She, Myself & I (38 page)

“So . . . um. You guys really aren’t going to have a wedding?” I finally asked.

“What? What did I miss?” Sophie asked.

“Mom and Dad are going to get married at one of those Vegas drive-through chapels,” Paige said.

“Tell me you’re kidding,” Sophie said.

My parents exchanged a look.

“I think that depends on you girls,” Mom said slowly.

It was our turn, my sisters and I, to exchange looks. Paige was contemplative, Sophie serene, and I knew that we were all in agreement.

“I think you should have your wedding here,” I said.

“Definitely,” Paige said.

“You can’t do it without us,” Sophie said.

“But . . . will you girls still be my bridesmaids?” Mom asked.

“On one condition,” Paige said. “We need to find nice dresses. Because so help me God, I will not stand up in front of everyone we know, fat, pregnant, and wearing shrimp pink satin.”

Mom laughed. “Okay, no shrimp pink satin.”

“Good, that’s settled. Now, what’s for lunch? I’m starving,” Paige asked, and she went to the refrigerator and began to rummage inside.

Chapter Forty-three

I timed my arrival at Versa for four o’clock so that I’d be able to get in to see Oliver before the rest of the waitstaff arrived. But some of the cooks were already there, chopping vegetables into neat piles, oiling the grill, and scraping their knives against a sharpener, a sound that gave me the shivers.

Ansel shot me a knowing look as I was lifting my hand to knock on the door.

“What?” I asked irritably.

“Nothing. Just stopping by to see the boss man?” Ansel asked. He grinned and stroked the sparse hair of his stupid goatee. In fact, Ansel had entirely too much facial hair, from the overgrown sideburns to the silly little mockery of a beard. His hair was so long, he wore it back in a ponytail when he worked.

“Is he in there?” I asked.

Ansel nodded. “Yeah, he said not to bother him. He’s going over the supplier’s accounts.”

I shrugged this off and rapped my knuckles against the door.

“Go away,” I heard Oliver yell. I opened the door and walked in.

“Didn’t you hear me, I said . . . oh. Mickey,” Oliver said. He put down his pen and looked at me. I could tell he was trying to gauge my mood. Was I going to yell at him? Cry? Offer up a blow job? “Come on in, close the door behind you.”

I pushed the door closed and then stood behind the visitor’s chair, my hands resting on the back. I wasn’t afraid—hell, I wasn’t even that angry anymore. The initial rage I’d felt had burned out quickly, leaving me with the sour aftertaste that comes when you realize that not only have you been taken advantage of, you left yourself open to it.

“Go ahead, sit down,” Oliver now said, his face opening into a smile, obviously deciding that charm was the way to go. I couldn’t really blame him—it was a technique that had worked beautifully on me in the past.

“No, I’m fine standing,” I said. The chair felt like a shield, plus it gave me a place to rest my hands, so that I wouldn’t undermine what I was about to say by crossing and uncrossing my arms or playing with my hair. “And I’m not going to stay long. I just came by to tell you that I’m quitting. Effective immediately.”

The smile vanished. “You’re on shift tonight.”

I nodded.

“Well, you can’t just quit on me, it’s unprofessional,” Oliver said. Now a frown tugged his mouth down, and his eyes shone with disapproval. Manipulating bastard that he was, I knew it was just another ploy, only now he was playing on my sense of propriety.

“Yes. But not nearly as unprofessional as sleeping with two of your waitresses,” I said, holding up two fingers for emphasis.

“What? Is that why you’re upset? You know I’m not seeing anyone but you,” Oliver said. He stood up and came around the desk and reached out for me. I flinched.

“Don’t touch me,” I warned him.

He put up his hands, palms outward, and then leaned back against the desk. The chair was still between us. If I had to, I could knock him in the shins with it, an image I took comfort in.

“Talk to me,” he said, the charming smile back.

“Why are you pretending that nothing’s wrong? Your wife was here last night.”

“So?”

“Jesus, Oliver, I waited on her. It was mortifying, I kept feeling like I owed her an apology,” I said.

“I told you—we’re separated,” Oliver said. “You didn’t do anything wrong, and neither did I.”

“Are you separated legally, or just by distance? Because when you left together, the two of you looked pretty cozy,” I said.

Oliver shrugged and folded his arms together. “It’s complicated. We’ve been married for eight years, we have a daughter together.”

“Uh-huh. And how does Sarah factor into all of this?” I asked. I could see that my words surprised him.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Oliver said. “What does Sarah have to do with anything?”

“You’re fucking her,” I said.

“She told you that?”

“No. She didn’t have to.”

“She just likes to flirt with me, that’s all, that’s the kind of girl she is.” Oliver smiled and held out his hand to me. When I didn’t take it, he stepped forward, and leaning one knee against the chair, he slid his hands around my waist. Suddenly he was kissing my neck.

I couldn’t believe it, but my body was actually responding to him. How was it possible? I knew that he was a bastard, and even so my breath caught as his hands slid up under my T-shirt, stroking higher until he got to the lacy edge of my bra. It was one of the many lingerie sets I’d thrown money away on just to impress him, to turn him on. Remembering this was like being hosed with icy cold water.

“Kevin saw you with Sarah. Having sex with her. On the kitchen counter,” I said flatly, and pushed his hands down away from my bra, away from me.

“He’s lying.”

“No. He’s not.”

Oliver watched me for a minute, gauging my reaction. I stared back at him levelly, and finally he shrugged and smiled.

