“Hi,” I say as I hit the last step.
She looks around again. The gallery doesn’t officially open for a couple of weeks, and it hasn’t been staged yet. Paintings are propped against the walls; sculptures sit in odd groupings.
When she returns her eyes to mine, awkwardness sits between us like a chaperone with too many elbows. I hate it, and I hate myself for thinking about how it felt to hold her together, how it felt to be the thing she needed most in this world, her rock.
“Maggie,” I repeat. My voice is a little hard this time, as if it’s her fault I can’t just let it go. “What are you doing here?”
She swallows audibly. “Sorry, I…” She shakes her head. “There was a flyer in the art building about a summer internship at a new gallery, and I…” She takes a step back. “I should go.”
“No. Don’t.” I don’t even realize I’ve reached for her until my hand touches her arm. The moment that electric zip of contact zings through me, I recoil. “You don’t have to go.” But even as I say it, I’m backing up, trying to put distance between us.
The click of heels echoes through the cavernous space.
“Hi, Krystal,” Maggie says softly, a sad smile on her face.
I clear my throat. “Maggie’s here about the internship I advertised on campus.”
Krystal’s face brightens and she claps her hands together. “Perfect!” she says at the same time Maggie says, “I didn’t realize…What?”
Krystal looks between us. “Maggie’s good at this stuff—right, Will? And between moving into the new house and planning the second wedding, you need someone you don’t have to babysit.”
“Krystal,” Maggie says, “I don’t think…”
Krystal raises a brow, waiting for Maggie to finish. When she doesn’t, Krystal turns to me. “I don’t see any problem with it, do you?”
“Maggie would do a good job,” I acknowledge.
“It’s settled, then.” She smiles, but I can see the strain around her once soft eyes.
“I’ll think about it,” Maggie says, edging toward the exit. “I’ll let you know. Thank you.”
When the door closes behind her, Krystal’s smile falters.
“Is this supposed to be some sort of test?” I ask.
She wraps her arms around herself. “Why would you say that?”
I stare at her. The tension between us isn’t something we’re used to, and neither of us knows how to deal with it, how to fit it into the previously comfortable territory of our relationship.
“Anyway, I’m not worried about her. That guy she was with at the wedding is some sort of rock star. Rumor has it he’s cozying up to Lucy.”
I set my jaw. “Don’t. Call. Her. That.”
She takes a step toward me and runs her eyes over my body. “My sister isn’t a fifteen-year-old who needs the big, bad college boy anymore, Will. This isn’t high school, and you two aren’t going to live happily ever after, so stop trying to relive the past.”
“Who are you?” The Krystal I fell in love with was never this cold, never this hard, not even when it came to Maggie—especially when it came to Maggie.
She’s unbuttoning my pants with one hand and cupping me in the other.
I step back, evading her touch and escaping her ugliness. Only then do I see the tears glistening in her eyes.
“If you can’t handle her taking some stupid part-time summer internship in this gallery,” she says softly, hands hanging limply at her sides, “if that’s too much of a f**king temptation for you, then we shouldn’t be getting married.”
She walks away and I’m left with the uncomfortable truth of her words.
“My sister isn’t a fifteen-year-old who needs the big, bad college boy anymore.”
I never realized how much I needed Maggie to need me. Until she didn’t.
***
Maggie
I’m torn from a fitful sleep and bolt upright at the sounds of a baby’s cries.
I stumble out of bed, fighting free of my tangled sheets, tripping over my own feet. I’m halfway down the hallway before I realize my mistake, but the cries from my dream seem so real they echo in my ears.
Silent, tearless sobs rattle my chest and bring me to my knees.
I crawl toward my bedside table, to the anxiety medication I keep in my purse. Better to stay ahead of it, better to take the meds at the first signs of panic than to let the anxiety grab ahold of me with its sticky, suffocating hands.
I snatch the purse and dump the contents. A white slip of paper flutters out and down to the bed.
