When I See You (31 page)

Jordan

Neither one of us acknowledges what just transpired with that kiss. I hold onto his arm as he leads the way to his place and try to remain outwardly calm while inside I tremble. We descend down some back stairs at the far side of the restaurant and through a door, and then, we're outside in the waning afternoon hours, traversing a gravel path that leads to his house. I strive to appear nonchalant, while inside, I start to break apart emotionally. The culmination of what Ethan has done starts to work its way through me. My mother's jewelry. He sold my mother's jewelry and used my inheritance to finance a house. This house. I look back at the magnificent place behind us and feel bitter disappointment. He knew what it meant to me. That's the worst part.
Ethan knew
.

Deep down, I recognize the urgent need to fill this vast void.
Brock.

I glance over at him and see the determined set of his jaw line.
Is he angry with me or beholden to the inexplicable connection between us?

We shared Ethan. Now, what do we share? Each other?

Desire for him roars through me like a raging inferno through a bone-dry forest as we approach his front door. I want him. He wants me.

We can make this work. I need to make this work, at least, for now.

I take the key from his outstretched hand and work the lock. I push the door open and pull him along inside, exuding an air of false confidence.

"I got it, Jordan." Brock moves past me at lightning speed, turns back to face me from the center of his living room, and looks uneasy.

A part of me wonders why. The other part knows.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

"Nothing."

He shrugs his shoulders like he has nothing to do with this outcome and gives me this let's-just-get-this-over-with look. "We can't stay. We should get going. We can't stay."

"Worried about Tate and Ashleigh? Or, worried about me?"

"You."

I smile when he says this. He can't see mine, but he smiles, too.

There's that inexplicable connection between us again. It roars through both of us like a tangible electric current.

Seeking distraction, I glance around the room. The darkest colors—navy, brown, grey, and black—dominate the space. He's included enough variations with whites from light yellows to crèmes to make it work. Touches of red displayed in some of his artwork, in the pillows scattered about, and the fresh flower arrangements help balance the space and enhance the look of the subtle richness and understated elegance he's going for.

I'm enchanted to discover he's a fan of Impressionism. So am I. The walls are adorned with a vast collection of Monet and Seurat and even some post-impressionist work of Van Gogh's.

"You designed all of this?"

"Yes."

His one-word answers prove tiresome. I sigh, sensing his reluctance to show me around.

"It's beautiful. Truly. I love what you've done."

He shrugs with indifference. I decide to ignore him and perform my own self-guided tour of his place.

He trails behind me a good twenty feet, while I peruse his home with a brazen you-invited-me-here attitude.
So far so good.

I've counted three bedrooms and admired his gourmet kitchen which has a similar set-up to what would be mine, but on a smaller, more functional scale. There's a media room, four bathrooms.

I hesitate in the open doorway of his master bedroom, the fourth bedroom, it seems, but the room all but beckons me inside. His modern, dark wood furniture indicates a guy's signature wish for the massive, but it fits easily into this giant space of a room. My eyes slowly adjust to the muted track lighting he's so carefully placed along the high ceilings. I pause to admire the ornate pure white crown molding, the gold silk duvet, and the black silk sheets that peek out from underneath one edge.

Then, I'm captivated by the single piece of artwork he's hung—a giant reproduction of Klimt's
The Kiss
. He's incorporated the colors from Klimt's painting of yellows, golds, and oranges throughout the space.

The room's warm, inviting, and sensual. This amazing space has been designed by a man who's spent the last five years of his life in a God-forsaken land, like Afghanistan.

Elegance permeates and envelops.

Fresh white Calla Lilies adorn a crystal vase on his night stand and I can only wonder who put them there.
When was he here last? And with whom? Dear Kate? Was he here with her? Fucking Kate?
This visceral jealousy circles through me and works its way outward.

What is going on with me?

I listen to him as he slowly makes his way down the hallway. His now familiar tap tap sound announces his presence, long before he appears in the doorway. He looks unsettled.

He knows where this is going.

I walk back toward the center of the room.

"I love Klimt, especially this piece."

"Thanks."

"I could spend hours here," I say without thinking.

"Not today," he says firmly.

He sounds out of breath, but saunters in to the room as if time has stopped for him. His movements are so deliberate and painstakingly slow, I grow impatient. I roll my eyes and sway with the effects of all that wine, the emotions of the last hour, and the man, himself.

I'm turned on by all of it, now, and pissed off at the same time. At him. At Ethan. At
her
, 'this Kate.'

An exhilarating combination of lust and rage courses through me now. I hold my breath and try to get my racing emotions under better control, but Liz's words come to mind.

Don't wait. Don't think about it. Just do it.

"I have a get-out-of-jail-free card."

"Those don't really work," he says gently, but looks mildly amused.

"Oh, yes they do."

"I know this looks like a fantastic way to get back at Ethan, but it won't be."

"It would be fantastic."

I walk over to him and put my arms around his waist. I gasp when I feel the hardness of him through his jeans, pushing at my midsection. I take in air, hold it for a moment, and will myself to keep it together.

"It's not that I don't want you," he says softly. "I do. Obviously. But this is a very bad idea."

