He looks poster boy sexy, ruffled, but totally stressed; his arms are up and resting on top of his head in
a pose that just screams “My life is fucking over”. I falter, but he says nothing, just sighs; still watching
me and I force myself to walk into the room. I look around for his guest and note his door is shut.
“She’s in there … It was Marissa.” He points out darkly. I say nothing, just chew my lip nervously. My
heart’s pounding so hard I think I may have a heart attack and I want him to stop staring at me. He’s
making me even more nervous than I already am, dissolving my resolve.
“Are you done having your after-sex crisis?” his tone droll, I flinch at his words but ignore them and take
a slow breath.
“I’m going running … I need some air.” I respond quietly. Unable to meet his eyes. Focusing on putting
my iPod in my holder on my arm, and plugging the headphones in.
“How appropriate, Emma,” he sneers at me. I glare at him, but move to the side, to walk around the
furniture for the door. He jumps up, leaping easily over the couch and standing face to face with me,
blocking my route menacingly. He towers above me, anger all over his face and I hesitate. “I don’t think
so.”
“What? You’re going to stop me from leaving?” I reel back in trepidation. A little unsure of him right now.
“If I have to.” He looks sardonic and I back off unsurely.
“You want a cozy chat with me and Marissa, do you?” I can’t help with the sarcasm; he’s knocked me
off balance with his behavior and I’m just reacting.
Why am I being this way? … Why is he? What’s wrong with us? We should be able to just go back to
before.
He steps back, seemingly stung by what I said and rubs a hand over his face, losing his menacing
glare. He scrubs his fingers through his unruly hair, looking desolate and I get a twang of guilt and pity,
but I steel myself to stay still.
“Things are fucked, Emma …” His voice wavers, he sounds exhausted, just like I am.
That’s an understatement if I ever heard one, and I’m heartbroken that he’s now only realizing this! He
lifts his hand, cupping my cheek and runs his thumb across my mouth unexpectedly, causing me to
flinch at his touch, at the surprise of such a tender motion. He withdraws as if I’ve scolded him, puts
both hands into his pockets instead. He looks like a child and turns his face away, hunching his
shoulders. It makes me ache to reach out for him, but I still my hands by my side. I have more control
than this. I need to do this.
“Are you going to fire me?” I ask flatly; I need to know … I need to prepare myself. Figure out where I
go from here.
“Why would you ask me that?” he snaps, his fiery green gaze on me, anger instantly returning.
Oh … I don’t know maybe because you’ve another woman sitting, waiting in your bedroom, and coitus
is not part of my pre-arranged employment contract.
“I need to know where I stand.” Is all I say, cool and crisp, devoid of my betraying emotions. He snorts
as if I’ve said something outrageous, then mumbles something that sounds like “you and me both”. I’m
not sure, but I ignore it anyway.
“Why is she here?” I nod toward the door behind him fighting that inner twang of pain. Jealousy. He
stops for a moment, as if he’s trying to find the words, then just says it.
“Marissa’s pregnant … I fucked up.” He blows it out.
It’s as though he’s punched me full force in the stomach, I’m reeling and dying all at the same time …
Unable to really take in his devastated expression fully.
What the hell?
Nausea rises quickly and spins head, before I can grasp control. It’s as unexpected as the last time I
fainted and fueled by the instant carnage of his words.
“Whoa, Emma.” He grabs my arms as I crumble and rights me against him, jumping the couch to stand
flat on the floor with me, the familiar feel of his body and touch acting like an anchor for my spiraling
mind, stopping me from fully blanking out.
“Sit.” He barks and yanks me around the arm and down toward the couch beside him, he draws me in,
sitting me quickly. I grasp my face and sink my head between my knees, trying to push the tilting
sensation away. Trying to stop the overwhelming urge to throw up.
“That doctor was fucking useless,” he hisses and rubs my back.
“I’m fine,” I lie. “Stop swearing.” I can’t lift my head just yet or I may actually die … I think I’m losing the
ability to see. Everything is swimming and heat has washed up from my toes in a sickening wave. My
body is tingling and not in a good way.
“You’re not fine, Emma …You’re getting seen by someone else.”
“Stop it!” I snap and sit up, swaying a little, grasping his wrist. “It’s dizziness, that’s all. I’ve had a shock
okay … You just told me you’re going to be a father, just after we … For fuck’s sake.” I snap, and he
stops dead; paling visibly, he slumps down and exhales slowly.
“You’re not the only one, okay.”
Ironically put.
“When did she tell you?” I try and sit up unaided, swaying a little, but feeling less likely to keel over.
Trying to figure out how long he has been seeing her.
Did he sleep with me, behind her back?
“A couple of days ago.” He sighs looking down at his lap.
That explains his monumentally shitty mood for the past couple of days, and hints at just how unhappy
he is about this.
“What are you going to do? … Marry her?” my voice falters so full of anguish.
Why do I sound so childlike? Oh, I don’t know, maybe because the thought of Jake marrying her is
killing me.
I’m hushed by the twisted frown he throws at me.
Okay, maybe we don’t live in the nineteenth century anymore, but I’m sure Father Carrero will have
something to say about a namesake being born out of wedlock. His father is a traditionalist after all.
“No, I’m not going to ask her to marry me, because I knocked her up, Emma … I’m not that stupid.” I
remember him telling me about his father marrying his mother on a whim and I realize why. Jake has
more sense. Thank god.
“What then?”
Why do I even care? I shouldn’t care.
I’ve royally fucked over my job, our friendship, and my life. It won’t be long before I no longer work for
the Carrero empire at all. I shouldn’t care about this; I shouldn’t be experiencing that aching pain in my
heart and chest at this fact. I’ve blurred the lines of how I should feel about him, and I need to bring
them back into focus. My head is a complete mess.
“It’s complicated.” He looks torn, that hint of lost little boy and it hurts me. Even after all this, I still care
about how he feels. I’m pathetic.
“As complicated as what we just did?” I flush as I realize the voice that said it was mine.
Mouth, why do you hate me so?
“Contrary to what your crazy little head tells you, Emma. There was nothing complicated about that,”
his flat tone and angry expression shut me up and I redden, squirming under his scrutinous glare.
What does that even mean? Oh, wait … It’s just sex, Emma … Right?
I turn my face away and stare at my hands. Tears burning my throat.
“It was Marissa …” he says it so quietly that I almost don’t hear him.
“What was?” I flick upright, snapped around by his random declaration.
“When I was sixteen … When you asked me about the girl I loved.” He stares at the floor and not at
me, his hands flat on the couch. I’ve nothing to say, no words filter through my brain … I just gawk at
him as he frowns back at me. I’m stilled by the shock and heavy thud inside my chest, nausea swirling
back up violently as each syllable registers and I absorb the confession. I think my heart gives out
completely.
I don’t want it to be her, anyone else, just not her. Why did it have to be her? Was that some female
intuition all along, inside of me screaming that she’s meant more to him?
“I was with her for a year … I was mad about her.” He sounds like he doesn’t believe it himself. A
dryness to his tone. I don’t want to hear this. I can’t bear it.
“What happened?” I croak.
Mouth? Were you not listening to my brain when it said I don’t want to hear?
He looks uncomfortable and gets up to walk across to the table near my bedroom door. He pushes
around some weird modern wooden sculpture there, the tension running through him as he searches
for the words. I’m frozen and holding my breath, a sea of emotions aching inside.
“She broke my heart, Emma … She fucked my best friend.” He drops the sculpture back in
place.
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