Bend (27 page)

Of course he did.

Goddamn it. Why is this news to me, after six years?

Mia is watching me expectantly, and I’m trying to figure out if there’s a reason she turned the conversation in this direction or if it was just an offhand comment. But I just can’t tell.

So I decide to find out.

She tossed the bait. I’ll bite.

“And was that an experience worth remembering?” I grind out.

Chewing on the inside of her cheek, she tilts her head and watches me narrowly. Trying to decide what the answer is…or what version of the answer she wants to tell me? I’m holding myself still, tense, and quiet as I wait.

“It was, actually,” she finally admits in a soft tone.

I can’t stop the scoff that erupts from my throat.

“What?” she retorts, a touch of belligerence in her tone. “You want me to lie? To say that I spent a year and a half with a guy who didn’t know what he was doing in bed?”

The corner of my eye twitches. I suppose I asked for this, but her words are still eating a hole in my stomach, and I can’t think of a single thing I want to say in response to that.

But I don’t need to say anything. Because she’s not done.

“Besides,” she goes on briskly, “you should be grateful. I probably wouldn’t like sex half as much if he hadn’t been so good at it.”

Right.
Thanks a lot, asshole.
Thanks for screwing Mia so well that she now loves it, allowing me to reap the rewards. I suppose I have him to thank for the skills she showed off in the car earlier, too.

Be grateful? Jesus fucking Christ.

My eyes are burning. Why is she telling me this? There’s definitely a challenging and almost spiteful look in her eyes, and I feel like she’s studying me to gauge my reaction.

Does she want me jealous of her ex-boyfriend? Fine. She succeeded.
Congratulations, Mia.
I don’t like thinking about her having sex with
any
other guy, but the mental images of her fucking
him
make me want to punch something.

I’m pretty sure she still has a thing for him. Still, after all these years. Even after what he did to her.

Which means that, even if all the other reasons it’s a mistake to be sleeping with her somehow disappeared, I don’t think she could ever really be mine. Not unless she could find a way to let go of him. Which seems like it might never happen.

If she wants to see me pissed off and jealous, though, she’s about to be disappointed. I still have enough self-control to keep that shit in check.

So I clear my throat and change the topic. “When does the party start, and where is it?”

It takes her a few moments to respond, like she has to switch mental gears. “Six o’clock at the country club. It’s about fifteen minutes away.”

“Are we driving?” I ask, because a Waters family party inevitably includes alcoholic beverages. As do a lot of regular middle-of-the-week meals, so yeah, it’s fair to assume most of them shouldn’t be driving home tonight. I don’t think anyone has a drinking problem. But I can’t say for sure, because if there were any alcoholics in this family, they’d be able to hide it pretty easily.

“I figured we could get a ride with Paige and Logan,” Mia answers with a shrug. “They have room, and Paige is designated driver by default right now.”

“Okay.” I suppress a sigh. I kind of wanted an excuse to stay sober. It seems like the smartest thing to do.

Because it feels safest to continue discussing trivialities, I say, “Freya told me with a lot of excitement that there’ll be a DJ. And, apparently, if there’s dancing, I’m her first partner.”

Mia’s whole face lights up as she gives a quick laugh. “She’s never been shy about going after what she wants.”

“That runs in your family, huh?” I ask dryly, bending my knees and drawing my feet up to the footrest.

“It doesn’t in yours?” she asks sharply.

Shit.
I walked right into that one. And I need to answer it in a way that doesn’t encourage any follow-up questions.

“Not really,” I say vaguely, putting a shrug into my tone and hoping she decides this isn’t a topic worth pursuing. I don’t know how I’ll deal with that right now when I’m still kind of agitated from talking about her and Fuckface’s sex life.

Arching her eyebrows and smiling, she slides off the bed, stands up, and lifts her arms over her head. Stretching. Probably still feeling stiff from this morning’s long drive. And despite my irritation with her, my hands are itching to touch her.

That mischievous look returns to her face as she approaches. Reaching me and the chair I’m sitting in, she braces her hands on my shoulders and straddles my lap.

Her eyes are burning into mine, inches from my face, and a sweet and fresh flowery scent fills my nose. Heat flickers through me, a reflexive reaction to her nearness that I’m wishing I could control because I’m definitely not in the mood for this right now.

In a low tone, she says, “One more thing about Matt—”

I stiffen, steeling myself. Now what?

“—yeah, the sex was good. But you make him look like a fucking amateur.”

Aw, shit.
Her words shoot straight to my crotch, and I find myself gripping her waist. Just like that, I’m disarmed. I want to push her to the floor, tear her clothes off, and bury myself inside her, and I’m wondering if it’d be worth the risk of getting caught.

Before I manage to decide, though, the muscles of her inner thighs are straining against me as she plants a foot on the floor and pushes off.