“Okay. Fine. Yes, I slept with Sarah. Just the one time, and it really didn’t mean anything. She was just there and . . . available,” he said carelessly, and it felt as though the breath had been sucked out of me. I realized then that I’d wanted him to deny it, wanted him to convince me that it was all a mistake—Sarah, his wife—and that what he wanted was me.

“Available,” I repeated. “And is that what I was, too? Available?”

“What do you want me to say? Come on, Mickey, I think it was pretty clear from the beginning that our relationship is largely physical,” he said.

My mouth was dry, and the lights in the office seemed overly bright, starkly boring down into me. But he was right. It had been clear, I’d just been intent on not seeing it.

“I should go,” I said abruptly, and I turned to leave, but Oliver reached out and grabbed onto my wrist.

I probably should have fought him, but, perversely, I wanted to see what he’d do, so I let him draw me close to him, pulling me up against him, trying to mold my body against his.

“Come on, this doesn’t have to end. We’re good together,” Oliver said.

I could feel his erection pressing against me, and I stepped back.

“No, we’re not, and yes, it does. Good-bye, Oliver,” I said.

He didn’t say anything, and I didn’t look back. I just swung open the door and walked out. Sarah was standing there, hovering just outside the door. Dark circles highlighted her eyes, and her mouth was tight and drawn in. When she saw me, she visibly winced and then drew her arms around herself, as if protecting herself from me.

I shook my head at her. “He’s not worth it,” I said softly.

“Yes he is,” she whispered back, and her eyes moved past me, into the office behind me.

Only then did I look back. Oliver was focusing his smile on Sarah with the same measured charm he’d directed at me, easily substituting in Girl Number Two. And even as it creeped me out, I was glad I saw it. Because as Sarah lit up, her sallow face pretty again, and she stepped around me, moving to Oliver, I was completely free.

Chapter Forty-four

“Do I look fat?” Paige asked. She turned to the right and then to the left, examining herself in Mom’s full-length cheval mirror. Sophie lifted her camera and snapped the shutter, catching Paige’s pregnant reflection in the picture.

“Hey!” Paige said. “Don’t do that. I was making a silly face.”

“You look adorable,” Sophie assured her. “And no, not at all fat. Good job on the dresses, Mickey.”

“Thanks, I thought they’d be perfect,” I said, feeling very pleased with myself. Our matching strapless navy blue cotton poplin dresses had fitted bodices and A-line skirts that fell just above the knees. I’d found Sophie’s and mine at Banana Republic, and then enlisted the aid of a seamstress to make a maternity version of the dress for Paige.

I nudged Paige to the side and examined my own reflection. My mom’s stylist had arrived at the house that morning, and after turning Mom’s head into an adorable mess of curls, he gave the rest of us casually elegant loose topknots. I touched my hair gently, marveling at how fake and sticky it felt.

“You’re going to mess it up if you keep playing with it,” Paige said.

I stuck my tongue out at her. “What time is the ceremony starting? And where did Mom go?”

“It’s starting soon, like in about fifteen minutes. And I don’t know where Mom went—I think she’s downstairs, greeting guests,” Sophie said. She snapped another few pictures of us: me patting my hair, Paige slicking on lipstick.

“Sophie, so help me God, stop taking pictures of me when I’m not ready,” Paige warned.

“The candid ones are always the best,” Sophie insisted.

“I’ll go get Mom,” I said, and slipped out of the master bedroom and padded barefoot down the hallway. I stood at the top of the stairs, peering down to see if I could catch a glimpse of ivory silk among the crowd of wedding guests milling around the house, and feeling shy about going downstairs in my bridesmaid getup.

As I stood there, shifting from foot to foot, trying to decide what to do, I saw Zack standing at the bottom of the stairs. He was slightly hunched over, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his pants. A small torn piece of toilet paper was still stuck to his jaw, covering a shaving nick.

“Zack!” I called softly. He didn’t respond, so I grabbed a paperback novel off the table by the stairs and tossed it down at him. It bonked him on the head, and he startled and looked up. I waved.

“Ow!”

“Oops, sorry, I didn’t meant to throw it that hard,” I said. “Can you see my mom around there?”

“I don’t see her. Do you know where Paige is?”

I hesitated and then nodded. “Up here.”

Zack bounded up the stairs. “Just so you know, I’m not crashing. Sophie invited me,” he said, looking sheepish.

“I think it’s great that you’re here. And . . . I think Paige will be happy to see you,” I said.

His face brightened. “Really? Because I’ve been going out of my mind, I miss her so much.”

“She’s been really upset, too,” I said, not feeling at all badly that I was breaking Paige’s confidence. I was doing it for her own good. “Here, come with me.”

I grabbed his hand and led him down the hallway. The door to my mom’s bedroom was half open, as I’d left it, and I rapped my knuckles on the door. “Is everyone decent in there?” I asked.

“Of course we are. What, do you think we stripped off our clothes in the two minutes since you’ve left?” Paige replied.

I rolled my eyes at Zack and then pushed the door all the way open.

“Paige, you have a visitor,” I said, leaning against the doorjamb so Zack could pass by me into the room.

Paige looked up, and her eyes widened and her mouth formed an O.

“Hi,” Zack said.

“Hi,” Paige replied softly. She’d gone very still, and with the afternoon light that filtered through the old-fashioned lace curtains backlighting her, I thought she’d never looked lovelier.

“Hi, Zack,” Sophie said, grinning. “Mick, what do you say you and I go downstairs and track down the bride.”

I followed Sophie halfway down the stairs before I realized that I was still barefoot.

“Crap. I left my shoes up there,” I said.