I frown at it. Who’s leaving me notes?
But when I read it with sleep-gritty eyes, the words leave me cold, and an old, familiar sickness eats at my stomach.
Hands shaking, I look around my room as if a ghost might step out from a darkened corner.
The church hands these bookmarks out like candy, and it could have easily gotten pushed into my purse. And yet, as innocuous as it is, the words give me pause.
I don’t know how long I stare at it. The cries from my dreams have faded in my ears, and my eyes have adjusted to the light pouring in the window. My stomach churns as I grab a book of matches.
I ignore my ringing phone as I drop the note in my bathroom sink.
The answering machine clicks on, then my mother’s voice says, “Maggie.” She sighs audibly. “Krystal said you showed up at the gallery yesterday. I’m sorry we didn’t tell you, sweetie. We just weren’t sure how. I hope you understand that she never wanted to hurt you.”
I squeeze my eyes shut in frustration, wishing for blackness and oblivion. I want to forget. Will. Krystal. The last year. The sound of my father’s voice in my head, as if he rose from the dead to leave that reminder in my purse. I want to forget the words typed so neatly on the church bookmark. The words that make me want to crawl out of my own skin.
I light a match and throw it into the sink, watch the words that have been ground into my brain since birth flame and turn them to ash.
Confess your sins and be forgiven.
***
“I’ll have a twenty-ounce Guinness,” I tell the scruffy middle-aged man behind the bar. My day started off like shit and didn’t get much better. I made myself go to campus to re-enroll and discovered I lost my scholarship by dropping out last year. But, hey, my consolation prize is that they have an art studio available. That almost makes up for the thirty grand a year I’ll be paying in tuition to finish my degree.
Brady turns his best glare on me and props his hands on his hips. “You still hell bent on making me lose my liquor license, girl?”
I offer him my ID from between two fingers. “I am legal now, old man. You can’t kick me out anymore.”
Brady examines the card with a furrowed brow. I handed him enough fake ones over the years, I can hardly be insulted by his skepticism. Before coming back home a month ago, I’d never legally had a drink in New Hope—not that I hadn’t had my share of alcohol, mind you, just not legally.
Brady grunts and hands back my ID. “I guess I woulda known if I’d done the math.” He shakes his head and draws me a beer.
I take a slow sip and scan the bar. My sisters were busy tonight—Lizzy with a date and Hanna with some sort of summer research gig for school—but I couldn’t face my empty little rental tonight, couldn’t handle the bare walls or the silence. After feeding Lucy, I decided to check out what it was like to be a patron at Brady’s without having to dodge the proprietor.
Sadly, it’s a little disappointing. It’s a Thursday night, and apparently Brady’s doesn’t cater to a large, thirsty Thursday crowd in the summers. The place is nearly abandoned, save a couple guys in baseball caps playing a game of pool and a couple speaking in soft tones at the bar.
I’m bemoaning the silence when the screen at the front bangs shut and someone calls, “Lucy!”
I don’t even flinch at that damn nickname anymore. I became numb to it when half my high school started using it—some behind my back, others to my face. In fact, I decided to reclaim it when I adopted my dog and bestowed the name upon her. Me and Lucy against the world.
Nevertheless, I turn around to see what as**ole I have the pleasure of meeting tonight.
“I think you’ve got the wrong bar, sweet thang,” Kenny Riles says, running his eyes over me and leaving a trail of slime behind. “The strip club is down the road.”
“Fuck off, Kenny,” I mutter.
I went to high school with this as**ole and when shit hit the fan my freshman year, everyone was cruel, but Kenny and his buddies were the worst. And they never seemed to let it go.
He sidles up to me. Too close. I can smell his aftershave, a smell that might be pleasant if it weren’t for its host. “When you were fifteen, I didn’t get it. I didn’t understand why a man would risk it all just to f**k you. But now…” His lips curl into a meaningful smirk as he trails off.
