It Ends With Us (3 page)

“Did you do it?”

I nod. “Yeah. This morning.” I sit up and pull my legs beneath me as I face him. “You want to hear it?”

He smiles. “Absolutely.”

I fold my hands in my lap and inhale a breath. “I had no idea what to say. About an hour before the funeral, I told my mother I didn’t want to do it. She said it was simple and that
my father would have wanted me to do it. She said all I had to do was walk up to the podium and say five great things about my father. So . . . that’s exactly what I did.”

Ryle lifts up onto his elbow, appearing even more interested. He can tell by the look on my face that it gets worse. “Oh, no, Lily. What did you do?”

“Here. Let me just reenact it for you.” I stand up and walk around to the other side of my chair. I stand tall and act like I’m looking out over the same crowded room I was met
with this morning. I clear my throat.

“Hello. My name is Lily Bloom, daughter of the late Andrew Bloom. Thank you all for joining us today as we mourn his loss. I wanted to take a moment to honor his life by sharing with you
five great things about my father. The first thing . . .”

I look down at Ryle and shrug. “That’s it.”

He sits up. “What do you mean?”

I take a seat on my lounge chair and lie back down. “I stood up there for two solid minutes without saying another word. There wasn’t one great thing I could say about that
man—so I just stared silently at the crowd until my mother realized what I was doing and had my uncle remove me from the podium.”

Ryle tilts his head. “Are you kidding me? You gave the anti-eulogy at your own father’s funeral?”

I nod. “I’m not proud of it. I don’t
think.
I mean, if I had my way, he would have been a much better person and I would have stood up there and
talked for an hour.”

Ryle lies back down. “Wow,” he says, shaking his head. “You’re kind of my hero. You just roasted a dead guy.”

“That’s tacky.”

“Yeah, well. Naked truth hurts.”

I laugh. “Your turn.”

“I can’t top that,” he says.

“I’m sure you can come close.”

“I’m not sure I can.”

I roll my eyes. “Yes you can. Don’t make me feel like the worst person out of the two of us. Tell me the most recent thought you’ve had that most people wouldn’t say out
loud.”

He pulls his hands up behind his head and looks me straight in the eye. “I want to fuck you.”

My mouth falls open. Then I clamp it shut again.

I think I might be speechless.

He shoots me a look of innocence. “You asked for the most recent thought, so I gave it to you. You’re beautiful. I’m a guy. If you were into one-night stands, I would take you
downstairs to my bedroom and I would fuck you.”

I can’t even look at him. His statement makes me feel a multitude of things all at once.

“Well, I’m not into one-night stands.”

“I figured as much,” he says. “Your turn.”

He’s so nonchalant; he acts as if he didn’t just stun me into silence.

“I need a minute to regroup after that one,” I say with a laugh. I try to think of something with a little shock value, but I can’t get over the fact that he just said that.
Out loud.
Maybe because he’s a neurosurgeon and I never pictured someone so educated throwing around the word
fuck
so casually.

I gather myself . . . somewhat . . . and then say, “Okay. Since we’re on the subject . . . the first guy I ever had sex with was homeless.”

He perks up and faces me. “Oh, I’m gonna need more of this story.”

I stretch my arm out and rest my head on it. “I grew up in Maine. We lived in a fairly decent neighborhood, but the street behind our house wasn’t in the best condition. Our backyard
butted up to a condemned house adjacent to two abandoned lots. I became friends with a guy named Atlas who stayed in the condemned house. No one knew he was living there other than me. I used to
take him food and clothes and stuff. Until my father found out.”

“What’d he do?”

My jaw tightens. I don’t know why I brought this up when I still force myself not to think about it on a daily basis. “He beat him up.” That’s as naked as I want to get
about that subject. “Your turn.”

He regards me silently for a moment, as if he knows there’s more to that story. But then he breaks eye contact. “The thought of marriage repulses me,” he says. “I’m
almost thirty years old and I have no desire for a wife. I
especially
don’t want children. The only thing I want out of life is success. Lots of it. But if I admit
that out loud to anyone, it makes me sound arrogant.”

“Professional success? Or social status?”

