The Fable of Us (3 page)

“Which would be too soon for me,” Boone announced to himself, though he didn’t mutter or mumble. It wasn’t his style to say something under his breath. If Boone had something to say, he said it for everyone to hear.

The heat pressed in around me, making it impossible for me to think straight. “Okay, you hate me. I get it.” I grabbed the refilled shot glass out of Tom’s hands so quickly, half of it splashed across the counter. The particle board lapped it up like it was as desperate for the drink as I was. “You’ve made that exceedingly clear. But why don’t you stop acting like you were the only one who got hurt? You paid me back. And then some.”

When I noticed my hands trembling, I tucked them into my lap. I didn’t want to seem weak around him. Not after all this time. Boone already knew all of my weak parts and pieces from childhood and adolescence. I didn’t want him having an education in my adult ones.

“Are you about ready to go face your ex-sweetheart and little sis, who are about to exchange I dos in a few days? Because from what I recall of your little-to-no alcohol tolerance, by now you should be shit-faced enough to do what you Abbotts have made an art form of and Pretend Everything’s Just Fine and Dandy.”

I stared at the screen door, wishing I’d never come through it. Part of me wished I’d never met the guy sitting six stools down from me. Right then, I was willing to sacrifice the good memories for the sake of having none of the bad ones. “Stop, Boone. Just stop. I can’t do this again.”

“Just getting started, Clara.”

Before I could snap something back, my phone vibrated in my shorts’ back pocket. The cut-offs and tee I’d slipped into in Santa Barbara had seemed like a good choice at the time, but now I was wishing I’d gone with a light, airy sundress. This heat was like nothing else, and it had been so long since I’d been in it during the summer, I guessed I’d purged those memories from my brain.

I had a new text. From my little sister. The youngest of the three Abbott girls—Avalee. In it was a picture of her hand, her nails perfectly polished in some shade of petal pink, a diamond the size of Delaware flashing on her ring finger. It was so large, it covered up most of her middle finger and all of her pinkie. The words,
Sterling asked! This was my answer!
were all that accompanied the photo that knocked whatever air I was still clinging to from my lungs.

Avalee was twenty-one. She’d graduated high school three summers ago. She was the youngest, the one who should have been the last to get married if chronology had anything to do with it, and here she was, engaged before I had one solid prospect in the queue. The middle sister, Charlotte, was getting married in six days, which left me, the oldest, as the last daughter to marry off. Or else fulfill the opening of old spinster.

I could only imagine what my mom would say when I rolled up to the curb tonight. Starting and ending with,
when are you going to get serious and settle down?

I forced myself to stop thinking about what my mom would say, and the increased pressure, guilt, and scrutiny I’d be under from the moment I trudged into their presence until the moment I fled from it. I forced myself to type back,
Congrats! So happy for you both!
and hit send before I could change my mind.

I should have been happy for my sisters, but being happy for one another was not an Abbott sister trait. One-upping was more the thing to do, and a big reason why I got out as soon as I could. Charlotte might have wound up with Ford, and he might have been a handsome, rich son of a bitch, but there was far more to him than that—far more of the undesirable qualities in a lifetime partner. And Avalee might have landed the biggest diamond I’d ever seen, even after living in coastal California for seven years, but what good was a big precious gem if your husband worked all day and spent most of his nights with his mistress(es) as Sterling Beauregard Senior was infamous for?

After making sure the message had gone through, I flipped my phone over on the counter, willing it to stay silent for the rest of the night. I could have turned it off, but that seemed too easy.

Boone twisted on his stool and angled himself in my direction. “How much longer are you planning on staying tonight? Because if you’re not leaving in the next five minutes, I am. I came here to forget my problems for a few hours, not resurrect a whole shitload of them.”

My phone buzzed again. Repeatedly. I kept it flipped over and tried to ignore it. When I noticed the full shot glass in front of me and couldn’t remember ordering it or how long it had been sitting there, I knew better than to drink it.

I knew better—but I didn’t
do
better.