I feel sick.
The guys at the back table call to him, and he gives me a final once-over and winks before walking away.
My hands shake as I reach for my beer. I want to leave. I want to get as far away from here as possible, but I won’t let him have that power over me. Instead, I settle into a stool at the bar and order something stronger.
Chapter Six
Asher
Know any hot men who can meet me down at Brady’s and take my mind off a shitty day?
She summoned me with a simple text message. I programmed my number into her phone last week during our date—or, rather, our not-a-date—and I’d been beginning to wonder whether she’d ever use it.
The woman has driven me to distraction. Her laugh, her mind, that shield of indifference she hides behind. I keep thinking of the wicked look in her eyes as she stripped in front of me. My lust, the hungry desire to take her, hasn’t faded. If anything, it’s grown more intense.
Then there was the look on her face when that as**ole called her loose. The flash of hurt, a wounded girl resurfacing for a split second before she pushed her away again. Physical attraction is something I can ignore. But this need to protect her from the pickup-driving assholes of the world? This need to uncover the woman hiding behind those walls? I’m consumed by it.
I walk into the bar and instantly spot her. That fiery red hair. Those wide green eyes. That smile that eats up her face.
Tonight she’s wearing a little black number and knee-high heeled boots she had to have chosen for the express purpose of making me lose my mind.
There’s an exposed strip of freckled skin between where the boots end and the skirt begins—two inches of soft flesh that make me want to drag her to the nearest closet and press her against the wall, slide into her hot, fast and hungry, her skirt bunched at her waist, her mouth hot against my neck.
Those two inches of skin are enough to make me forget that she’s still hung up on some other guy.
Her lips tilt into a grin as she crosses to me, a little unsteady on her feet. “You came.”
“You’re drunk.” The words come out with an unintended sigh.
She hooks her fingers into my belt loops and tugs me against her. “Not quite drunk. Not quite sober. Wanna take me home and take advantage of me?”
“Not if you’re drunk,” I say against her mouth. She smells so damn good, and I want to taste her, to touch her. I want to kiss my way down her body and find her sweet spots.
The tables in the front of the bar are empty and some guys sit at a booth at the back. “Who are you here with?” I ask.
“You now,” she whispers.
“You’re here drinking alone? You didn’t bring a girlfriend to keep you company? To watch your back?”
She shakes her head and loops her arms around my neck. “I don’t have girlfriends. Girls don’t like me.”
I’m sure this isn’t something she’d share sober, so I let it drop. “How was your day?”
She leans her head against my chest. “Do you know what it feels like to have someone take away something you desperately wanted?”
Something jagged pushes down my throat at those words, but I don’t reply. This isn’t about me.
The jukebox thumps with a rock song and she rocks her h*ps against me to the beat, trailing a finger down the side of my face. “It’s like she stole it from me, but I’m not allowed to think that because I’m the one who left him.”
I’m not sure what she’s talking about but I’m not about to interrupt. Apparently, Drunk Maggie is less averse to sharing.
“It was supposed to be our gallery,” she whispers. “It was our dream but she took my spot. She stole my happily-ever-after.”
“Your sister,” I say, but she doesn’t seem to hear me. She’s rubbing against me like a cat, lost in her own pity party and the rhythm of the music.
“Girls like me don’t get happily ever after.” Her lips curl into a wicked smile that looks maniacal under such sad eyes. “Instead, the prince marries the good girl, and girls like me get to f**k him behind his wife’s back. Lucky us.”
“Jesus.” I pull her into my arms and she burrows her head against my chest.
We dance, rolling our h*ps to the music, her body pressing closer and closer to mine. She’s slipped a hand up my shirt. It’s pressed between our bodies and her fingers are splayed against the hot skin of my abdomen. I like her here. Against me, curled into me like she might let me protect her.
She looks up at me with those big green eyes and seems to remember herself. She stutters back a step, pulling her hand from my shirt. “I need another drink,” she says softly.
