Love Emerged (17 page)

“You’re beautiful,” I tell her because I can’t hold it in anymore. I’m exhausted from fighting the feelings rising inside of me.

She steps back, and my hand falls at the same time as my stomach.

“Don’t, Dylan.”

“Don’t what?”

“We agreed. Platonic. Friends.” She twists on her shoes and starts walking to the street.

“Bea”—I jog to catch up to the few steps she got in front of me—“I wasn’t expecting anything.”

“I know, Dylan.” Her voice is low and unsteady.

“What the hell did I do wrong?” The hurt from Ava makes me assume that I did something else wrong.

“Nothing. It’s just . . .” She stops and turns to me, but she shakes her head. “Nothing.” She heads back to the street.

I catch a young couple on the park bench staring over.

“If you don’t tell me, I can’t fix it.” I’m desperate.

“Why do you have to fix everything? I’m not some car, Dylan.”

“That’s good because I don’t know how to fix cars,” I joke.

She clenches her jaw.

“Sorry.” I hold up my hands, hoping for some peace.

“It’s what men like you do. You want projects. Well, people aren’t projects, and you can’t fix me, Dylan. I’m unfixable, okay? I’ve tried to respect that you don’t want to just fuck around, so respect the fact that I don’t do relationships.”

She closes her eyes for a moment, and I step forward to comfort her. Why I continue to torture myself with women that don’t want me is confusing to me.

Before I can reach out to her, her eyes flash open, showing a cloudy anger. She holds her hand up in the air, and a taxi stops along the curb.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says as she moves toward the yellow cab.

“Bea, can’t we talk?”

I follow her, but she slides in and shuts the door.

Through the opening of the cab window, she looks at me. “We just did.”

Then, she directs the cab driver to where she’s going, and all that’s left are the taillights of the taxi blending in with hundreds of cars travelling down Michigan Avenue.

“What the fuck just happened?” I whisper to myself.

Bea

I SWALLOW THE DRY LUMP
in my throat as my taxi pulls into the traffic of a Saturday night in Chicago. I’m confused about what Dylan thought he was going to do. Compliment me, and all would be right in the world? That saying, “You’re beautiful,” would replace all the negative insults my mom is about to say to me in a half hour? Not the case. I’m not some charity who needs Dylan’s healing words to cure me. All I need from him is his dick to make me come and forget all this shit jumbled in my head. Of course, I want the one guy who can’t do friends with benefits.

My phone rings in my sweatshirt, distracting me from my thoughts of self-despair. “Hello?”

“Let’s meet at your hotel.” My mom is on the other line.

I’m not sure why she wants to be at my scaled down hotel that she spit at this afternoon.

“Why?”

“I want a change of scenery.”

“Oh, you want to see how the little people live?”

“Stop it, Bea. I need to get out of my room.”

I roll my eyes at her annoying antics. She has some reason she wants out.

“I’ll meet you at the restaurant.”

“Great.” Her voice changes to cheery, as it usually does when she gets her way. “See you soon.”

“Yep.” I hang up the phone and tell the taxi driver to take me to the Hilton while I stare out at the people milling around the streets of the city. Couples and families leisurely stroll to restaurants or bars, laughing, smiling, and having fun.

I’ve always been good at putting on a front, but with Dylan, I’m struggling to cement the facade. He might be the only one who sees how transparent I am, and it’s terrifying.

I swallow down my fear of him becoming too close, and I concentrate on all the reasons not to open myself up to him. He doesn’t need to be my savior because I don’t need one. He portrays himself like some damn prince, and if I let my hair down, he’ll climb up and rescue me. Well, this girl doesn’t need rescuing.

The taxi pulls up to my hotel, and even though I know for certain that Dylan wouldn’t have beaten me, I search the area to double-check. People like Dylan don’t take no for an answer.

I give the doorman a tip with a pleasant smile and walk through the revolving doors. I go upstairs to my room to change since my mother would be embarrassed if I happened to dine with her in my sweats.