And then we’re spinning. Around and around. I slide hands down to her hips, the soft fabric of her leggings and the flesh beneath molding to my hands. Her face stays in focus even as the room turns blurry beyond her head. There’s a tiny, teasing smile on her lips.

The chair slows down, and she kicks off again, sending us whirling like a merry-go-round. My head swimming, I skim my hands up to her waist—and higher, up past the small of her back until I can clutch her closer.

I don’t know what the hell we’re doing, but I like it. I like her in my lap, like holding her in my arms, like the heat I can feel through our clothes where her thighs press down on mine.

I even like the spinning. It feels like we’re not the ones moving. It’s the room. The room is rotating around us while we’re motionless, clinging to each other. In this moment, she’s my constant, my equilibrium, my calm. Beyond us the world is spiraling and chaotic, but right here in this small spot, within the radius of the revolving office chair, nothing could be more right or more perfect.

The chair gradually loses momentum, and as it slows to a stop, Mia leans into me. Our foreheads touch first, and then her nose nudges mine. Her breath is warm on my face, her lips a fingertip’s length away.

I’m anticipating a kiss. It doesn’t happen. She just sits there on top of me, still and silent.

Mia. My Mia.

I’m breathing like a brick has been dropped on my chest. I should say something. Or maybe I should just kiss her.

She makes it a moot question by pushing away, swinging one leg back and around as she slides off my lap and gets to her feet.

Her cheeks look flushed and her pupils are dilated. She meets my eyes for just a second before she looks away and says, “We should probably go back downstairs now.”

Right. I have no idea what just happened between us, but it feels weird and different and somehow significant.

But by all means, let’s ignore it and go back downstairs to socialize with her family. No problem.

I swallow hard. Yeah, that’s not going to happen right now.

“You go ahead,” I say as I get up out of the chair, too. “I need to use the restroom first.”

What I need is a minute to adjust. And maybe a few minutes more to figure out how I’m going to survive this weekend.

M
y parents have gone all out with this party. It’s in the largest event space at the country club, a room with white-cloth-draped tables and chairs, spaced out around a smooth, gleaming dance floor. There’s a small stage where, off to the side, the DJ is doing his thing, playing mellow music just loud enough to be heard above the hum of chatter from the guests and the clink of silverware on enameled plates.

The best part, though, is the decor. The tables, chandeliers, buffet, and tall floor vases in the corners are adorned with flowers, all of them lilies in a multitude of colors. It’s a feast for the eyes, and when I first stepped into the room, arm in arm with my grandmother, I took one look at it all and then happily observed how she covered her mouth, her eyes glistening.

I’m sitting between her and Jay at a table with my parents and my brother, and we’re eating cake—a tender, white confection with a light and refreshing strawberry filling and buttercream frosting that’s fluffy and not too sweet. It’s the perfect ending to a buffet dinner that was either amazingly delicious or I was just too hungry to tell the difference.

Grandma’s looking fabulous tonight in her dove-gray, calf-length dress with delicate lace sleeves. Her gray-and-still-thick hair is styled as she always does it, the layered and tousled bob softly framing her lightly made-up face. And in the V of her dress, she’s pinned the brooch my grandfather gave her for their twenty-fifth anniversary: an emerald-green pin in the shape of a lily, gleaming with the topaz in the middle and the diamond-studded leaves. I spent a lot of time as a kid admiring and playing with that piece of jewelry, under Grandma’s close supervision.

She’s appeared radiant and happy all night, but never more so than when the lights dimmed and a server rolled out the white, four-tiered, square cake decorated in an intricate, swirly pattern with a row of pink lilies cascading down one side of it, the whole thing being lit up by eighty candles.

A hand fluttering at her chest and her eyes looking watery again, she announced she couldn’t blow them out by herself, and so she dragged me, Paige, Cameron, and the girls with her to help. Then all the guests, the dozens upon dozens of them, sang “Happy Birthday” to the beaming woman whom they all came here to honor.

And now, while I’m still taking small, slow bites of my cake to make it last longer, the speeches start. My dad stands up first, and his tribute to his mother is eloquent and reverent of a woman he so obviously holds in the highest regard.

It’s a short speech, though. Dad is famous for his brevity. His lectures at the university always end early, because when it comes to words, he values quality over quantity, and he’s just not the type of person who has a love affair with the sound of his own voice.

This, of course, is as opposed to my mom. Who’s a lawyer. Enough said.

After my dad is done, the baton passes around to various other party guests—Grandma’s pastor; her friend and next-door neighbor of almost thirty years, Gloria; my grandfather’s friend and business partner, Harvey Wallis, who my grandfather started Waters & Wallis with, an advertising firm that they built from the ground up, struggling for many years before turning it into a success.

Freya and Abigail have befriended a couple of other kids, a boy and a girl about their age who I think belong to a second cousin of mine, and the kids have started running in between the tables, playing a game that I’m assuming their parents are allowing only as long as they don’t make too much noise. I’m kind of wishing I could join them instead of having to sit here and be an adult.