She looks around again. The gallery doesn’t officially open for a couple of weeks, and it hasn’t been staged yet. Paintings are propped against the walls; sculptures sit in odd groupings.
When she returns her eyes to mine, awkwardness sits between us like a chaperone with too many elbows. I hate it, and I hate myself for thinking about how it felt to hold her together, how it felt to be the thing she needed most in this world, her rock.
“Maggie,” I repeat. My voice is a little hard this time, as if it’s her fault I can’t just let it go. “What are you doing here?”
She swallows audibly. “Sorry, I…” She shakes her head. “There was a flyer in the art building about a summer internship at a new gallery, and I…” She takes a step back. “I should go.”
“No. Don’t.” I don’t even realize I’ve reached for her until my hand touches her arm. The moment that electric zip of contact zings through me, I recoil. “You don’t have to go.” But even as I say it, I’m backing up, trying to put distance between us.
The click of heels echoes through the cavernous space.
“Hi, Krystal,” Maggie says softly, a sad smile on her face.
I clear my throat. “Maggie’s here about the internship I advertised on campus.”
Krystal’s face brightens and she claps her hands together. “Perfect!” she says at the same time Maggie says, “I didn’t realize…What?”
Krystal looks between us. “Maggie’s good at this stuff—right, Will? And between moving into the new house and planning the second wedding, you need someone you don’t have to babysit.”
“Krystal,” Maggie says, “I don’t think…”
Krystal raises a brow, waiting for Maggie to finish. When she doesn’t, Krystal turns to me. “I don’t see any problem with it, do you?”
“Maggie would do a good job,” I acknowledge.
“It’s settled, then.” She smiles, but I can see the strain around her once soft eyes.
“I’ll think about it,” Maggie says, edging toward the exit. “I’ll let you know. Thank you.”
When the door closes behind her, Krystal’s smile falters.
“Is this supposed to be some sort of test?” I ask.
She wraps her arms around herself. “Why would you say that?”
I stare at her. The tension between us isn’t something we’re used to, and neither of us knows how to deal with it, how to fit it into the previously comfortable territory of our relationship.
“Anyway, I’m not worried about her. That guy she was with at the wedding is some sort of rock star. Rumor has it he’s cozying up to Lucy.”
I set my jaw. “Don’t. Call. Her. That.”
She takes a step toward me and runs her eyes over my body. “My sister isn’t a fifteen-year-old who needs the big, bad college boy anymore, Will. This isn’t high school, and you two aren’t going to live happily ever after, so stop trying to relive the past.”
“Who are you?” The Krystal I fell in love with was never this cold, never this hard, not even when it came to Maggie—especially when it came to Maggie.
She’s unbuttoning my pants with one hand and cupping me in the other.
I step back, evading her touch and escaping her ugliness. Only then do I see the tears glistening in her eyes.
“If you can’t handle her taking some stupid part-time summer internship in this gallery,” she says softly, hands hanging limply at her sides, “if that’s too much of a f**king temptation for you, then we shouldn’t be getting married.”
She walks away and I’m left with the uncomfortable truth of her words.
“My sister isn’t a fifteen-year-old who needs the big, bad college boy anymore.”
I never realized how much I needed Maggie to need me. Until she didn’t.
***
Maggie
I’m torn from a fitful sleep and bolt upright at the sounds of a baby’s cries.
I stumble out of bed, fighting free of my tangled sheets, tripping over my own feet. I’m halfway down the hallway before I realize my mistake, but the cries from my dream seem so real they echo in my ears.
Silent, tearless sobs rattle my chest and bring me to my knees.
I crawl toward my bedside table, to the anxiety medication I keep in my purse. Better to stay ahead of it, better to take the meds at the first signs of panic than to let the anxiety grab ahold of me with its sticky, suffocating hands.
I snatch the purse and dump the contents. A white slip of paper flutters out and down to the bed.