He says, “Both. Anyone can have children. Anyone can get married. But not everyone can be a neurosurgeon. I get a lot of pride out of that. And I don’t just want to be a great
neurosurgeon. I want to be the best in my field.”

“You’re right. It does make you sound arrogant.”

He smiles. “My mother fears I’m wasting my life away because all I do is work.”

“You’re a neurosurgeon and your mother is
disappointed
in you?” I laugh. “Good lord, that’s insane. Are parents ever really happy with
their children? Will they ever be good enough?”

He shakes his head. “My children wouldn’t be. Not many people have the drive I do, so I’d only be setting them up for failure. That’s why I’ll never have
any.”

“I actually think that’s respectable, Ryle. A lot of people refuse to admit they might be too selfish to have children.”

He shakes his head. “Oh, I’m
way
too selfish to have children. And I’m definitely way too selfish to be in a relationship.”

“So how do you avoid it? You just don’t date?”

He cuts his eyes to me, and there’s a slight grin affixed to his face. “When I have time, there are girls who satisfy those needs. I don’t lack for anything in that department,
if that’s what you’re asking. But love has never appealed to me. It’s always been more of a burden than anything.”

I wish I looked at love like that. It would make my life a hell of a lot easier. “I envy you. I have this idea that there’s a perfect man out there for me. I tend to become jaded
easily, because no one ever meets my standards. I feel like I’m on an infinite search for the Holy Grail.”

“You should try my method,” he says.

“Which is?”

“One-night stands.” He raises an eyebrow, like it’s an invitation.

I’m glad it’s dark, because my face is on fire. “I could never sleep with someone if I didn’t see it going anywhere.” I say this out loud, but my words lack
conviction when I say it to him.

He drags in a long, slow breath, and then rolls onto his back. “Not that kind of girl, huh?” He says this with a trace of disappointment in his voice.

I match his disappointment. I’m not sure I’d even want to turn him down if he made a move, but I might have just thwarted that possibility.

“If you wouldn’t
sleep
with someone you just met . . .” His eyes meet mine again. “Exactly how far would you go?”

I don’t have an answer for that. I roll onto my back because the way he’s looking at me makes me want to rethink one-night stands. I’m not necessarily against them, I suppose.
I’ve just never been propositioned for one by someone I would consider it with.

Until now. I
think
. Is he even propositioning me? I’ve always been terrible at flirting.

He reaches out and grabs the edge of my lounge chair. In one swift movement and with very minimal effort, he drags my chair closer to him until it bumps his.

My whole body stiffens. He’s so close now, I can feel the warmth of his breath cutting through the cold air. If I were to look at him, his face would be mere inches from mine. I refuse to
look at him, because he’d probably kiss me and I know absolutely nothing about this guy, other than a couple of naked truths. But that doesn’t weigh on my conscience at all when he
rests a heavy hand on my stomach.

“How far would you go, Lily?” His voice is decadent. Smooth. It travels straight to my toes. “I don’t know,” I whisper.

His fingers begin to crawl toward the hem of my shirt. He begins to slowly inch it upward until a slither of my stomach is showing. “
Oh, Jesus
,” I whisper,
feeling the warmth from his hand as he slides it up my stomach.

Against my better judgment, I face him again and the look in his eyes completely captivates me. He looks hopeful and hungry and completely confident. He sinks his teeth into his bottom lip as
his hand begins to tease its way up my shirt. I know he can feel my heart thrashing around in my chest. Hell, he can probably
hear
it.

“Is this too far?” he asks.

I don’t know where this side of me is coming from, but I shake my head and say, “Not even close.”

With a grin, his fingers brush the underneath of my bra, lightly trickling over my skin that is now covered in chills. As soon as my eyelids fall shut, the piercing of a ring rips through the
air. His hand stiffens when we both realize it’s a phone.
His
phone.

He drops his forehead to my shoulder. “Dammit.”

I frown when his hand slips out from beneath my shirt. He fumbles in his pocket for his phone, standing up and walking several feet away from me to take the call.

“Dr. Kincaid,” he says. He listens intently, his hand gripping the back of his neck. “What about Roberts? I’m not even supposed to be on call right now.” More
silence is followed with, “Yeah, give me ten minutes. On my way.”