While I’m in my room, I check my phone a few times, swearing to myself each time it shows I have no calls from Dylan.

A half hour later, I’m taking the elevator down with my hair done, wearing a sundress I brought on the off chance that Dylan and I went to the beach. I safely arrive at the hotel restaurant without spotting him anywhere.

I approach the hostess and can already tell we might struggle with getting a table.

“Hi, there will be two of us,” I tell the nice girl, who is a little older than myself.

She glances at the list in front of her, lightly shaking her head to herself.

“Oh, we can probably seat you in about”—she pauses, as though she’s trying to work a miracle—“two hours?” Even that sounds like a question.

“Bea.” I hear a shrill voice behind me.

“Hold on one sec,” I say to the hostess.

I greet my mother with a kiss to both cheeks. “They can seat us in two hours,” I tell her.

“Unacceptable.” My mom bypasses me and goes right to the hostess because, surely, she’s more important than any other guests who were wise enough to make reservations.

“No, ma’am, I’m sorry.”

I like it that the girl holds her ground. My mom is no simple feat.

I stand next to my mom, checking all the packed tables with waiters and waitresses shuffling back and forth with trays of drinks and food. As I scan the room, I do a double take on a set of eyes pinned on me.

“Shit,” I mumble.

My mom shoots her head my way. “What?”

“Nothing,” I tell her. From the corner of my eye, I see him walking toward me. “Let’s just go somewhere else. Isn’t there another restaurant here?” I tilt my head, as though he won’t know it’s me.

“Yes, there’s a café on the next floor down.” The hostess makes it sound like that’s our best bet.

I would agree if my mother’s fire breath wasn’t directed down my throat.

“Café? I’m not eating at a café.” My mom’s face contorts into some sort of disgusting image.

“Bea,” Dylan says, standing a foot away from me, “no tables?”

I push back my ego. “Not for two hours. But we’re going down to the café.”

My hand lands on my mom’s arm, and I step back. If she were half of a mother, she’d read my body language and the fact that I needed to run out of here.

“No, we are not. Hello, I’m Caroline, Bea’s mother. Who are you?” My mom barges in between the two of us, pushing her hand out in front of Dylan.

“Hi, ma’am. I’m Dylan McCain. I work with Bea at Deacon Advertising.” Dylan’s perfect white teeth shine and he shakes my mother’s hand with barely a swing of motion.

“So, you are the coworker she came to Chicago with?”

I watch my mom’s eyes roam over his body.

“That’s me.”

“I see why she was hiding you away.”

“Mom,” I sigh.

“Please, why don’t the two of you take my table?” He looks over to the hostess. “Would that be okay?”

She nods, but I absolutely am not accepting his invitation.

“Not unless you join us,” my mom says.

I close my eyes, wishing for some magic dust to make me invisible.

My eyes open.

Dylan’s staring directly at me. “No, ma’am, but thank you.”

She glances back at me, narrowing her eyes, and then links her arm through his. “Don’t worry about boring Bea. She’s just temperamental this evening.”

I inhale a deep breath, searching for peace. Dylan glances over his shoulder at me, his eyes swimming with apology.

At the table, my mom situates herself next to Dylan, and I sit across from him. It’s like choosing to sit in front of the Evil Queen or the Beast. Well, that’s not fair. Dylan isn’t a beast, but if I ignore his prince personality, it’s easier to stay away. Then, he smiles at me, and those dimples undo me every time. I guess I made the wrong decision by having him in my direct line of vision.

“Bea!” my mom exclaims, making a few heads turn our way. “Look at those dimples.”

“Uh-huh,” I mumble, staring into my menu to divert my own stomach from flipping.

“You must claim all the girls’ hearts with one look using those dime-size indents.”

“Not all,” he says.

I tip my menu down in shock.

My mom looks between the two of us and waves me off. “Bea has different tastes. She likes the high-power men who treat her like shit. Don’t you, dear?”

She’s not looking my way though. Actually, she’s only looking at Dylan and then the young waiter who has stopped at our table.

