Knowing what I know—that his mother was the only one who probably genuinely cared for Malcolm while he was growing up, how he felt he’d failed her, how he’d failed himself in failing her, how he’s been trying to fill up an empty hole ever since—Gina’s words wreck me.
Wynn chides, “Stop talking to Tahoe, he’s just using this as an excuse to have sex with you.”
“I know, right?” Gina laughs.
“So? Are you going to let him?” Wynn asks, curious.
“No! He’s gross. I mean, he’s hot, but his attitude is gross.”
I stare at my cocktail and wonder if I’m already getting drunk to the point where I’m getting emotional too easily.
I’ve cried so much I don’t even have to try. The kind of crying where the tears just spill. With no warning. With no effort. They just come. I cry at the thought of never being with him again. And I cry because I know I hurt this beautiful, ambitious, intelligent, generous, caring man. I used to rest my cheek where I could hear his heart. Now it’s locked behind iron doors and ten-foot walls that I put there.
“Rachel, men like Saint never commit. Not for the long term. But . . . he reached out to you. Offered you a job. If you reach back, maybe . . .” Gina trails off and sighs. “Hell, I don’t know. I don’t know how to help you, Rache.”
“Saint is very physical. You know what would do you and Saint a world of good? Tyrannosaurus sex: mean, violent, delicious, painful, and cathartic.” Wynn adds, “That will lead you then to spooning. Emmett and I are still so new though, we can’t even spoon. It’s more like sporking.”
“What the hell is that?” Gina asks us, frowning.
“When they’re hard when they spoon you!” Wynn rolls her eyes. Then she looks at me and giggles. “Did he do that to you too?” she asks me.
“He used to . . . um, pull my ear.” I tug one of my ears absently, helpless not to be drawn into my memories.
“Now that’s because you have really small, cute ears. Emmett likes kissing my nose.” Wynn crinkles hers for emphasis.
My heart has turned into an empty eggshell. It feels ready to crack as my fingers fly up to brush one corner of my mouth. “Saint used to give me these torturously slow ghost kisses . . .”
“Oh, you two!” Gina says in dismay. “You’re making me want to barf.”
Wynn laughs, but I fall quiet as the hurt and the regret and the heartache come back with a vengeance.
“Say, have you heard from Victoria?” Gina asks. “She lost her job after Saint canned her reveal article and all she does is tweet now and complain. She’s just some Tweleb now, but I bet she buys likes for her tweets, ’cause who’s even reading her?”
Then, alarmed by what she said, she adds, “BUT DON’T GO ON SOCIAL MEDIA. Nothing good can come out of that.”
I purse my lips and don’t tell them that I’ve already had a social-media fest recently and now I can’t stop.
“I don’t understand why he didn’t can my article too. Why just hers?”
“Obviously he didn’t care what they said about him.” Wynn shrugs. “Maybe that’s why he only canned Victoria’s, because she talked about you.”
I play email roulette again several times, refreshing and refreshing, checking to be sure I have all the signal bars lit up.
“Rache, we worry, you and those sad panda eyes,” Wynn says.
“I’m not a sad panda, come on.”
“The only times you don’t have the panda eyes is when you get the googly eyes from thinking of him.”
“That, or the screen-saver face when she thinks of him,” Wynn counters.
“Ha ha,” I say, rolling my eyes and pushing my cocktail away. “It’s just that I love him. I love him so much. It breaks me to think I hurt him. I’m so confused, I just don’t know what to do.”
They fall quiet, and I find myself back at M4.
Trapped again by forest-green eyes, cold as winter.
MESSAGE
I wake up in the middle of the night to hear the soft buzzing of my phone on my nightstand. Feeling for it in the dark, I tap it awake and my heart pumps when I see the message icon and then the name “Saint” on it.
Wings flap against the walls of my stomach.
Rachel,
Thursday at 2:15 works for me, I trust we can wrap this up before my 2:30.
M
Oh god, he answered me himself.
A part of me doesn’t miss the time he’s answering. It came in at 3:43 a.m.
Was he out?
Turning on my lamp, I lean back in bed and check Tahoe’s Twitter because that man is a living newscast.
My man @malcolmsaint has a new babe crying for his attention
My heart stops in my chest. I feel like a horse just kicked me.
A new babe?
I groan and bury my face in my pillow. Holy god. He’s ruined me. He’s ruined my sleep. He’s ruined the word dibs. And elephants, and grapes, and men’s white dress shirts—and suits. He’s ruined me for other men. He’s ruined sex with anyone else—something I don’t even want to try—and he’s even ruined sex with myself. I can’t go back to sleep.
I reread the tweet—my stomach squeezing painfully—and I force myself to click the link once and for all. And then, I stare at a picture of a beautiful car with shiny wheels that looks like it could sprout wings and fly.
I smile to myself, exhaling in relief.
Tahoe goes on to say the “beauty” is a Pagani Huayra Gullwing. Pagani Huayra is an all-handmade, top-of-the-line luxury sports car, only six cars produced a year, worldwide. Worth close to $2 million, Saint’s has a black interior with red stitching, and a shiny red outer color. By the revealing way in which the doors, the hood, and the trunk open, the car is a real-life equivalent of a Transformer—designed to showcase what lays within it by cracking open.
I’m not a car buff, but even to my untrained eye, it’s exquisite.
Chosen with exquisite taste by a man who wants and appreciates the best.
I think of Malcolm and how he loves using his cars fast, and a pang of longing to be with him hits me in the chest. What I’d give to sit again in his passenger seat as he takes me on the ride of my life, driving those fast cars like a young billionaire with too much confidence and too much testosterone does. And me, just holding on to my heart while he steals it.
TRUTH
I’m early to Edge on Thursday. Using my First Date piece as a distraction, I avoid a group of gossiping coworkers as I go get coffee, then I settle down in my spot and get to work.