He ends the call and slides his phone back in his pocket. When he turns to face me, he looks a little disappointed. He points to the door that leads to the stairwell. “I have to . .
.”

I nod. “It’s fine.”

He considers me for a moment, and then holds up a finger. “Don’t move,” he says, reaching for his phone again. He walks closer and holds it up as if he’s about to snap a
picture of me. I almost object, but I don’t even know why. I’m fully clothed. It just doesn’t feel that way for some reason.

He snaps a picture of me lying in the lounge chair, my arms relaxed above my head. I have no idea what he plans to do with that picture, but I like that he took it. I like that he had the urge
to remember what I look like, even though he knows he’ll never see me again.

He stares at the photo on his screen for a few seconds and smiles. I’m half-tempted to take a picture of him in return, but I’m not sure I want a reminder of someone I’ll never
see again. The thought of that is a little depressing.

“It was nice meeting you, Lily Bloom. I hope you defy the odds of most dreams and actually accomplish yours.”

I smile, equally saddened and confused by this guy. I’m not sure that I’ve ever spent time with someone like him before—someone of a completely different lifestyle and tax
bracket. I probably never will again. But I’m pleasantly surprised to see that we aren’t all that different.

Misconception confirmed.

He looks down at his feet for a moment as he stands in somewhat of an unsure pose. It’s as if he’s suspended between the desire to say something else to me and the need to leave. He
glances at me one last time—this time without so much of a poker face. I can see the disappointment in the set of his mouth before he turns and walks in the other direction. He opens the door
and I can hear his footsteps fade as he rushes down the stairwell. I’m alone on the rooftop once again, but to my surprise, I’m a little saddened by that now.

Lucy—
the roommate who loves to hear herself sing
—is rushing around the living room, gathering keys, shoes, a pair of sunglasses. I’m
seated on the couch, opening up shoeboxes stuffed with some of my old things from when I lived at home. I grabbed them when I was home for my father’s funeral this week.

“You work today?” Lucy asks.

“Nope. I have bereavement leave until Monday.”

She stops in her tracks. “Monday?” She scoffs. “Lucky bitch.”

“Yes, Lucy. I’m
so
lucky my father died.” I say it sarcastically, of course, but I cringe when I realize it’s not actually very sarcastic.

“You know what I mean,” she mutters. She grabs her purse as she balances on one foot while sliding her shoe onto the other. “I’m not coming home tonight. Staying over at
Alex’s house.” The door slams behind her.

We have a lot in common on the surface, but beyond wearing the same size clothes, being the same age, and both having four-letter names that start with an
L
and end
with a
Y
, there’s not much else there that makes us more than just roommates. I’m okay with that, though. Other than the incessant singing, she’s pretty
tolerable. She’s clean and she’s gone a lot. Two of the most important qualities in a roommate.

I’m pulling the lid off the top of one of the shoeboxes when my cell phone rings. I reach across the couch and grab it. When I see that it’s my mother, I press my face into the couch
and fake-cry into a throw pillow.

I bring the phone to my ear. “Hello?”

There’s three seconds of silence, and then—“Hello, Lily.”

I sigh and sit back up on the couch. “Hey, Mom.” I’m really surprised she’s speaking to me. It’s only been one day since the funeral. That’s 364 days sooner
than I expected to hear from her.

“How are you?” I ask.

She sighs dramatically. “Fine,” she says. “Your aunt and uncle went back to Nebraska this morning. It’ll be my first night alone since . . .”

“You’ll be fine, Mom,” I say, trying to sound confident.

She’s quiet for too long, and then she says, “Lily. I just want you to know that you shouldn’t be embarrassed about what happened yesterday.”

I pause.
I wasn’t. Not even the slightest bit.

“Everyone freezes up once in a while. I shouldn’t have put that kind of pressure on you, knowing how hard the day was on you already. I should have just had your uncle do
it.”

I close my eyes.
Here she goes again.
Covering up what she doesn’t want to see. Taking blame that isn’t even hers to take.
Of
course
she convinced herself that I froze up yesterday, and that’s why I refused to speak.
Of course she did
. I have half a mind to tell her it wasn’t a
mistake. I didn’t freeze up. I just had nothing great to say about the unremarkable man she chose to be my father.