Sweet Cheeks (20 page)

Neither of us move. Or breathe. And when he finally takes a step back, his mouth slides into a satisfied grin.

“You’re good, Say. Gotta hand it to you.” He ruffles a hand through his hair. “I’ve been running that line all morning and hadn’t figured it out. I was going in too hard, too angry. Having you to bounce it off made it easier. Let me see I needed to be softer with the delivery. Thank you.”

I remain motionless in the chair, completely affected and unsure how he can go from the exchange we just had to, well, to him being him. And I’m reminded of his cryptic smile when I offered to run the lines. Wonder if he thought I would find this scene ironic, considering the history between us. And ironic is definitely one way to describe it.

Hitting too close to home is another way.

“I’m glad I could help,” I say when I find my voice again.

“Do you mind if we run through it a few more times so I can tweak a few more things?”

Oh, hell.

And so we do. Each time through, my own emotion becomes more transparent. More vulnerable.

My body more turned on.

The constant repeat of the scene, in the intimacy of the words between two characters longing for each other is almost like foreplay in its own right. The emotion in his voice and reflected in his posture feels so real. So tangible. That with each take I forget he is acting.

But he is acting, Saylor
. There is no hidden message he is trying to convey about how he feels about you.
And soon he will be running through this scene with another actor. Another woman. Not you
. It’s just a role to him. Watch how easily he bounces back when the scene’s over and he steps out of character.

And so when
he
finally feels satisfied with the delivery of his lines,
I
need a break from his presence. From the thoughts this entire scene has evoked. From the sexual tension that coats my skin so thick I almost feel it. From the pressure in my chest making it painful to draw in air despite being out in the open.

I opt to go for a walk on the beach to gain some physical distance from him and to quiet the unexpected emotions of the morning.

Funnily enough, the entire time I’m on my walk, I’m thinking of him.

“T
his place is everything I’d imagined it would be,” I murmur more to myself than to Hayes.

“When you planned your wedding?”

I bristle, but deserve the straightforward question considering we are in the very hotel I had spent hours ruminating over for my wedding plans. I glance over to where he sits beside me at the hotel’s outdoor bar. The drinks are stiff and the food is westernized but it feels good to be out and about in the hotel. Especially because I can enjoy the resort without feeling like I’m being watched since the entire wedding party is supposedly playing golf or at the salon. At least they’re supposed to be according to the handy itinerary on the villa’s kitchen counter.

“Yeah, but there was more to my decision to come here than just wanting a destination wedding. This was one of my mom’s dream vacations. It was always their ‘next trip’ but it never happened. Money got tight. They had Ryder and me. Then came saving for college for us. They just kept putting it off and said they’d go after they retired. . .” My voice fades off, the memories so poignant and real all these years later.

“But they never made it to retirement.” Hayes’s voice is quiet, empathetic as he finishes the phrase for me. He places a hand on top of mine and squeezes it in support. “They were the best. Always fair. So full of love but also strict when they needed to be. Everything I wanted my parents to be like but weren’t. I think of them often.”

“They loved you, too, you know.” It’s important he knows that.

He nods his head as my heart hurts at the thought of them. I miss them every day but something about being here with Hayes—in the place they always wanted to visit—makes it a bit more poignant. And I think of how pleased they’d probably be, knowing I came here with Hayes. Especially since my mom used to always tell me one day I was going to marry
that boy
. Even after he left when she was nursing my broken heart, she was his biggest cheerleader telling me he was just off growing up but that he’d come back for me someday.

The smile is bittersweet. The memory even more so. The void in my heart from their absence a permanent fixture but feeling a little less empty when I look at Hayes.

I clear the emotion from my throat. “There were so many things they put off doing, waited for, or said they never had the chance to do once they had kids and I . . . shit, I don’t know, Hayes . . . I don’t want to be that way or feel like they did, and never fulfill the things I dream of doing. I don’t want to be in the car on the way to dinner and get hit by a drunk driver and as I die, realize I never knew what those things I wanted to do felt like.”

“I can understand that. Hell, anyone can, Saylor.”

It feels like emotion after emotion is being churned up today and my parents’ death is just the next thing to add to it. The memories hit me like photographs on a reel: the policemen at the door; my screams when I fought Ryder’s arms as he tried to comfort me, when really, he had no comfort to give; the two caskets side by side lowered slowly into the ground.
Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust
. The constant cloud of inconsolable grief.

And then, meeting Mitch at a mutual friend’s party seven months later. He was kind, paid attention to me, and took me places I’d never been before. Places that held no memories of my parents when everywhere else I went was flooded with them. Those things combined with the positive feelings he evoked in me slowly overshadowed the grief that had owned me.

Is that why I stayed with Mitch for so long
? Because he took the pain away—more like put it on a backburner—and helped me slowly crawl out of the haze of grief? Did a part of me—the non-rational part of me—fear if there was no Mitch, that the pain might return?

Had he ever really known the real me? Was it once I felt more like myself—less meek and agreeable—that things started going downhill?

The thought is ludicrous, and yet it strikes me to the core. Love and obligation are two different things, Saylor. Not one and the same.

“Did I lose you?” Hayes’s voice breaks through the fog of my thoughts.

