Текст книги "Resentment"
Автор книги: Nicole London
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 16 страниц)
PART II.
The Present.
Regret ** Resentment** Redemption
RESENTMENT (n:.) The act of hating—no, fucking loathing Dean Collins. (Yes, I’m well aware that’s not the actual definition, but it might as well be...)
Chapter 10
MIA
Ten years later...
Subject: A resignation and a FUCK YOU. (Fuck you HARD.)
Dear McConnell & Brinley Associates,
I’m sending you this email to let you know that today will be the last day I ever step foot in your company.
I have truly enjoyed wasting the last four years of my life, pretending to believe in your vision, and I’m seriously hurt that I will no longer be able to sacrifice my sanity working under the directive talents of the amazingly driven and highly intelligent individuals that run this company. (Translation: Look up the word “sarcasm” just in case you think I’m being serious.)
Since I probably won’t be given an exit interview, I’ll give you my closing thoughts here: I gave up Julliard for your company’s shit, and by “shit” I mean the joke of a benefits package you offer, the terrible hours you make us all work, and the dense CEO who’s only in charge because his “Daddy” appointed him. (For the record, he’s a fucking idiot, and if no one forwards this message to him, I’ll put it on the internet, so more people can see it.) My Harvard degree has pretty much withered to waste by being put in charge of coffee runs, calendar writing, and paper supply inventory counts, so guess what? I’m taking half of the newest printing paper inventory with me
And as far as the mandatory, “What do you think our company could do to improve?” final question of the usual exit interview, my answer stands as such: You can shut the hell down and give everyone the key to their souls back before it’s too late....
Too-da-loo,
Mia Gray
PS. I honestly didn’t mean to keep the company-supplied stapler and I almost left it yesterday morning, until Bill asked me to get him another cup of coffee so...Fuck Bill, and fuck your stapler. It’s mine. (See attached photo :-) )
I reread the email one last time and hit send before setting my phone down. My first task of the day is now done. Now, to task number two, break up with my current bum of a boyfriend, Michael.
As I sit in a small pastry café, waiting for him to arrive, my mind can’t help but replay all the many mistakes I’ve made these past ten years, including Michael. He was the first guy I fell for after high school and he was supposed to be my anti-Dean: He wasn’t as social, he wasn’t “Mr. Popular” on campus. (Okay...no one can really be “popular” in college, but still...) He was a third year law student with big dreams and a focus that pushed me harder.
When we first started dating, I really liked him and I thought that I could see myself marrying him one day. But eventually, things changed, and Michael definitely changed. After he failed the Bar exam (the first time he took it), he became the guy with nothing more than a pipe dream and wasted potential.
He didn’t take me on dates anymore; he didn’t bother having conversations anymore, and at some point, he stopped caring about getting out of bed anymore. After a while, not only was I carrying all the responsibility, but I was carrying our entire relationship.
I now feel like I’ve wasted an entire chunk of my life and I swear to God, if there was any way I could go back and erase a few sections, the past ten years would hit the chopping block, stat.
The bell above the cafe door rings and I shake those thoughts away and look up to see Michael. Today, he’s dressed in a casual pair of sweats and an old graphic T-shirt, both now the main staples of his wardrobe, a far cry from the handsome guy who wore suits and ties when I first met him years ago.
He slides into the seat across from me and sighs, not offering a single word about getting here almost two hours later than we’d originally agreed upon.
The waitress sits down our regular orders and tells us this one is on the house for some strange reason. As soon as she walks away, I take a deep breath and look directly into Michael’s eyes.
“We need a break,” I say, cutting straight to the chase.
“Yeah, we definitely do.” He leans back against the chair.
Wait. What?! “Are you serious? Please, I’m curious as to why you think we need a break?” I say, arching my brow. “What exactly are you unhappy about regarding us?”
“I don’t have a list of specifics, but I can tell you that the sex just hasn’t been good lately.”
“What?”
“It’s just...” His voice trails off, as if he’s searching for the right words. “You’re not doing it for me anymore. You’re getting lazier in bed and the blowjobs are nonexistent.”
He has GOT to be joking.
