Undisputed (20 page)

I don’t tell him that what he considers gross is making me drool. “Of course. But, once you’re done, will you give me the grand tour?” I ask, hoping that the tour will begin and end in his bedroom.

Leaning in, he brushes a light kiss across my lips. After two weeks without the feel of his lips on mine, I have to use every ounce of restraint I possess to not drop the groceries and jump him here in the hall.

When he pulls away a faint smile plays at the corners of his mouth, and it doesn’t take a mind reader to know he feels the same.

As he opens the door to his apartment, I find myself nervous.

“Make yourself at home,” he says. “The kitchen is on your right. I’ve got a bottle of wine in the fridge for you. I’ll just be a couple of minutes.” He gestures towards a kitchen that’s twice the size of ours.

The appliances are state of the art, and I fantasize about making Christmas dinner on the six-burner restaurant-grade stove.

After opening several cabinets, I finally give up on finding a wine glass and settle for a plastic cup from the local barbeque restaurant. I pull the fridge open, shocked at the contents. I fully expected to see nothing but beer and moldy takeout containers. Instead, I’m greeted by a fully stocked vegetable-and-fruit drawer, an entire shelf devoted to bottled water, and multiple Tupperware containers labeled
chicken, eight ounces
. It’s easy to forget sometimes that he’s a professional athlete.

I locate the bottle of Pinot Grigio, smiling that he remembered my favorite wine, and fill my plastic cup. I hear the shower running as I begin pulling pans out to start dinner while contemplating joining him. I stave off the desire—barely—and pull up my favorite cooking playlist on my phone. When Tupac starts singing about his mama, I get lost in the task at hand.

The steak is resting on the counter when I notice a messy stack of mail on the corner of the bar. I’m not a nosy woman, but I am a neat woman. Just the sight of half torn envelopes nearly toppling over makes my eyes twitch. After ignoring it as long as I can, I finally give in and move to straighten it up. I’m sorting through it by size when a single sheet of paper catches my attention.

As I pick it up, a twinge of guilt hits me for reading his mail, but I rationalize that I’m not actually snooping. Just cleaning—or so I tell myself. The paper is a lab report from the local hospital. Breccan’s name and date of birth are at the top. Scanning it, I begin to worry that it’s results from an STD screen.

What if it’s positive?

I rack my brain for sexually transmitted diseases you can get from kissing and fingering.

Then add a trip to the doctor to my mental to-do list for next week.

My mind is spinning out of control when I’m stopped in my tracks. In bold are three words I’m all too familiar with:

Not a match.

My mouth falls open as I read those words over and over.

Not a match for what?

Even as I question it, I know.

Glancing back at the top of the page, I see the words that have haunted me these last few months.

Blood type and tissue type are not a match for patient Connor O’Neil, DOB: 02/26/2004.

My heart feels as though it’s going to pound right out of my chest, and I’m having a hard time catching my breath. My vision begins to blur as tears fill my eyes. I’m frozen in place, holding the paper in my shaking hand, and I can’t stop the sob that escapes my lips.

Behind me, Breccan says, “Sidney? You okay?” He places a hand on my shoulder.

I whirl around, the paper still clutched in my hands. He looks down at what I’m holding, the concern on his face morphing into anger.

Clearing my throat, I ask, “You were tested?” I have so many questions, but I’m having a hard time finding my voice.

He takes two steps backwards and runs his hands through his hair, “You were going through my mail.” It’s a statement.

“No. The clutter on the end of the counter was making me crazy. I was just trying to straighten it up.” I move towards him, but he backs away.

Snatching the paper from my hands, he crumples it up and throws it before roaring, “Fuck!”

Flinching at his outburst, I straighten my shoulders “Hey, what’s going on here? Are you mad because I read your mail?”

“You were going through my shit. What were you looking for?” His chest heaves.

The guilt I was feeling is replaced by anger. I wasn’t going through his mail, and I’ve already told him that. My phone is still blaring in the background, only now it’s Biggie rapping about money and problems. I snatch the phone of the counter to turn the music off before turning back to Breccan. The sudden silence is oppressing.

After taking a deep breath to calm myself, I say evenly, “I was not going through your mail, Breccan. I was
organizing
the mail in piles by size when it caught my attention. I’m sorry I invaded your privacy.”

I’m not really sorry though. I want to know why he was tested and when. But I can’t ask him those questions now. Holding my breath, I wait to see how he responds.

Surprising me, he drops his head and mumbles, “Fuck my privacy, Sid.”

Well, that was an unexpected one-eighty.

“Uh, okay. Then what are you so pissed about?”

He looks up at me and the pain in his eyes causes me to freeze. “Why the fuck is no one a match for him? It’s not fucking fair!” He runs a shaky hand through his hair. “I’m twenty-six years old and I don’t have shit to show for myself. All I do is fuck up. Shit, I can’t even give away one of my kidneys.” He paces back and forth then finally stops speaking.

My heart breaks in two. His anger has nothing to do with me. Breccan’s devastated because he can’t save Connor. It’s a feeling I know all too well.

Tears spill down my cheeks as I launch myself into his arms. This time, instead of backing away from me, he wraps his strong arms around my waist and doesn’t let go. Burying my face in his chest, I begin to sob. But I’m not just crying for Connor. After months of being strong for everyone else, I finally let go.

