A Fine Mess (Over the Top) (20 page)

Better to do this now, before things get deeper, messier. If face time is needed, I’ll send the new designer to Toronto. I lived the bachelor life before, surely I can jump back in. Move on. Just like she will, in time. We’ll have a clean break. Which is exactly what my heart does at the thought. Breaks. Shatters.

Her strawberry lips won’t be mine to kiss. Her clothes won’t fill my shelves.

I’ll never be her superhero.

Gut churning, I push outside and cold air blasts my face, the shot of oxygen exactly what I need. I hop in my car and drive, too fast, too hard. The scenery blows by. Cars. Streetlights. Shadowed cliffs and ocean. An hour later, I pull off to the side of the road, my ears still roaring. I’m partway to Whistler, snowbanks piled high. There wasn’t a flake in the city, the gradual increase a tease for the main event on the mountain. I roll down the window and listen to the rush of waves below, the odd car slipping past. My nose stings from the blistering wind, but it beats the hollowness settling over me.

I look at the phone in my passenger seat, and my chest twists.

Maybe hollow is better.

One call and it will be over. There can’t be room for misinterpretation, no space left for her to say
what if
or
maybe
or
why
. A quick, sharp break. The more edges exposed, the easier it will be to mend. Push on. Move forward. With her support network, she’ll be fine.

She. Will. Be. Fine.

The emptiness returns, along with a dull ache that settles in my bones, heavy, like it’s hard to move. But I do. I grab the phone and dial, barely breathing, unsure there’s a power in existence that will put me back together after I devastate the person I promised to protect.

I stare at the open box on my bed, the lilac silk bra and underwear cradled in white tissue, their lace-trimmed edges sexy but sweet. Sawyer’s parting gift. He should be calling soon, his early dinner at Finn’s sure to be over. With the stress of Jim’s death subdued and my need to shop less acute, it will be our first chance to enjoy the tease of each other at a distance. His deep voice gets gravelly when he’s turned on, like rocks churning under water.

It turns my body liquid.

I grab the hem of my dress and drag it up, slowly, as if he’s in the room, my fingers skimming my hips. The cotton tickles my skin, and I press my thighs together. Angus & Julia Stone plays on my stereo, and I sway to the music, sensual circles as my dress comes off. Eyes closed, head back, I trace the band of my bra and unsnap the clasp. The material drifts down my arm, then I slip my underwear past my knees. When I have the lilac set on, I face the full-length mirror leaning against my wall. If Sawyer were here, he’d be behind me. Touching me. Looking at me. Telling me the things he wants to do to me.

Restless, water-churned rocks.

My skin still has a bit of a tan, a blush blooming on my chest and neck and up my cheeks. My blond hair cascades over my shoulders. I’ve always felt attractive, but not in a sexy way. Men sometimes notice me, and women compliment my eyes and skin. With Sawyer, though, I’m a seductress. Sensual. Powerful. I pull raspy groans deep from his belly, a chord written for me, by me, an ode to me. I make his body shake with pleasure.

Eager to hear from him, I grab my phone and lie on top of the sheets. I feather my hand over my belly, Julia’s angelic voice singing her version of Olivia Newton-John’s “You’re the One That I Want.” Fitting. I close my eyes and transport myself back to Belize, the blistering sun, laughing kids, and rustling wind fresh in my mind. Sawyer showing up. Sawyer kissing me. Sawyer confessing his feelings. We should go back there next year, stay in the same place. Swim with the sharks and rays through coral landscapes. Make love on a paddleboard. Drink margaritas. Eat only dessert.

If we feel it, we do it.
Live our pact.

I curl my fingers around the phone, willing it to ring, needing that deep voice, wishing he could see me in his gift. It answers on cue.
Mind control.
I must have absorbed those superpowers he jokes about.

Sure it’s him, I hit talk and say, “Guess what I’m wearing?”

Silence greets me, then a muffled sound, angry almost.

Brow furrowed, I stop touching my skin. “Sawyer? Is that you? I really hope it’s you.”

“It’s me.”

I exhale. “God, could you imagine if I answered like that and it was my folks? I would die.” I look down at my breasts, the silk and lace rising on an inhalation. “I love the gift. I’m wearing it now. And nothing else. I’m on my bed.” I bite my lip, readying myself for a typical Sawyer comment, something crude and funny, laced with desire.

Again, I get silence. Extended silence. Crackling-air-and-heavy-breathing silence. “Sawyer, are you all right?”

Then, “I’ve been thinking.”

I sit up, my half-naked body suddenly vulnerable.
I’ve been thinking?
Only bad things start with that line. Worry snakes up my spine. “Thinking about what? Did you have dinner with Finn?”