“Michael, we haven’t had sex in over a month.”
“I know, that’s the problem.” He signals for the check.
“No, you stopped working and became a bum. That’s the problem.”
“See. That’s what I’m talking about, Mia. You’re too concerned with trivial things. You need to chill out.”
“No, what I need is a boyfriend who can help pay the rent.” By this point, I’m getting really agitated.
“Maybe if you got up and blew me once and a while, I could find the inspiration I need.”
“Do you hear how ridiculous you sound? I don’t need to have sex with you in order for you to find a job.”
“And I don’t need all of this judgment,” he says. “I’m agreeing with you on needing a break, so I don’t see the issue. You don’t think we’re compatible anymore, I don’t think we’re compatible anymore, so what’s the problem? You need someone who specializes in boring, and I need somebody who understands my needs.”
I let out a deep breath and shake my head. “You know what? I’m not even going to address that. I just came to tell you I’m moving to Portland—soon, actually. I’ll be living with my brother for a while.”
“Oh, well good for you. Portland sounds like just the place for you. There’s probably lots of boring guys there who won’t want to have sex. You’ll fit in,” he says. “Hold that thought, though. Am I paying for this coffee or are you? If it’s me, I need a rain check.”
“Goodbye, Michael.” I push away from the table and leave, annoyed as all hell, but somewhat relieved that our chapter is coming to an end.
***
A few weeks later, I find myself meandering through Terminal C of Liberty International Airport, waiting to board a flight that’s been delayed twice already. I try not to get too impatient and remember my dream of, literally, jetting off to my new life, so a few hours more shouldn’t make that much of a difference.
After finally locating gate C-19, I find an empty row of seats near the large window and settle in, praying that my next flight leaves on time. Just as I plug in my Kindle to ensure my battery’s fully charged for the long fight, I feel my phone vibrating against my thigh. I hold it up to my face and see the words “Big Brother” scrolling across the screen.
“Hello?” I answer. “Hello? Eric? Are you there? Can you hear me?”
“Yeah, I’m here. His voice is deep and concerned. “Where the hell are you?”
“In Newark.”
“What? I thought you said your flight was arriving here hours ago. I’ve been waiting for the call to pick you up.”
“Sorry,” I say. “My flight was delayed. I won’t get to Portland until really late.”
“Define ‘really late’, Aim.”
“Aim? You haven’t called me that since you used to live with us.”
“Define ‘really late’, Mia. Is that what you prefer?”
I smile at the frustration in his voice. He’s still as impatient as always. “After midnight.”
“Okay, well next time your flight changes, you need to text me immediately and let me know. I thought something had happened to you.”
And still super overprotective...
“I will. I promise.”
“Speaking of arriving, what the hell is all this shit that was delivered yesterday?” he asks. “You told me that you didn’t have that much stuff.”
“I don’t have that much stuff.”
“Mia, I had to spend all day yesterday putting half of that shit in storage.”
“What? Which half? You said you had a big condo!”
“Yeah, a condo, not a goddamn mansion.” He’s rolling his eyes, I can tell. “You don’t need fifty canvases.”
“I actually do...I have to show off my portfolio if I’m going to get a job, remember?”
“Well, lucky for you, the storage place is just around the corner. You can get the key and carry all of that shit back to my place yourself.”
“You promised you were going to be a great host, Eric.”
“I am.” There’s a smile in his voice. “My first instinct was to throw it in the garbage, but I had a change of heart. You’re welcome.” He laughs and doesn’t berate me any further. He simply tells me to be careful, says something about the key being under the mat of his front door, and makes me promise to call him the moment I land in Portland.
I agree to call him and hang up. Although the two of us haven’t kept in touch as much since I graduated high school, he’s always said, “If you need anything, just ask,” so when I decided I was done with Michael and the boring reruns that had become my life, Eric offered me a place to stay. No questions asked.
After another hour of finding new ways to waste time in the terminal, I hear a gate agent come over the loud speaker, announcing that my flight is about to start boarding. I buy a bottle of water and a magazine before rushing over to my gate.
