Just casually running into him and having my soul run through the meat grinder when I least expect it?

"You, too," I manage to choke out.

See? I can do this. I can make polite conversation with him despite the fact that his mere presence in my proximity sucks all the air out of the room.

"You look great."

"Thank you."

Look at this … totally natural conversation. I am nailing this.

Except just then, the bartender finishes making the drinks of the person who was in line behind me. I see the person in my peripheral vision a second after Martin does.

Like the perfect gentleman he is, he slides his hand to the small of my back to steer me out of their way.

He barely touches me—and it's not even skin to skin—but I feel the heat of it through the layers of fabric. I feel branded by his touch. Like there's a path, that leads straight from wherever he touches me to the warm gooey center of my soul that I try so damn hard to keep hidden from others.

And what is even the point of wearing Spanx if it's not going to protect me from unwanted assaults on my gooey center?

"Look, Trinity, I wanted to?—"

Since I'm completely unprepared to hear about what he wants, I cut him off, lurching into the first topic that comes to mind.

"Yeah, this dress is great, right? Ian sent over options for me to pick from. Wasn't that thoughtful of him?" I give a little shimmy to show off the outfit. "And the best part is the purse." I hold it up to show it off. "Can you believe he found this? I'm obsessed with it."

Yeah, I know I'm babbling, but I can't seem to stop, because at least if I'm babbling about nonsense then I don't have to talk about anything that matters. Or hear him talk about anything that matters and I'm not sure which would be worse.

Martin sighs, his expression a little sad, as if he sees right through me and knows what I'm trying to do—because of course he does. His lips twist a wry smile that almost reminds me of his smirk. But it lacks the humor.

How did I miss before now how much humor his smirk held?

"How are things at Precious Meadows?" he asks, segueing to something less personal.

"Good." I'm nodding, relieved he's letting me set the tone. "Would you believe Stacy was transferred to their Lakeway location? The new day manager is amazing. She's excited about the therapy proposals I've made and …" I trail off, suddenly suspicious. "How did you know I'm back to work at Precious Meadows?"

"I didn't." He takes a sip of his drink, scanning the crowd like he's looking for a way out of the conversation.

"But you did." I touch his arm to draw his focus back to me. "The last time we saw each other, Stacy had kicked me out over the bird poop incident. My practicum and all my research was at risk. But just now you asked how things were going as though you knew I was back to working there."

He meets my gaze now, just looking at me in silence.

"Did you …?" Except I don't even know how to phrase the suspicions that are swirling around in my mind. "… Intervene on my behalf?"

"I can't imagine what you think I could have done on your behalf." His expression gives away nothing.

And suddenly I feel like I'm back in his office that day months ago when I threw accusation after accusation at him and he refused to engage. When he refused to comment on anything or admit to anything.

I wanted so desperately to understand what he was thinking. Why he did the things he'd done. How he felt about me.

But he gave away nothing. He said nothing. I wanted him to …

I don't know. Make some dramatic sweeping declaration about how he'd done it all for me. And instead he just … lawyered everything. Broke down everything into its simplest, most logical explanation.

It was like trying to drill through solid rock using my head as a drill bit. Or maybe using my heart. That gooey center of mine that has almost no protective shell on the best of days.

That day—that conversation—nearly wrecked me.

It took me weeks to recover from him.

Oh sure, I went about my daily life. I cared for the hens. I showed up for my meetings with my advisor. I stress vomited over how I was going to put together a new practicum without adding years onto my timetable. But I didn't enjoy any of it.

I mean, not that anyone enjoys stress-vomiting.

My point is this: I was a damn wreck after the fight Martin and I had in his office about the … well, about everything.

And I don't think I can go through that again. I can't once again bust open my skull trying to working my way past his walls only to find myself on the outside again.

I take a step closer to him and lower my voice, dropping all pretense of being casually friendly.

"Look, Martin, I can't do this."

"Do what?"

"I can't pretend to be polite to you. I can't pretend I barely know you for the sake of keeping up appearances or whatever this is."

"That is not why I came over to talk to you."

"Isn't it? Because clearly you don't want to talk about anything meaningful. You refuse to explain anything to me. So talking to you is like trying to have a conversation with a Roomba; you're bumping into things you don't want to talk about and then dodging out of the way."

He doesn't even bother to deny it.

He just gives me one of those slow blinks that leaves his expression shuttered and distant.

Despite the crowd surrounding us, I want to grab his shoulders and shake him. I want to make a scene. I want to throw a drink in his face and storm out.

Not that I would actually do that at Savannah's engagement party.

Instead, I just keep talking in the same ostensibly calm voice. It's the voice I've cultivated to soothe chickens and elderly dementia patients.

"I know we have to get along for the next month. Because you're the best man and I'm the maid of honor. We have to be polite at least until after the wedding. But let's keep things as distant and impersonal as possible."

Suddenly my damn Spanx feel too tight because I'm having trouble breathing. Or maybe there's just not enough air in this room. That must be it. The HVAC clearly isn't rated for this many people.

Of course Martin doesn't look like he's having trouble breathing at all.

Damn him and his cool, collected-ness.

"It would be for the best if we just pretend we don't even know each other. And that our one night together never happened."

"I don't know that I can do it."

"Well, you're going to have to. Because it's really important to me that Savannah's wedding be perfect. She deserves this."

"I agree. They both do."

"The wedding is basically a long weekend. And it's at a resort, right? So I'm sure we can avoid each other. I can be polite for that long. And then we'll never have to see each other again."

Before he can respond, I turn and stomp away, my Dr. Martens clopping with each step.

Surely this should feel better than it does.

Shouldn't there be a These-boot-are-made-for-walking sort of glee that goes along with walking away from an ex in a crowded room when you know you look good doing it?

There should be, but there isn't.

Instead, I am a hundred percent glee-less.

All I want is to go home, strip off my Spanx and climb back into bed.

I speed run through my goodbyes and my excuses for leaving early. Savannah is almost too busy enjoying her party to notice I'm leaving, let alone that I'm upset. As for Ian, he's lost in gazing lovingly at Savannah like she's the Disney princess to his woodland animal.

It's not until much later, when I'm at home, rewatching my favorite episode of Doctor Who (the one with Vincent Van Gogh, because it's as good an excuse as any to cry while eating ice cream in bed) that I realize I never thanked Ian for the dress and shoes and the perfect purse.

Since I don't yet know Ian well enough to text him, I shoot a quick text to Savannah.

The party today was amazing!

Thanks! I'm so glad you made it!

I didn't get a chance to thank Ian for sending me the dress, shoes, and purse.

????

The dress I was wearing …

Did he not tell you about it?

I have no idea what you're talking about.

Three days ago, I got a package that said it was from his office

It had three dress options, shoes and a purse for me to choose from to wear at the party

Um … not from Ian.

But the note said it was from him

I just asked him and he has no idea what you're talking about.

Though you looked amazing!

Thanks

I think …

But if Ian didn't send it, then who did?

Yeah. Like I don't have the answer to that question.