Another lengthy pause has me fisting my duvet and struggling to swallow. I must be reading him wrong. He had a long day, a flight, then dinner with two rambunctious kids. Plus the jet lag. Definitely the jet lag. That must be it.

He clears his throat. “I’ve changed my mind, Lil. I don’t want us to keep seeing each other. I got caught up in things, lost in the moment. I’m sorry if this hurts, but I promised I’d always be honest with you. I want to date other people. Settling down isn’t for me.”

Blackness clouds the edges of my vision, and my belly cramps. Something must have happened. A cataclysmic event. Catastrophic. A supervolcano or colossal earthquake, my foundation cracking and shifting. In Sawyer’s world, catastrophes only take one shape. “Is there someone else? Have you been with…another woman?” The last words barely make it out, my voice as shaky as my limbs.

“No.” Clipped. Unfeeling.

This is the Sawyer who brushed me off when I broke up with Kevin, unwilling to risk my heart. If he hasn’t cheated, there has to be another explanation, something that happened in the past twelve hours. Desperation speeds my words. “Then I don’t understand. This morning you were here, and everything was fine. You left me this gift. You waited for me at the appointment. You told me”—I swallow a sob, my throat like sandpaper—“you told me you loved me.”

“I do love you, Lil. I’m just not
in
love with you the way I thought I was.”

Each word slices through me, my chest on fire. It’s exactly what I said to Kevin, the exact way I described my stagnant feelings. I open and close my mouth as if to speak, but nothing comes out.

His voice starts back up, his once-seductive tone now thorns and spikes and rusty nails. “Most of what I did and said was to make sure you got help. After Belize, I realized I got caught up in the moment. I fell for the idea of us. I planned to flat-out tell you, but then everything happened with Kevin’s father. I knew something was wrong when you called. It didn’t feel right to end it then. Maybe I should have. Maybe I should have been honest. But I knew you needed help. I felt bad for you, and…” A pause, an eternity, then, “We’re both attracted to each other; that’s a no-brainer. I figured it wouldn’t hurt for us to enjoy ourselves if you were on the road to making changes in your life. Now that you have a therapist and things are getting sorted, you need to know; it’s not right for me to string you along. And don’t worry about seeing me. I’ll send Amal to the city in my place.”

My lungs cease to function. He
pities
me. He said he saw me, that my shopping wouldn’t affect us. That he
loved me
. His lies compound, my shame rising like a tidal wave, the roiling in my gut a sticky mess. Tears slip. “But the gift? Why would you do that?” He must hear my labored breaths, the break in my voice.

He’s not even fazed. “Lily, you know me. You’re a beautiful woman, and I love all women. We had a blast together. I saw the set, I thought of you, and I bought it. I didn’t think it through. Probably not the best idea, in hindsight. But what’s done is done. Fact is, I’m not in love with you. I love working together and hanging out, but I’m not a one-woman guy. I warned you when we decided to date. You knew the risks. I care about you deeply, enough to make sure you’re happy and healthy, but this ends now. I won’t be back to Toronto for a while.”

“But I… But we…” Oh, God.
OhGod. OhGod.
My silence extends. I can’t say good-bye, can’t acknowledge his words. His lies. How could he lead me on like this?

“Lily? Are you okay?”

Like he even cares. He babied me, pitied me like a helpless child. Used my feelings as an excuse…to what? Sleep with me?
Help
me? Every kiss remembered is poison, every promise toxic. Something in me shifts, like earlier with the girls when I couldn’t produce my fake laugh and fake smile and pretend I was fine, but this is deeper, visceral—my panic building into anger. Fury stirs. It coils around me, tighter and tighter, spiraling. Until it snaps. “No, I’m not okay. Nothing about this is okay. I trusted you. I let you into my life and shared the worst parts of myself. You lied to me. You used me. It’s one thing to warn me about your past, another to tell me you’re in love with me when you’re not. That’s what creeps do, Sawyer. Assholes. Because this? Right now? I feel used. Dirty. The Sawyer I fell in love with would never treat me this way. Like my feelings don’t count. He may have messed up, but he wouldn’t have lied. I just can’t…”

Believe I ever trusted you. Believe I fell in love with you.

Heaving, I lace acid into my voice. “
Don’t
call me again. Don’t text or e-mail me. As of now, I’m quitting Moondog. I wish…
God
, I wish I’d never met you.”

I hit end and toss my phone against the wall. Tears burn, then stream. I stand and tug at my bra, my nails cutting into my skin. Stumbling, I rip off my underwear, the lace scratching my legs. I try to focus on an antique in my room, but the stories jumble and blur, nothing sticking.

