“I would’ve thought he’d enjoy that.”
Rae’s quiet, even for her, industriously gathering her bag, lipstick, fussing with her hair in the mirror of our boutique hotel in Napa.
“That’s beside the point. It’s not why you’re not coming to the wedding.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
She straightens, turning to look at me. She’s beautiful, her blue dress hugging curves I dream about every second I’m not touching them. Her eyes are dark, lined to make them darker, her lips full and parted. Her hair falls in soft waves around her shoulders thanks to a curling iron she burnt herself on while she was finishing.
“You can’t come because it’s family and in public and a cesspool of emotions and damage, and I didn’t ask for a plus one. Especially a plus one who’s recognizable and infamous and going to draw attention like a magnet.”
Frustration rises up. “So, I’m good enough to drive you up here but not to attend the ceremony.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Is it?” I cross to her and box her in against the dresser.
The wedding is at a vineyard. I drove with her and stayed over, thinking a night away would be refreshing.
I get that she RSVPed for one person weeks ago, but it feels as if she doesn’t want me to know where she comes from.
“You knew who I was when we started this,” I murmur. “Don’t invite me in one moment and shut me out the next.”
She steps into her heeled platforms, tossing her hair over one shoulder as she bends to fasten the straps.
“Inviting you in feels like inviting a circus,” she says, still bent double. “I want you, but I can’t take the monkeys today, Harrison.”
Perhaps I should have anticipated her reaction. But I’ve rarely encountered a woman who didn’t want to be with me, who didn’t welcome all that came with it. Even my ex acted like she wanted it—until she didn’t.
But there’s a larger issue.
Rae’s my girlfriend, as trite as the label is. That means I get to claim her as mine—in public when we’re walking down the street and in private when she’s panting beneath me. It also means I get to tease her. That she’s the person I think of first when I run into a problem.
From the way she’s been carrying tension since Colorado, the way she burnt herself with the styling tool she could use in her sleep, today is a problem.
But she’s not fucking confiding in me, and that eats me alive. She’s using this event as an excuse not to let me in. She can’t shut me out whenever it’s convenient, whenever something triggers her to raise the walls she’s spent years carefully building.
“There’s a brave woman I can’t stop thinking about,” I bite out. “You’re not acting like her.”
She straightens, eyes wide with shock. It’s the first sign I’ve landed a blow. “You should drive back to LA. I’ll get my own ride back.”
We go downstairs in silence and wait while the valet brings the car around.
When she drops into the passenger seat, her handbag falls on the floor. As she fishes under the seat to retrieve it, I put the car in gear, not bothering to help.
The moment we pull up the long driveway of the vineyard and I park in front, she shifts out and shuts the door.
The car is too quiet as I head back to the highway, so I crank the satellite radio. My knuckles are white on the wheel.
I came to LA for business. To put Mischa in the ground, professionally speaking. Instead, all I can think of is the woman I left twenty miles back.
Being this consumed by another person isn’t healthy, but I don’t know how to change it or even if I want to. I’ve never had someone this tightly linked to my work and life.
A ringing sounds from the passenger seat.
What the…?
As the ringing cuts out, I pull over and reach under the seat.