The chemical cleaner smell and taste had disappeared. Yet another sign that I’d exceeded my goal of getting tipsy. That might have been the reason my mouth opened and out came words I hadn’t planned on saying. “Listen, I’m sorry, Boone.” I twisted on my stool so I was facing him. “I’m sorry for how things went down between us. I never wanted to hurt you . . . but that didn’t change that I did.” I bit my lip when certain memories came flickering back to life. “And I’m sorry.”

He was quiet, his expression flat and his body still. Around us, the bar echoed with noises and voices, the air filled with the scent of alcohol and body odor. This should have been the last place in the city limits I’d go to. The person sitting down from me should have been the last I’d find myself with.

I didn’t know what any of this foretold about the next week, if anything at all, but I found myself wishing I could plan on more of the unexpected. What I expected was a whole lot of what I’d lived, breathed, and drowned in for eighteen years.

“That’s the first time I’ve ever heard you apologize.”

Boone’s voice cleared my head some, bringing me back to the here and now instead of the there and then. No matter where I was and who I was with, I far preferred the here and now.

“Well, feel free to do the same. I’ve never exactly heard a string of apologies from your lips either.” I twirled my hand in a proceed kind of motion, and he lifted a brow in disbelief.

“What
exactly
do you want me to apologize for?”

The blood pulsing through my veins heated. It was already at an ungodly temperature—I did not need to start heating myself from the inside out as well. Another degree or two up, and I’d be passing out.

When Boone’s brow stayed elevated, implying he was innocent on all counts, I reached for the refilled shot. Screw it. “Nothing, Boone. Absolutely nothing.”

After that, I twisted back around and finished my shot in one drink. When the bartender meandered over, bottle at the ready, I covered the glass with my hand and shook my head. I was already showing up alone, late, and dressed in what my mother deemed “scrubs intended for the homeless, not for an Abbott daughter.” If I showed up drunk too, heads would roll. Starting with mine.

After a minute of silence, my phone started going off like a fireworks display on the Fourth of July. It was buzzing so much, so non-stop, it rocked across the counter. All I could do was stare at it and clasp my hands in my lap. I couldn’t deal with them right now. I’d be forced to deal with them soon, but they weren’t going to ruin my last half hour to myself.

“Your phone’s about to blow up,” Boone piped up, still angled my direction.

“Well aware of that. Thank you.” I glared at the phone, still jumping around like it was alive.

“If you wanted to avoid your family, why the hell did you fly down here for the wedding?”

I went back to rubbing at my temples. I couldn’t put this off for much longer. Rip off the bandage and suck it up. It was only a week. Seven days. I’d endured eighteen years; what was one week?

“What do you know about any of it?” I said when my phone almost vibrated off the edge of the counter, forcing me to grab it before it careened to the floor . . . also made of particle board.

“I know more about you and your family than any of you care to acknowledge, that’s what I ‘know about it,’” he replied, his voice calm and even. He’d always been better about controlling his emotions . . . or masking them.

I hadn’t meant to look at my phone, but after catching it screen-side-up, I’d already read a few texts before I realized I’d done it.

Avalee just told me she told you! Isn’t it fabulous?
Mom’s first message read.

Followed by Charlotte’s,
Can’t wait to meet your Plus One. Where are you two? It’s late.

Followed by another from Avalee.
You’re next. I know it.

Followed by three more from my mom.
Who is this mystery man you’re bringing with you? Do we know him?

Followed by,
Is it serious? As in your father and I should keep the caterer on retainer serious?

Followed by,
Everyone’s waiting for you and your date. Please don’t keep us waiting much longer.

Followed by another half dozen messages I refused to continue scanning.

I powered off my phone, slid it into my back pocket, and let my head fall into my hands. What a fucking mess. I hadn’t even shown my face at home yet and everything was in crisis mode. I knew better than to expect anything to get better once I did see my family. I knew better than to hope they’d be understanding and keep their comments and opinions about my lack of a plus one to themselves. I knew better than to expect the best when the opposite had been the theme of my formative years.