I frown at it. Who’s leaving me notes?
But when I read it with sleep-gritty eyes, the words leave me cold, and an old, familiar sickness eats at my stomach.
Hands shaking, I look around my room as if a ghost might step out from a darkened corner.
The church hands these bookmarks out like candy, and it could have easily gotten pushed into my purse. And yet, as innocuous as it is, the words give me pause.
I don’t know how long I stare at it. The cries from my dreams have faded in my ears, and my eyes have adjusted to the light pouring in the window. My stomach churns as I grab a book of matches.
I ignore my ringing phone as I drop the note in my bathroom sink.
The answering machine clicks on, then my mother’s voice says, “Maggie.” She sighs audibly. “Krystal said you showed up at the gallery yesterday. I’m sorry we didn’t tell you, sweetie. We just weren’t sure how. I hope you understand that she never wanted to hurt you.”
I squeeze my eyes shut in frustration, wishing for blackness and oblivion. I want to forget. Will. Krystal. The last year. The sound of my father’s voice in my head, as if he rose from the dead to leave that reminder in my purse. I want to forget the words typed so neatly on the church bookmark. The words that make me want to crawl out of my own skin.
I light a match and throw it into the sink, watch the words that have been ground into my brain since birth flame and turn them to ash.
Confess your sins and be forgiven.
***
“I’ll have a twenty-ounce Guinness,” I tell the scruffy middle-aged man behind the bar. My day started off like shit and didn’t get much better. I made myself go to campus to re-enroll and discovered I lost my scholarship by dropping out last year. But, hey, my consolation prize is that they have an art studio available. That almost makes up for the thirty grand a year I’ll be paying in tuition to finish my degree.
Brady turns his best glare on me and props his hands on his hips. “You still hell bent on making me lose my liquor license, girl?”
I offer him my ID from between two fingers. “I am legal now, old man. You can’t kick me out anymore.”
Brady examines the card with a furrowed brow. I handed him enough fake ones over the years, I can hardly be insulted by his skepticism. Before coming back home a month ago, I’d never legally had a drink in New Hope—not that I hadn’t had my share of alcohol, mind you, just not legally.
Brady grunts and hands back my ID. “I guess I woulda known if I’d done the math.” He shakes his head and draws me a beer.
I take a slow sip and scan the bar. My sisters were busy tonight—Lizzy with a date and Hanna with some sort of summer research gig for school—but I couldn’t face my empty little rental tonight, couldn’t handle the bare walls or the silence. After feeding Lucy, I decided to check out what it was like to be a patron at Brady’s without having to dodge the proprietor.
Sadly, it’s a little disappointing. It’s a Thursday night, and apparently Brady’s doesn’t cater to a large, thirsty Thursday crowd in the summers. The place is nearly abandoned, save a couple guys in baseball caps playing a game of pool and a couple speaking in soft tones at the bar.
I’m bemoaning the silence when the screen at the front bangs shut and someone calls, “Lucy!”
I don’t even flinch at that damn nickname anymore. I became numb to it when half my high school started using it—some behind my back, others to my face. In fact, I decided to reclaim it when I adopted my dog and bestowed the name upon her. Me and Lucy against the world.
Nevertheless, I turn around to see what as**ole I have the pleasure of meeting tonight.
“I think you’ve got the wrong bar, sweet thang,” Kenny Riles says, running his eyes over me and leaving a trail of slime behind. “The strip club is down the road.”
“Fuck off, Kenny,” I mutter.
I went to high school with this as**ole and when shit hit the fan my freshman year, everyone was cruel, but Kenny and his buddies were the worst. And they never seemed to let it go.
He sidles up to me. Too close. I can smell his aftershave, a smell that might be pleasant if it weren’t for its host. “When you were fifteen, I didn’t get it. I didn’t understand why a man would risk it all just to f**k you. But now…” His lips curl into a meaningful smirk as he trails off.
I feel sick.