His reluctance is palpable. I think of Ashleigh and our discussion about the word,
palpable.
Yet, I can still feel his physical response to me against my thigh. Let's talk about
palpable
. I laugh a little.

"My friend, Liz? She told me that sex with a cowboy is just what I need."

"Let me call Tate," he drawls. "In fact, he should be here in the next ten minutes."

"Funny," I say with notable disappointment.

He touches his watch and we both listen as the mechanical voice, a woman's, calls out the time of three fifty-four.

"You think you're ready," he admonishes. "But, you're not. We could do this and it would feel great, in the moment, but then, there would be all these other moments afterward."

"Are you turning me down?" I ask, incredulous.

"I am."

"Because of Kate." I hang my head, refusing to look at him.

He moves closer and brushes his fingers up against my neck, and feels for my racing pulse. Then, he lifts my chin with his index finger.

"No," he says. "Kate has nothing to do with this."

"Liz said: don't wait, don't think about it, just do it."

"We should wait. We should think about it. We can't do this."

"Stop talking. Where's that silent guy persona you always convey, huh?"

"Does my talking
bother
you?"

"Not exactly, but I prefer you do something else with your mouth."

He groans and finally laughs. "There is nothing I want more in this world than you, but I can't do this. Not like this."

He gently pushes me away. And, I stand there, a few feet away from him, and struggle with this raging turmoil as I try not to feel rejection or guilt about my desire in wanting him so much in the first place.

"Friends," he says after long while.

"You use that word like a shield," I chide, shaking my head.

He doesn't say anything. He just waits, and appears so calm, cool, and collected, that I hate him for it for a few seconds. Then, my mind begins to race with too many revelations about Ethan, about myself, and about him.

My chest rises and falls with each breath I take. It feels like I'm going to hyperventilate. He just stands there, while I try and catch my breath.

"When?" I finally ask.

"When what?"

"When did you know we could never be friends?"

He looks amazed as if I've guessed his most cherished secret.

"Can't say."

He looks unhappy, but his eyes glint with anger. I decide to test it.

"Won't say."

He gets this defiant look and shakes his head side-to-side. "Won't say," he whispers.

I watch him closely. He forces himself to smile, but I can see him struggling with a myriad of emotions I cannot begin to understand. He runs his left hand through his hair and gets this inconsolable look.

"We can't do this," he says.

I recognize the sudden air of desperation in his tone and manner and start to feel uncertain. I've breached our unspoken contract—this thing between us, whatever it is—has just been violated, in some way,
by me.

Distress over his rejection of me begins to filter through, and, I react with anger.

"You'll fuck Kate, but you won't fuck me. Why?"

"I didn't—it didn't work out with Kate. We tried, but it didn't work out."

"You tried, but it didn't work out?" I try for nonchalance, but utterly fail. I'm jealous and now he knows it.

"I'm blind," he says. "Why can't you
see
that? Accept it?"

"What does that have to do with anything? It didn't matter with Kate, but it matters with
me
? My God! She's your psychiatrist. Where are the ethics and the military protocol you all so religiously follow?" I sigh, and, in the next instant, I lash out. "You're willing to fuck her. But me? I'm off limits?"

"She's not married."

"
I'm
not
married
."

"You were. To my best friend. I can't forget that and neither can you." He sighs. "Jordan, I'm blind. Why can't you see that? Accept it. Why do you have to be so fucking wonderful all the time? So hopeful?"

"Don't you put this on me," I say slowly. "I've never been wonderful or hopeful a single day of my entire adult life. Never the entire day, anyway." My voice breaks and tears sting my eyes. "And, you
know
this about me, better than anyone else." I push at his chest to make my point.

He staggers back away from me as if he's been burned by my touch. "Don't do this," he says.

I pause for a moment, surprised by the onset of inexplicable fury I feel as it continues to make its way out of me. "I asked you a simple question; I
deserve
an answer."

"It doesn't matter. Don't you
see
that? I can't be what you want."

"Oh really? What do you think I want you to
be
, Brock?"

He doesn't answer. His silence infuriates me further. I begin pacing the Persian rug. He inclines his head as if he's listening and counting my steps.

"I can't be Ethan," he says quietly. "I can't be what you want me to be."

"I don't want you to be Ethan."

"Yes, you do. He's right here between us. Can't you see that?"

"No. I can't. This thing between us has nothing to do with Ethan."

"It has
everything
to do with him."

He stalks over to me and grabs my arm. I've forced his hand. I can see that now.

"It will always be Ethan. You'll never
see
me.
Never.
You don't see me, now," he says.

"That's not true."

"You don't even see it. I'm
blind,"
he says. "And, you can't fix it." He stops. "But, maybe, Kate can."

His mention of Kate sets me off again. "Why? Why is she the only one allowed to try and fix you? Why?"

He hesitates for a moment, trying to decide what to do, how to handle me. Apparently, I need to be
handled
.

"She doesn't need anything from me," he says, defeated.

"I'm too
needy?"

He doesn't answer me. It's another one of his God-damn silences. I'm in a foaming rage now. I take an unsteady breath and turn away from him in an attempt to maintain some sort of control, but fail. I turn back. "Fuck you, Wainwright."