My head was swimming both from the alcohol and my family pressing down on me like a hot iron, and that might have been what was responsible for the plan formulating in my head being verbalized.

“Boone?” I said, twisting my neck to look at him. He hadn’t stopped looking at me. “What are you doing this week?”

He reached for his replenished drink and lifted it in my direction. “A whole lot of this.”

I swallowed when he did, but I was fighting the voice in my head that warned me this was a bad idea—quite possibly my worst idea to date. “How would you feel about earning some extra money?”

Boone settled his glass on the counter, keeping it clutched in his hands. “Who says I haven’t already earned so much of it I couldn’t possibly be interested in earning any more?”

Now it was my turn to lift an eyebrow in his direction. While the Abbotts were known for the wealth spilling from their ears, the Cavanaughs had been known for the past few generations for the opposite.

From his worn brown boots that probably should have been tossed out last summer, to the plaid button-down shirt I had a distant memory of him wearing back in high school, I had my answer. Plus, there was the whole issue of . . . “That last five dollars in your wallet that is now in Tom’s pocket might say something about you not having so many more of those you wouldn’t be interested in making more of them.”

Finally his face gave way to emotion. Just a flash and only for a moment, but his eyes narrowed at the same time his forehead creased, like he was almost insulted. “You Abbotts think you can buy the world and anyone in it. I’ve known that about your family for years, Clara, but I guess I didn’t realize that gene had been passed down to you.”

I refused to back down, not after bringing it up. Besides, Boone’s impressions of me couldn’t get much lower.

“Ten thousand dollars,” I said and shut up after that.

Boone was clearly as shocked by the number as I’d guessed he’d be. Ten grand was a lot of money to anyone anywhere. Especially to earn in one week. Down here though, working the kinds of jobs Boone had worked back in high school and probably still did, that was a third of a year’s salary.

He looked away for a moment, glaring at the wall across from us, before his gaze cut back to me. His shoulders were tense, his neck so rigid that his veins and muscles were showing. Part of me knew he felt insulted that I was offering him money in exchange for a favor—part of me felt ashamed for the same—but Boone’s and my relationship had been severed years ago. This was nothing more than a business transaction between a couple of acquaintances.

“You know, the last time someone offered me that chunk of change over a few drinks, it wasn’t followed by an offer that was on the up-and-up.” His voice was cool and removed, the way he was looking at me the same.

“What I’m about to ask isn’t illegal, I promise. It’s not even inside.” I shook my head. “It’s just . . . maybe a little deceitful.”

He huffed and gave a nod. “I’d expect nothing less.”

When I thought of a way to phrase what I was about to suggest, nothing sounded quite right. No matter how I worked the pieces of my proposition in my head, no arrangement made it seem less undignified. So I went with the most basic explanation.

“All I need from you is for you to pose as my plus one for the week. Nothing more. One week, ten grand. What do you think?” My words came out too fast, my voice too high. Because no matter what I tried to convince myself of, no matter how much radio silence had passed between us, Boone and I were not and would never be mere acquaintances. We had too much history to ever be “acquaintances.”

Boone was silent for a minute. One long minute I thought would never pass. When he did finally say something, I’d been two seconds away from leaving and spending the next seven years trying and failing to forget about Boone Cavanaugh again.

“Let me get this straight, because I thought I understood the English language, but I cannot get my head wrapped around what you just said.” Boone scooted his stool a half foot in my direction, the skin between his brows pinched in a deep line. “Are
you
asking
me
to show up at your family’s place with your family inside and pose as your date for the wedding?”

I shook my head. Hard. “As my plus one. That’s all.” My traitor voice gave me away though. Still too high and fast.

Boone didn’t miss it either. Something that resembled the stirrings of a smirk worked its way into his expression. “As your boyfriend.”

He wasn’t going to make this easy. Not that he had any reason to. “As my
plus one
.”

Boone’s smirk became as pronounced as it got. His head tipped just a bit, his eyes flashing, and his mouth turned up in a hint of a smile. “As your lover?”