The guys at the back table call to him, and he gives me a final once-over and winks before walking away.
My hands shake as I reach for my beer. I want to leave. I want to get as far away from here as possible, but I won’t let him have that power over me. Instead, I settle into a stool at the bar and order something stronger.
Chapter Six
Asher
Know any hot men who can meet me down at Brady’s and take my mind off a shitty day?
She summoned me with a simple text message. I programmed my number into her phone last week during our date—or, rather, our not-a-date—and I’d been beginning to wonder whether she’d ever use it.
The woman has driven me to distraction. Her laugh, her mind, that shield of indifference she hides behind. I keep thinking of the wicked look in her eyes as she stripped in front of me. My lust, the hungry desire to take her, hasn’t faded. If anything, it’s grown more intense.
Then there was the look on her face when that as**ole called her loose. The flash of hurt, a wounded girl resurfacing for a split second before she pushed her away again. Physical attraction is something I can ignore. But this need to protect her from the pickup-driving assholes of the world? This need to uncover the woman hiding behind those walls? I’m consumed by it.
I walk into the bar and instantly spot her. That fiery red hair. Those wide green eyes. That smile that eats up her face.
Tonight she’s wearing a little black number and knee-high heeled boots she had to have chosen for the express purpose of making me lose my mind.
There’s an exposed strip of freckled skin between where the boots end and the skirt begins—two inches of soft flesh that make me want to drag her to the nearest closet and press her against the wall, slide into her hot, fast and hungry, her skirt bunched at her waist, her mouth hot against my neck.
Those two inches of skin are enough to make me forget that she’s still hung up on some other guy.
Her lips tilt into a grin as she crosses to me, a little unsteady on her feet. “You came.”
“You’re drunk.” The words come out with an unintended sigh.
She hooks her fingers into my belt loops and tugs me against her. “Not quite drunk. Not quite sober. Wanna take me home and take advantage of me?”
“Not if you’re drunk,” I say against her mouth. She smells so damn good, and I want to taste her, to touch her. I want to kiss my way down her body and find her sweet spots.
The tables in the front of the bar are empty and some guys sit at a booth at the back. “Who are you here with?” I ask.
“You now,” she whispers.
“You’re here drinking alone? You didn’t bring a girlfriend to keep you company? To watch your back?”
She shakes her head and loops her arms around my neck. “I don’t have girlfriends. Girls don’t like me.”
I’m sure this isn’t something she’d share sober, so I let it drop. “How was your day?”
She leans her head against my chest. “Do you know what it feels like to have someone take away something you desperately wanted?”
Something jagged pushes down my throat at those words, but I don’t reply. This isn’t about me.
The jukebox thumps with a rock song and she rocks her h*ps against me to the beat, trailing a finger down the side of my face. “It’s like she stole it from me, but I’m not allowed to think that because I’m the one who left him.”
I’m not sure what she’s talking about but I’m not about to interrupt. Apparently, Drunk Maggie is less averse to sharing.
“It was supposed to be our gallery,” she whispers. “It was our dream but she took my spot. She stole my happily-ever-after.”
“Your sister,” I say, but she doesn’t seem to hear me. She’s rubbing against me like a cat, lost in her own pity party and the rhythm of the music.
“Girls like me don’t get happily ever after.” Her lips curl into a wicked smile that looks maniacal under such sad eyes. “Instead, the prince marries the good girl, and girls like me get to f**k him behind his wife’s back. Lucky us.”
“Jesus.” I pull her into my arms and she burrows her head against my chest.
We dance, rolling our h*ps to the music, her body pressing closer and closer to mine. She’s slipped a hand up my shirt. It’s pressed between our bodies and her fingers are splayed against the hot skin of my abdomen. I like her here. Against me, curled into me like she might let me protect her.
She looks up at me with those big green eyes and seems to remember herself. She stutters back a step, pulling her hand from my shirt. “I need another drink,” she says softly.