“Man, oh, man. I need a fan with all the hotness around me,” she says.

I slam my menu down on the table, and all their eyes peer over at me.

I look at the waiter’s name tag. “Mike, I’ll have a vodka tonic, extra lime, and the tilapia with roasted vegetables.”

He scribbles it down and nods.

“Bea, we should do courses.”

“I have an early morning, Mom,” I lie because this dinner will be excruciating at best.

“She’s such a bore, Dylan. Hence, the nickname.”

“The one you gave me.”

Dylan’s eyebrows rise up in the air at the animosity between us. He clears his throat. “Please, Mrs. Zanders, go ahead and order.”

“Ha, Mrs. Zanders. Not ever. I’m in between men right now, so you can call me Caroline only.”

She touches his arm, and my head falls back.

“Okay, sweetie.” She gives the waiter her attention and points to the menu. “Unlike my daughter, I’m not going to drink like a middle-aged man. I’ll have a glass of chardonnay and the tuna, medium.” She closes her menu and hands it over the table.

Dylan goes ahead and orders, and we all sit there in silence for a second.

“So, Caroline, are you from Chicago?” Dylan asks an innocent question. An innocent question that will gain him more information about my life.

“Oh God, no. Bea was born here.” She looks at me with love, as though my birth was the happiest day of her life. More like a nightmare. “But I mostly live overseas, in Europe.”

“Nice. Whereabouts?”

Okay, Dylan, you can stop inquiring anytime now.

“France, London, but I’m leaving for Spain tomorrow.”

“You’re what?” I practically spit out my sip of water.

“I’m meeting a friend.” Her lips turn so high that her crow’s-feet show around her eyes.

“What about Dad?”

“Honey, there’s nothing I can do for your father.”

My breathing halts, and my voice locks in my throat. As I concentrate on taking deep breaths, a fury burns through me. I’ve taken her shit and her insults and never wanting to be around, but this? She can’t even be here for me.

“What about me?” I wish I could take back my words once they leave my mouth because it makes me sound whiny and childish.

“Sweetie, you can handle yourself.” She looks over to Dylan. “Sometimes, she can be needy.”

Dylan says nothing, his eyes solely on mine. “You okay, Bea?” he asks.

“She’s good,” my mom assures him, patting my clenched hands around the edge of the table.

I should have known she wouldn’t notice my white knuckles.

“Always is,” she adds.

“Always has to be,” I correct her.

“Come on, Bea. Your father doesn’t want me here.”

My nose begins to tingle, my eyes burn, and then panic hits me because I’m on the verge of crying.

“Excuse me.” I stand up, tossing my napkin on the table.

Dylan moves to stand, but I’m up and out, searching for the restroom sign before he has a chance to do a gentlemanly act.

My footsteps rush toward a serenity absent of my mother. She brings out the evil in me, but there’s still a dying need buried so deep that wants her love, her approval, her heart. If only she’d give it to me.

There’s only one person who’s ever been able to calm me down when it comes to my mom, so I pull my phone out and dial Piper.

It goes right to voice mail.

“Hey, Pipe. Call me when you get a chance.” My voice breaks at the end, and I hope I won’t make her nervous of my well-being.

After a few rants in front of the mirror and more deep breaths, I escape the confines of safety and go back to the warpath of my mother.

But not before I find our waiter walking by.

“Listen, Mike, I’ll give you five hundred dollars if you get me out of here in half an hour.”

He smiles and nods. “Done.” He abandons the table he was about to approach and moves back to the kitchen.

As my dad always says, money can buy you anything.

As if my night couldn’t get worse, when I return to the table, my seat is occupied. I’d recognize that molded hair anywhere—Austin. He’s shaking Dylan’s hand in the exact moment I find him, and my heart sinks to my stomach. My feet freeze in the middle of the restaurant with servers sauntering around me with full trays. The tears I just fought come back in a flood, and I quickly realize there’s no way I can keep all this from Dylan. He’s about to find out every secret from my past.