Nausea pulses through me.

My eyes land on the mirror, fresh tears spilling at my reflection. I’m naked, exposed, skin raw from tugging at Sawyer’s gift. My heart is raw from his lies. This isn’t a girl who overcomes. This is vulnerability and defeat, and I’m sick to death of this girl. Of my weakness. Sawyer claims he was trying to help me, but all he’s done is emphasize the chinks in my armor. My frailty. My instability. But my anger is new, too—uncharacteristic, foreign almost—and it fuels my determination. In the light of day, I’ll find enough courage to stay on track, mend my mind. Continue taking steps to change my life, despite what he’s done.

Exhausted, I crawl under my sheets, wondering how I could have read him so wrong. My hand floats to my lips. His last
I love you
was spoken against my mouth—lies I swallowed happily. The mending of my heart might take longer.

The next day my confidence slips. My need to shop spikes, so I keep myself indoors and binge-watch
Orange Is the New Black
, barely eating. By the afternoon my stomach rumbles, and I find a bag of M&M’s that Sawyer bought while staying here. We were in a convenience store, and we stood in front of the candy shelves while he grilled me with ridiculous questions. “Desert island,” he said. “If you had to choose between a Kit Kat and Mars bar, which would it be?” The obvious answer was Kit Kat, but we stood there like a couple of scientists, analyzing the virtue of each candy bar, from the thickness of the chocolate to the amount of crunch.

I grab the M&M’s and throw the bag on the ground. It splits, colored chocolates rolling every which way.
Damn him.
My sugar craving trumps my anger, and I sit on the floor, separating the pieces by color. I eat the greens and yellows and blues to fill the hole in my heart, then I spend the night listening to Regina Spektor with the lights out.

Pathetic.

Day two post-Sawyer isn’t much better. Unable to relive his call, I avoid Raven and Shay. I stick to my hunger strike while watching a full season of
House of Lies
. In the afternoon, I leave to buy more chocolate, avoiding all clothing shops. I make out with a Caramilk bar under my duvet, suddenly able to relate to Shay’s cupcake binge when Kolton broke her heart. But Kolton came back. He apologized. He wooed her. Sawyer won’t be wooing. He’s probably filling his nights with bars and women, not a thought for me. I bet he’s making those sexy groans I believed were mine. As angry as I am, I’m parched from missing him, too, a dry season with no rain in sight.

I inhale a Crispy Crunch.

By nightfall I’m marinating in misery, and my itch returns, the need to
buy, buy, buy
prickling under my skin. If I go shopping, surely the heavy pain will lift. If I buy a few things, I won’t want to disappear into my mattress. Inhale, exhale.
Damn him.
I focus on the muted ceiling, reviewing my session with Dr. Renford. When I told her I used to practice yoga, she lit up, suggesting I get back into it, that meditation and mindful practice can do wonders for mental health. I kick off my covers and unroll my mat on the floor. Wiggling my bare feet, I fan my toes and draw back my shoulders. Inhale, exhale. The first sun salutation is forced.

Inhale.
Sawyer lied to me.

Exhale.
He pitied me.

Inhale.
I’m weak without him.

Exhale.
I still love him.

I pick up speed. In nothing but my nightgown, I inhale thoughts of walking through a thrift shop and exhale loudly, my breath hissing through my teeth. I breathe in my call with Sawyer and let it whoosh out. My body moves, limbs following my breath, repetitive, reassuring. I let go of everything but the tension in my stiff legs, the rise and fall of my chest. Forty-five minutes later, I sit with my back straight, hands on my knees, exertion heating my skin. I revisit my trip to the farmhouse with Sawyer and the decision I made that day. The effort of taking Jim’s boxes and storing them and lying to Kevin’s face was exhausting, being caught in that lie humiliating. It was a new low, the fall to rock bottom cushioned by Sawyer. Still,
I’m
the one who fell.

And I’m the one who landed.

I made the choice to get help. I booked the therapy session. I spilled my story to Dr. Renford. Sawyer might have been present, but these decisions were mine.

My shoulders burn, my wrists sore from the yoga flow—an earned ache. Clarity lifts my posture until I’m on my feet, and I hurry to the phone and leave a message for Dr. Renford, asking for an additional appointment this week, then I crawl back into bed. I’ll do yoga daily, twice if needed. I’ll attend extra therapy sessions. I’ll look at my mirror until I like the woman staring back. I glance at my riding hat, the black felt helmet on my desk a daily reminder of many happy days at the stables:
A girl mounts a horse, her first ride since being bucked off.