I grab the handle of my carry-on and stand in line, grateful that Eric upgraded my ticket to first class. Once I’m in my seat, I send a quick text to Autumn, promising to let her know when I arrive.
As the flight attendants start walking up and down the aisles, I put in my ear buds and fall fast asleep. I miss the in-flight meal, two movies, and apparently “jokes that are actually funny” via the pilot (according to my seat mate).
When I finally wake up hours later, the plane is rolling down the Portland runway and I have a new text message from Eric.
ERIC: Since I know you probably weren’t paying attention earlier, and just in case I’m not home, when you arrive:
Catch a cab from baggage claim. (I already gave our doorman the money to pay for it, so don’t worry about it.)
Take the elevator up to the third floor, second unit on the left, 3A.
The keys under the mat.
Your room is down the hall, first one on the right.
A thirty-minute cab ride later and I’m standing in front of a building that just can’t be right.
Contrary to what Eric said, it does look like a mansion—gated entrance and all. The name of the building, “The Esplanade,” is etched onto the light blue awnings that stand above many of the building’s entrances.
Fortunately, the doorman actually does pay the cab driver, who places my bags at the entryway. From outside the huge double doors, I can see a lobby with huge chandeliers that glisten like stars. Once inside, I see there are several seating areas in the same light blue as the awnings outside, with touches of cream and forest green. And even though I tell him it is not necessary, the doorman, J. Jones, helps me take my bags up to Eric’s condo.
“My name is Jack,” the doorman says. “Eric and I our buds and he told me his baby sister was coming to stay. What kind of friend would I be to let his little sister carry her heavy bags?”
Following Eric’s directions, I take the elevator to the third floor. Even the elevator is spacious and beautifully decorated with gold-leafed fleur de lis and bright lighting. The elevator doors are mirrored and I notice that I look frumpy and tired.
“Thanks, Jack, for your help and I’ll be seeing you around.”
I type in the code on the door. Once inside, I drop my bags to the floor in shock.
He definitely downplayed his place...
From the moonlight that’s filtering through the living room window, I can see that the floors are all-white marble. The walls are a beautiful creamed-coffee color, the kitchen is spotless, and there are two sets of French doors that appear to lead to a balcony.
I run my hands along the wooden bar in the kitchen and decide to explore every inch of his place—tomorrow.
I need to make sure I’m not dreaming first.
Chapter 11
MIA
I wake up to the smell of bacon and eggs hours later, and even though I didn’t want my current dream to end, I force myself to get up and walk into the kitchen.
“Finally awake?” Eric says, looking up from a bowl of pancake batter.
“Yeah...” I lean against the counter. “Any reason why you’re making breakfast for dinner?”
“One of the girls I’m fucking likes to eat breakfast food at night before sex. I figured I’d cook it today and just reheat it tomorrow.”
“What the...!” I groan. “I did not need to know any of that. Saying you like breakfast at night would have been just fine. Thank you.”
“If I’d left it at that, it would have been a lie.” He steps closer and gives me a one-armed hug. Then he laughs. “I was just joking.”
“About the girl?”
“No, about the breakfast food. I like it before sex, too.”
“Eric!” I roll my eyes.
He laughs again. “How was your flight?
“Long and exhausting, but thank you for the first class upgrade.”
“You’re more than welcome.” He pours the batter onto the skillet in circles. “Are you up for a tour of the city today?”
“Maybe just a part of it,” I look outside the window and notice the sun is setting. “Is there much to see at this time of night?”
“There’s plenty. How about a quick zip-line and then we’ll come back and pick some place for dinner?”
“Just us, right?”
“Yeah.” He smiles, flipping the pancakes over. “Just us.”
I stare at him as he continues to cook, admiring the colorful tattoos that adorn his arms. His name is written in a pretty green calligraphic font, and beneath that is the word “little sister” in Latin.
“When did you get that one?” I point to it.
“The day after I left home...I was always worried about leaving you there, you know? I wished all the time you could’ve come with me.”
“It wasn’t that bad...”
“You told me you wanted to set our house on fire, Mia.” He turns off the oven. “Every single time I called you, actually. How is that good?”
