Ties (23 page)

What the hell have I done?

19
RYAN

“What the fuck?” I kick an empty cardboard box across the warehouse when I finally get a return text.

I’m sorry. You have to know that. Trust me. This is for the best.

Darryl and Simon have been giving me a wide berth, and I know I’ve been a pure asshole to work with. It’s been over a week since I took Hattie out on the boat. Over a week since we had sex, since she handed me her virginity, which I--like a complete fucking idiot--took to mean that she’d drop the whole bullshit rules game and admit what we are to each other.

She was quiet when we jumped off the deck to swim in the chilly, deep water, and I thought she was holding me tight because it was a little freaky to be that far out late in the evening, floating on the wide, dark ocean.

When we got back on deck, I licked every inch of her salty body and she straddled me, determined to ‘do it herself.’ There is absolutely nothing in the world sexier than a confident, gorgeous woman riding you, wet and naked. It was a perfect day, and I expected it to be the first of many.

But she disappeared on me, and all I have left is the memory of that frozen time we spend together, attacking my brain and driving me crazy day and night.

The thought of that day still makes me hard. I want her so badly, I feel like a junkie going through withdrawals. I need to taste her, hear her voice, hold her against me.

But she dodged me for days, and, when I finally drove to Marigold’s place, she led me outside and said a bunch of bullshit that made zero sense then. It makes even less sense now. Then she told me to go. I assumed she needed time to clear her head. But it’s been silence from her until this mystery text.

“Why don’t you head out early today, Ryan?” Darryl suggests.

I jump at his voice. I’d been so wrapped up in being pissed at Hattie, I never heard him come in.

“I can’t leave you short-handed,” I say, knowing I’ve been useless the last few days.

“Forget it. I’ve got some counter guys begging for overtime. It’ll be good for them to get back to inventory. Take a rest. You need to be focused for the race anyway.” He nods my way, and I get the subtext:
You need to not be preoccupied because a lot of people are counting on you to not fuck up.

“Right. I guess I’ll go grab a bite. See you, Darryl.”

As I make my way out, I try her number again, but she ignores my call. I stare at my phone, wondering who the hell I can talk to. I only come up with one person, and it’s probably the one person I shouldn’t be contacting in this situation.

“Tommy? You wanna grab a beer? It’s on me.”

The combination of alcohol and freeloading is too much for my brother to resist. He’s waiting at O’Shea’s by the time I get there.

He raises his glass to me and I sit in front of my beer. I take a long sip as he protests.

“What! Are you insane? We didn’t even toast. We need to toast!” He glances at me and back at his brew. “Shit. Unless you didn’t call to initiate a toast.”

“Fuck it.” I raise my beer. “To letting your heart get broken by a girl who warned you she’d break it from the start.”

He clinks. “That’s deep, brother.” He drains half his glass and wipes his mouth with his hand. “Uh, I kinda got the story based on the toast, but I want you to know that in approximately two more beers, I will be drunk enough to listen without feeling all uncomfortable and weird. Five beers and I’ll sing bad breakup karaoke with you.”

“Another round,” I say to the bartender. Tommy guzzles his glass so he’s ready for the fresh one.

“So, are we talking long heart-to-heart like we’re chicks? Or a duet of ‘Boys Don’t Cry’? How deep is this wound?” He watches me from the corner of his eye.

“I’m in love with her. And she thinks I’m a loser piece of shit who doesn’t fit into her fucking successful life flow-chart.” I shrug and drink, enjoying the way the beer sands down all the sharp edges and makes the knife stick of my pain a duller ache.

“Uh, you have a job. She definitely gave all signs she wanted to hop on you all night long. What else was she looking for?” He roots around in the little bowl of nuts on the counter without eating any. Just because my brother likes to mess with shit.

“I don’t have the right job, I guess. She says I’m still chasing after things. That I haven’t settled down and accepted that life isn’t going to be one big race.” I roll my neck and shoulders, which have gone tight from too many nights of shitty sleep.