I shake my head, clear my mind. “I’m sorry. Just thinking about them. What were you saying?”

His smile is cautiously sympathetic while his eyes search mine to make sure I’m okay. “All I said was I can understand your need to actively chase your dreams.”

“No, I don’t think you can. It’s maddening.” It’s an unfair statement to make to him and yet I appreciate the fact he doesn’t argue it. “They were so young and had so much life left to live, and yet I feel like they partly gave up on their dreams and hopes when they married, and I don’t want to do that.
Be
that. Regret the chances I never took.” I recall my mom’s repeated comments about what she could have done—her dream career as a dancer on Broadway and how marriage and kids derailed that. A good derailment but a jump off the tracks nonetheless. I think of my dad and the baseball draft he missed out on because he thought the best thing to do for his family would be to be home and work a steady nine-to-five.

Missed opportunities. Dreams put on hold. Completely honorable decisions on their part. Ones that I benefitted from. A life still great by any standards lived in their perfect marriage but the theme of what-if always a constant undertone.

“Saylor?”

“What?” When I look up from where I’m playing with the umbrella garnish from my fruity rum punch, I meet his eyes and realize he’s asked me yet another question. I was too engrossed in thoughts of my parents—of the guilt I continually feel over loving them to death but wanting to be nothing like them—to have heard him.

It strikes me how weird this is to be talking about this now. It’s been nearly seven years and yet it feels good to talk to someone who knew them like I did.

“I asked if your parents’ unrealized plans had anything to do with you not marrying Mitch.”

I stare at him long and hard, my gaze impenetrable, my thoughts a whirlwind, and chew the inside of my cheek. But I don’t need to think at all because I know the answer. It’s clear as day now that I’ve had this time away from him.

“Yes.” My voice is quiet, eyes fixated on my drink and the condensation slowly sliding down the side of the glass. I question myself, hate that I almost feel like I’m cheating on Mitch by talking about him to Hayes, but then realize how absolutely absurd that is considering the situation. And I have to hand it to Hayes; he is patient. He sits and waits for me to find the words to express the conflicted emotions I’m certain blanket my face. “Mitch treated me well. I just think that his idea of what a wife should be and mine are two completely different things.”

“I can assume here,” he says as he lifts the bottle of Red Stripe to his lips, “but I’d prefer if you’d explain.”

“Well, for one thing, he hated the bakery. Even before I rented the actual space and applied for my business license, I was running it as a side business out of our house. It drove him crazy. And not just the mess of it, but more the mess on me. He disliked that I was so lost in it that I didn’t care if I had frosting in my hair or if my clothes were smeared with piping. And it wasn’t that I didn’t care but rather I was just so absorbed in whatever I was creating that I didn’t notice the mess. God, he loathed the days I forgot to put on makeup because I had a harebrained idea for a new flavor and had to go do it right then before I forgot it.”

“You always were that way. Spontaneous. Needing to see for yourself. I used to love and admire that about you.”

I preen under his simple praise. Feel stupid that I do but can’t help it considering I’m so used to the opposite opinion.

“Yeah well, not everyone does.” I laugh. “I guess I wasn’t proper wife material.”

“That’s the biggest bunch of bullshit, and if you believe it for a single second, I’m going to kick Ryder’s ass for letting you.” His eyebrows are lifted, lips pursed, expression unforgiving. And I’ve seen them throw punches at each other so I have no doubt he would.

This time around, Hayes definitely has the advantage.

My laugh floats out and draws the attention of the bartender who flashes a smile my way—eyes roaming over Hayes momentarily—before turning back to her customer. “When it came down to it, our marriage would have worked. I would have made it work,” I say with more conviction than I feel. Resentment I never realized I harbored comes out of nowhere.

Hayes snorts and I’m not sure how to read the sound since his eyes are focused on people on the golf course beyond.

“You would have made it work so long as you sacrificed yourself. That sounds like a stellar marriage. One made to last.”

I stare at him, his sarcasm loud and clear, wanting him to meet my eyes and not meet them all at the same time. I need to show him I’m not that woman.
Was I back then?
Maybe that’s another reason I stayed with Mitch for so long.

“It doesn’t matter now, really. That or any of the other reasons because we’re not together.”

“Hmpf.”

“
Hmpf
? What does that mean?” I straighten my spine, suddenly defensive over the feeling that I’m being judged. And who is he to judge when he wasn’t the one here for me after my parents died?

“It could mean a lot of things,” he murmurs as he tips the bottle up to his lips and signals for another one. We’re interrupted momentarily when another guest comes up and asks for his autograph. He handles the woman’s nervous chattering like a pro before turning back to me. His eyes are unrelenting as they stare into mine, gauging how candid he wants his next comment to be. He starts to say something and then shakes his head and closes his mouth before turning back to the view beyond.

“Just say it, Hayes. It’s not like you hold back.”

“The way I see it from the outside is that he was the problem in your relationship, Saylor, not you, as you seem to continually assume. Having a passion like your baking is something that just happens. It’s not controllable. It’s a huge part of you that makes you happy. Calms you. Any person who tells you to suppress it for their own benefit is trying to stifle you. Mold you. Make you someone different than you are.
Never let someone steal your passion
. If you do, then you’ll resent them. And resentment is the death of any relationship.”