I laugh, having forgotten all about that.
“Exactly,” he says. “Did you get a good look at the place before you passed out last night?”
“For the most part, yeah.”
“That’s not good enough.” He motions for me to follow him. “I’ll show you.” He walks me to my side of the condo and opens a door I didn’t notice. “This is an office, but feel free to use it whenever you want to paint indoors. Pretty good lighting in there.”
He shuts the door and begins to imitate a realtor as he shows me the rest. There’s a balcony that wraps around one side of the condo, another guest bedroom that he uses for super private clients, and a massive game-room that rivals any arcade I’ve ever seen. Complete with two pool tables and stand-up video games that line the walls, it reminds me of a place Autumn and I once went to in high school.
He shows me his massive bedroom which is three times the size of mine, with a more beautiful view and opens his closet, revealing a wardrobe that would probably take him ten years to wear.
“Now, you’re just being a show-off.” I playfully punch him in the shoulder.
“You love it,” he says, walking me into the hallway. “Okay, over there is my roommate’s bedroom. She’s never here though so—”
“Your roommate?” I stop walking. “She?”
“Fuck,” he says. “I mean, he. Long story there. I mean, no. It’s not what you think. It’s two different people, but—” He shakes his head. “I made the mistake of letting an old girlfriend move in here several years ago. Never again. Only guys from now on. Well, except for you, clearly.”
“Right...”
He walks me over to a panel in the wall and presses it. “If you ever need anything really late at night—snacks, medicine, whatever, you can tap this button and ask the staff downstairs to get it for you.”
“Do you do that a lot?”
“Not really.” He shrugs. “Target is literally right around the corner. Besides, I’m more than capable of buying my own condoms late at night.”
“Seriously? Again?”
He smiles. “I’ll take you zip-lining in fifteen minutes. Just let me take a quick shower,” he says. “You mind if I use the shower connected to your room? I’ve got some brand new ink setting in mine.”
“It’s your place, Eric.”
“I’m aware, but I’ve lived with a woman before.” He rolls his eyes at the thought. “I know how you all are about your bathroom space. I’ll be out quick.” He walks past me and shuts himself in my bathroom.
I walk back to the kitchen and pick up one of the finished pancakes. I sit on the couch and devour it, digging through the cushions for the remote. Instead, my hand finds a strange piece of fabric, so I pull it up.
It’s a red thong. With a note attached: “Can’t wait to fuck you again, E. :-)“
Oh my god...My brother is a whore... I toss the panties across the room, and stand up, in desperate need to wash my hands. With bleach.
I start to head to the kitchen, but then I hear water running on the other side of the condo Eric’s side. Remembering what he said about the ink setting in his bathroom, I rush over, hoping a pipe hasn’t burst.
But then I stop when I’m halfway there.
The sound of the water isn’t coming from his bathroom. It’s coming from his roommate’s bathroom.
Confused, I twist the doorknob, and push the door forward, but it suddenly swings open and I fall forward into something hard. Something super hard. It takes me several seconds to realize that that the “something” is a set of abs. A set of sexy, wet, and all too familiar abs...
Slowly glancing up, my eyes widen as I see the man who’s invaded my nightmares for the past ten years. He’s ten years older now. Ten times sexier.
Dean Collins...
What the fuck!
My throat is dry and I can’t move. My mind can’t seem to form a coherent thought.
For a single second, my mind travels back ten years ago and I remember when his body was pressed against mine, when he pulled me into the shower with him and made love to me after a game.
“Have you forgotten how to use your motor skills, Mia?” He quickly snaps me into the present with his asshole greeting. “Do you really need to keep leaning against me?”
I immediately step back, scowling. “What are you doing here?”
“I live here. What are you doing here?”
“My brother lives here. He owns this place, actually. I take it you’re his latest charity case?”
“I’m not anyone’s fucking charity case.” He hisses, glaring at me. “How long will you be in town?”
“Why?”
“I need to know how long I need to stay at a hotel.” The look in his eyes is glacial. “How long I need to stay the hell away from you.”