Sleep made shittier by the fact that she’s not in my bed, she’s not answering my calls, and she’s not letting me tell her why this is the stupidest idea she’s ever had.

“Um, metaphorically speaking isn’t life a race? A rat race? A race against time?” My brother laughs when I look up, surprised. “I’m not a complete drunken idiot. I have my moments.”

“You do. And we can use this moment to wallow in our mutual fucked-upedness.” I try to enjoy my beer, but I’m not having an easy time getting into it.

“Two things, though, real quick. One, you’re not fucked up. You actually have some skills and prospects. I, on the other hand, hold the flashlight and drive the van for Uncle Pat’s plumbing business. Two, are you giving up like a huge pussy?”

My brother has an enormous grin on his face when I shoot him a dirty look. “I’m a pussy? You had me here a few weeks ago when you were going freaking crazy over Jen.”

“Right. But Jen had another guy’s ring on her finger when I lost my shit. I assume Ms. Eastcoast College Prepster is still available? Probably available and pining for your wang.” He snickers again and drinks for a long time. “Fix shit, bro. Fix it before you don’t have a chance. Because, Hattie is no Megan. We were all doing the jig when that bitch left you.”

“Maybe I’m just not cut out for the relationship thing.”

Tommy shakes his head. “You were a magnificent manwhore. But looky here, Deuce Bigalow, there’s only so many bar rats you can bed in this small town. Don’t you want to do the right thing with some girl?”

“Maybe it’s not Hattie. Maybe I should just keep looking.”

“Oh.” He squints at me and drinks more, then raises his eyebrows. “So this is just the getting over her part?”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Uh, I mean you already gave up, so why the hell are we bothering to talk about getting back with her. I’m just trying to deliver the best pep-talk I can. So you want the ‘fuck her, there’s plenty of hot ladies in the sea’ speech, right? Cause I obviously came primed with ‘fight for the woman you love, and I’ll try to scrape together some bail money if you, for instance, punch some douchey fiancé in the effort.’”

“I don’t know, Tommy. Why are you being such a prick about this?” I snap.

He shrugs and goes back to his beer. But my brother never was one for keeping his mouth shut. “You know what your problem is? You’re so fucking stubborn. God, you definitely channeled all of Dad’s uptight bullshit.”

“Dad wasn’t uptight.” I nurse my beer. “He was conventional. And focused.”

“He was uptight,” Tommy says. “I mean, I loved him hard. I miss him like crazy. But you guys are two peas in the same tiny little, highly organized, ‘everything just so’ pod. I’m surprised Hattie didn’t see what a flowchart lover you really are.”

“Dude, I’m a competitive sailboat racer. You don’t get more adrenaline junkie than that,” I argue.

Tommy points at me with his beer glass. “Yeah, you race. All times and scorecards, rules, and diligence. You don’t, like, sail the open water or treasure hunt. You love rules.”

“Hattie loves rules,” I say, more to myself than to Tommy.

He finishes his second glass and reaches for mine. I pull it away, so he gestures to the bartender and takes a long swallow of his third beer.

“Then you two should be a match made in rulebook heaven. Go chase after her and explain why page seventy-three, section five, subsection A clearly proves that you two should be together.” He claps me on the back and walks toward the black karaoke book. “I think three
is
my singing number, Ry. How ‘bout ‘Do You Really Want to Hurt Me’? What was it about the 80s and romantic masochists?”

As my brother rifles through the pages, I think about what he said. And it has a glimmer of truth, I guess. Hattie and I are similar in ways. And different in others. What I loved about us is the fact that, when we get together, we’re better versions of ourselves.

Or, at least, I was a better version of myself. Maybe she wasn’t?

I stay at the bar long enough to watch my brother warble through a few awful love songs and finally jump off the stage and into the arms of a shy, smiling young woman. I asked her to text me from Tommy’s phone if he refused to call a cab later, but the way she blushes when she says ‘okay’ lets me know Tommy’s found another gorgeous woman to take care of him for the night.