Breccan holds me tight while my body is racked with anguish. He doesn’t try to offer soothing words because he knows as well as I do that there are none to be had. Instead, he just places gentle kisses in my hair and rubs his hands up and down my back. Even after the tears have stopped flowing, he continues to comfort me.

“Thank you,” I whisper. After clearing my throat, I speak a little louder. “I’m sure the last thing you wanted to do tonight was comfort your crying girlfriend.”

His body stiffens and he stops the slow circles he was rubbing on my back. “Whoa, uh.. Let’s not get carried away,” he says.

I push back from his chest, and he does nothing to stop me. I peer at him through wet eyelashes.

“What?” I don’t know what his reaction means, but suddenly, it feels as though I swallowed a ten-pound weight.

“I mean, we don’t need to put a label on it.”

My voice is shaky when I ask, “A label on what?”

He waves his hand back and forth between us. “This.”

My laugh is void of any actual humor, and I repeat his action with my hand. “This? You mean us?”

He nods. “Yeah. I mean, we’re having a good time, right? I just don’t want to mess things up by giving each other titles.” He searches my face before adding, “You know, things always seem to go downhill when you make them official.”

I blink at him for several beats and then back away. I’m embarrassed to have assumed that our relationship was exclusive. But, more than being embarrassed, I’m pissed that Breccan’s too afraid to admit to himself that I’m more than just some random girl he picked up.

Trying to keep my voice even, I say, “Okay, then what exactly is
this?
Because it sure as hell isn’t just fucking. That usually requires…ya know,
fucking
.”

He recoils from my words but doesn’t respond.

Frustrated, I throw my arms out to my sides. “I don’t know why I expected more from you.” I stalk to the kitchen and snatch my purse off the counter. After spying my cup of wine, I pick it up and take a large gulp before slamming it back on the counter.

Behind me, Breccan asks, “Wait a minute. What’s going on?”

The humiliation of him not remembering me from the club when I haven’t forgotten a single detail of the night comes bubbling back up.

Whirling back around, I yell, “I don’t know why I thought that this was going anywhere! After all, you
are
the guy who doesn’t even remember meeting me!” My face heats, and I shove him roughly in an attempt to get to the front door.

He doesn’t even budge. “What the hell are you talking about?” His incredulous tone matches mine, and he remains rooted in front of me, blocking my exit. “I remember meeting you. You fell down the stairs. I helped you up. Maybe you bumped your head and it’s you who doesn’t remember.”

I was violently shaking my head the entire time he’s speaking. “No. That’s not the first time we met. I met you in a club almost a month before that.”

His brow furrows. “I think you’re mistaken. I…I would’ve remembered you,” he insists.

I cross my arms over my chest. “Obviously not. It was my birthday. We were at Club Raw. I was crawling around on the disgusting floor, looking for an outlet to plug my dead cell phone into.”

His eyes widen in surprise. “Holy shit. I knew I met someone that night.”

“Yeah. Breccan, you met me. And we hit it off. Until you lost your fucking mind!”

“You’re the chick who got me kicked out.”

My head snaps back, “I did not! You got yourself kicked out for punching one of my coworkers!”

I can’t believe he remembers the events of the night but not me. The anger that was already tingling in my bones morphs into soul-crushing pain. I am nothing more than a chick he met at a club. I’m not sure why I thought I would be any more special than the women he usually dates, and I’m mortified as I remember that, just a few minutes ago, I was planning Christmas dinner with him.

This time when I shove past him, he doesn’t try to stop me. I get to the front door and pause, pivoting back toward him. He’s still standing in the same spot, staring at me.

“Ahem.” I fake clearing my throat.

He focuses on my face.

“I’m sorry I assumed we were something we are obviously not. I need to go home I think. Give you some space.”

He takes a step in my direction, but he stops when I hold up a hand.

“Aw, come on, Sid. This isn’t a big deal. There’s no reason for you to leave.”

His dismissal of what just happened makes my gut to twist even more. It may not be a big deal to him, but it is to me. It dawns on me that, whatever I thought this was between us, I was wrong about it.

“This is obviously not going to work, Breccan. I think we’re on two totally different pages.”

I need space to figure out where I want to go from here. I’m not even sure if there’s anywhere left to go. Or if Breccan wants to go there with me. But I can’t think while he’s standing in front of me.

He again shakes his head, but he makes no move. The fact that he doesn’t try to stop me when I pull open the front door tells me everything I need to know.

This is not the ending I envisioned for tonight.

Waiting on the elevator, I fight back tears while praying that he comes after me. When the doors open, I step in, still clinging to a shred of hope that his front door will fly open and he’ll demand I stay. Without humor, I laugh at my naïve thoughts.

This isn’t a fucking romance novel, Sid. He’s not coming after you.

A single tear slides down my cheek as the elevator doors close and my heart splinters into a thousand pieces.

S
tanding in the middle of my apartment, I look around.

What the fuck just happened?

Not even ten minutes ago, I was in the shower, thinking about all the ways I was going to make Sidney come after dinner, and now, I’m staring at the door she just walked out of without so much as looking back.

Shaking my head to clear it, I amble over to peer out the peephole. I’m a chickenshit, but I don’t expect to see her standing in the hallway. Yet I’m still disappointed when I discover that it’s empty. Leaning my forehead against the cool wood, I try to figure out exactly what went wrong.