“Oh, hey!” Eric suddenly walks over, completely unaware of the tension between us. “I didn’t know you were home, man. This is my little sister I told you about months ago. Aim, this is Dean. Dean this is Aim. I think you two went to the same high school, right? Central? Or did mom try to make you go to Main like me?”
“I went to Central.” My eyes are on Dean and I can’t help but notice that his left arm, which is way more sculpted than it was in high school, is covered in a sexy sleeve of all black ink. (And by “sexy,” I mean someone else would find that shit sexy, because I don’t.)
“Alright, well.” Eric shrugs, still oblivious. “We were going to go zip-lining, Dean. You want to come?”
“The zip-line is closed this month,” Dean says flatly.
I let out a sigh of relief and Dean’s jaw clenches.
“I forgot about that,” Eric says. “Well, would you like to join us for dinner? You always pick the best places.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “He cannot come. He. Can. Not. Come. You said it was going to be just us, Eric.”
“Dean is family, Mia. He’s practically like a brother to me.” He ignores me and looks at Dean. “You want to come or not?”
A twisted smirk crosses Dean’s lips. “I’d love to.”
***
Hours later, I sit at a table and try to prevent myself from leaning over it and stabbing Dean in the eye with my fork. Since Eric is sitting at my side, he’s missing the palpable hate that’s practically radiating off the two of us.
He and Dean have mostly been discussing football, but Dean has thrown looks of disgust my way each time Eric has looked away.
I cannot believe that the guy who broke my heart in high school is sitting across from me and is seemingly friends (good friends) with my brother. Not only that, but I can’t believe that he’s glaring at me, like I’m the one who hurt him.
Out of nowhere, I find myself muttering, “Portland is a long way from Harvard...How the hell did you end up here?”
Dean, clearly catching my every word, mutters back, “If you kept in contact, you would fucking know.”
“I had no reason to keep in contact, because as I first told you years ago, I don’t approve of douchebags.”
“Then how have you been living with yourself all this time?”
Eric looks over at me. “Mia, who the hell are you talking to?”
“No one important,” I say. “Speaking of which, your friend Dean here looks like he’s about my age. And since you’ve been living here for as long as I can remember, and you don’t typically hang with people who aren’t as ‘established’ as yourself, are you mentoring him? Is he an artist in training? A freelance charity project for your shop?”
Eric playfully places his palm against my forehead. “Are you sure you’re not jet lagged? Sick? You’re acting like the guy isn’t sitting right across from you.”
I overhear Dean mutter, “I wish I wasn’t,” but he quickly recovers.
“Dean can speak for himself.” He looks right at me. “I went to college here, and for the second time today, Eric’s little sister, I am not his charity case.”
He and Eric quickly slip back into their football conversation, and Dean uses every free moment possible to glare at me again and again.
As they’re discussing the upcoming playoffs, the waitress sets a new basket of breadsticks on the table. Dean and I both reach for it and end up grabbing the same breadstick.
“You can have it,” he says under his breath, low enough that Eric can’t hear. “You always did like taking things away from people when they needed it most. Didn’t you?” He lets the bread go. “Shouldn’t stop your habit now, should we?”
“Fuck you, Dean,” I say, high enough so that Eric can hear.
“What the hell, Mia?” Eric turns to look at me. “What’s wrong with you? Why are you being rude to a guy you just met?”
“We’ve met before,” Dean says in an ‘I’m-clearly-the-more-mature-one’ voice that drives me insane.
“Oh?” Eric asks, looking back and forth. “So, y’all were cool in high school, after all?”
“No,” we say in unison, and then I clear my throat.
“I wouldn’t say that at all.” I break my breadstick. “He was the quarterback. I was the nerd.”
“Ah! Okay, okay, I get it.” Eric raises his hands in a playful surrender. “So, does everyone at Central have some type of long-running inside joke if you were in different social circles?”
Neither of us answer him.
“We had something similar at Main.” Eric smiles to himself. “I still can’t bring myself to like any of the jocks if I run into them now. We just didn’t get along that well.”
“Exactly,” Dean says, breaking a new breadstick—glaring at me as he continues to break it into even smaller pieces. “We just didn’t get along that well...”