I drive straight to Marigold’s but Hattie isn’t there.

Marigold smiles sweetly at me when she opens the door, “I think she’s at Cohen and Maren’s, hon.” She winks at my dejected face. “You know Cohen, right? My son’s best friend who lives down on Orchard Ave, right past the intersection of Albany and Straights in a little blue house around the corner from Senor Fish? That friend.”

I’m not sure why Marigold is giving me this information. The only contact we had was a few brief seconds at her birthday party.

She pats me on the arm. “We’ll be down at the pier to cheer you on for your big race.”

I feel my heart slam in my ribs because it feels so damn real. Hattie’s family--if not family by blood, family by love--coming to see me race? That’s solid. That’s not what happens when two people are about to split up.

“Thank you,” I say as I run back to my car, more hopeful than I’d been since the last time I held Hattie in my arms.

***

I pull up to the house and notice there are a few cars parked haphazardly in the driveway. I know I should wait until Hattie and I can be alone together to talk this all out, but Tommy’s pep talk and Marigold’s very sweet indication that I’m part of the family--at least on some level--has me revved up. I walk up to the door and knock.

Genevieve, the girl from the beach, swings the door open, holding a beer in her hand.

“Ryan!” she cries, then pushes me out onto the porch, glancing over her shoulder before she talks to me again. “Um, it’s really nice to see you again, but all the girls are kind of together for a thing. And I think Hattie is under the impression you two are one some kind of break right now. I don’t know all the details...”

She trails off and gives me a look that makes it clear she’d like to know more details. If I care to share some with her.

“Hattie broke things off with me. She gave some reasons that don’t make a whole lot of sense, and I want to talk to her, face to face. She’s been avoiding my phone calls.” I put my hands together like I’m praying. “Please, I just need five minutes.”

She nibbles her bottom lip. “Did you do anything to make her upset? Anything stupid? I swear you better fess up right now if you did, because my sisters and I will tear you to shreds if we find out you hurt her and lied to us about it.”

For someone so petite and cute, Genevieve Abramowitz is pretty freaking intimidating.

I put a hand over my heart like I’m some Scout. “I swear to you, I never hurt her. I...I love her.”

I only said those words to Hattie once, on the deck of the boat after we had sex. Saying them again out loud makes me nervous and filled with adrenaline all at the same time. I want to say them to Hattie again, and I want her say them back to me. I’ve never wanted anything so badly in my life.

Genevieve’s gray eyes go all soft. “Aw shit. You got it bad, don’t you?”

“I guess it’s pretty obvious.” I stick my hands in my pockets and give my best charming smile. “I just need her to know. Before it’s too late. I just need to talk to her.”

She holds the door open for me and points to the back of the house. “Kitchen. She’s chopping onions for the guacamole.”

I walk back to the kitchen and pass a serious-looking woman with Genevieve’s mouth and a dark-haired girl with round, blue eyes, staring at me like she’s debating calling the cops.

“Just here to say ‘hi’ to Hattie,” I reassure them.

I rush to the kitchen and see Hattie, her dark hair pulled back in a flipped ponytail, holding a huge, shiny knife, crying hard. Tears are streaming down her face faster than she can wipe them away with her wrist. I know it’s a side effect of chopping onions, but it rips at me.

I come up behind her and say, “I can do that for you.”

Hattie whirls around, the knife handle gripped in her hand, her eyes red and puffy.

What is it with the women I love pointing kitchen knives at me all the time?

“Ryan! How did you know I was here?” She narrows her eyes. “Are you following me?”

“No.” I reach for the knife, but she pulls it back. “You don’t answer my calls or texts. I stopped at Marigold’s to talk to you, and she mentioned you were here.”

“And then you, what? Hunted down Maren’s address?”

I realize my case isn’t looking all that good, and I’m not thrilled to have her thinking of me as a stalker.