When It Hooks You Page 19

  Her earlier phone conversation with Cliff had forced her to consider that there might be much more to Adam’s story than he’d let her know. He’d said he’d planned to tell her about his marriage—if that was true, what did it mean? Was the marriage on the verge of ending regardless of Trish’s involvement? It was entirely possible Adam had never been playing her at all and had truly fallen in as deeply she had. He might be limping through the world at this very moment, bruised and battered just like her.

  Somewhere between Cliff’s navel and the elastic waistband of his briefs, Trish broke. Exhausted by the effort of containing her sadness, she let out a sob as her face smooshed into his belly. Her shoulders convulsed and her voice was reduced to involuntary squeaks and whimpers.

  “Hey, hey,” Cliff said, stroking the back of her head. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

  She lifted her head enough to shake it back and forth, her tears spilling onto his stomach. In a series of agonized chirps, she pushed out, “That’s not it,” before her face fell back onto him.

  His hand moved to rub her back. “Okay. That’s…okay. Do you want to tell me what it is?”

  She inhaled a shuddering breath, recovering some of her composure. Pushing herself up to sit back on her legs, she swiped at her eyes, but it was no use. Fresh tears immediately replaced any she’d dried. “I’m s-s-sorry.”

  He reached a hand to her face, rubbing his thumb across the steady stream pouring down her cheek.

  “You’re s-so nice, Cliff. As soon as I g-get back under control, I’m going to s-s-suck you off.”

  He barked out a quick, biting laugh and sat up straight. “That’s okay. Not sure I’d feel right letting you do that. Besides…” Hooking a finger under his waistband, he pulled it away from his body and assessed what was underneath. “Forget cold showers. Crying’s a way more effective anti-aphrodisiac, even if I do have a rockin’, nearly naked woman right next to me.”

  A new fluid joined the downward parade on Trish’s face. She wiped the back of her wrist underneath her nose.

  “The snot helps, too,” Cliff said.

  Trish let out a small laugh…and then dissolved into tears again. It was a few moments before she could speak again. “I think I knew. In the shadowy recesses of my brain, I knew he was married or was at least in a serious relationship. It’s like I told you about Kurt and the slutbag—the other woman always knows. That’s why I was so stubborn about not digging into Adam’s background. It wasn’t because I trusted him. It was because I didn’t want to know.”

  “Let me get you some tissues.” Cliff rose from the bed and clicked off the sex mix before opening a cabinet and returning with a box of Kleenex. Climbing back onto the mattress, he handed her the box and sat silently, leaning against the sofa back, poised to listen.

  “I should’ve known something was strange about the way he seemed almost afraid to let things get physical,” Trish said. “Instead of considering what that might be about, I took it up as a challenge. I seduced him like it was some kind of game. Idiot me fell hard along the way. We both ended up losers.” Her face crumpled as she gave herself over to a new wave of regret.

  “Come here.” Cliff held out an arm and she curled into his side. Somehow it didn’t feel strange to be skin-to-skin with his warm body. Cliff was so good to her—and for her. Why couldn’t she have fallen in love with him instead of Adam? There was no logic in her heart.

  The ugly crying had churned her head into a muddled mess of alcohol, sorrow, and self-loathing. “I probably knew about you, too—that you had a crush on me in college. I made myself think you were gay because I didn’t feel the same and I didn’t want to feel guilty. I wish I could be attracted to you that way.” She inhaled a sharp breath, mussing the black hair on his chest with her clawed hand. “I tried to feel it for you tonight. I swear I did. But I just…I can’t.”

  Laying a hand over hers, he stilled her raking. “Trust me—that came across loud and clear.”

  She lifted her head and studied his sweet face. With his gentle eyes, full mouth, and dark hair against creamy, pale skin, he was no doubt considered beyond sexy by dozens of other women. “I’m such a bitch.” Her forehead flopped back onto his chest, and she cried some more, no longer trusting herself to speak. There was nothing to say, anyhow. No amount of blaming herself or blaming Adam would heal her pain. Only time could do that.

  Cliff stayed quiet, too, rubbing soothing strokes down her bare back. When she was finally cried out, she got dressed. Cliff walked her downstairs and to the street to hail a cab, giving her a kiss on the forehead when he said good night.

  “I’m sorry,” Trish said.

  “No worries. You obviously needed to get these emotions out. I’m glad I could help you through it.”

  “Maybe soon, when I’m completely over this, we can try again.”

  He scrunched his nose, lifting his fingers to brush away the long blond strands the wind had blown across her face. “I don’t think so.” There was no reproach in his tone, but there was finality.

  Trish nodded, forcing her expression into a tight smile before new tears could sting her eyes. No matter how understanding Cliff was, she knew she’d hurt him. She gave him a quick kiss on his cheek and got into the taxi.

  The next morning, Trish finally called Lyssa. “I found out what Adam’s deep, dark secret was.”

  “Yeah?” Lyssa said.

  “He’s a vampire.” Dead silence followed. Trish sighed, trudging past the lame joke to face the firing squad. “The truth is, unfortunately, far worse—he’s married.”

  “No!”

  “Yes.”

  “That motherfucker.”

  Trish let out a dark chuckle. She should’ve known any bullets fired by her friend would be aimed at Trish’s enemy. “That’s what I said.” After that, she spilled everything, including what had happened with Cliff the night before. By the end of the conversation, she was able to muster a thank you to Lyssa for setting her on the path to discovering the truth. She hung up thinking she was done crying over Adam Helms.

  She was wrong.

  Chapter 21

  TRISH’S MUDDLED SENTIMENTS TOWARD ADAM settled over the next few months. Several times she’d been tempted to call him and demand a full explanation, but she knew it was best to stay away and let him fade from her heart. He obviously felt the same way since he’d stood by his word and hadn’t tried to contact her all through the holidays. If he still had any business with River South Partners, he’d conducted it long-distance.

  That didn’t stop him from frequently inhabiting her thoughts. She decided his marriage couldn’t have been a very strong one. As Cliff had pointed out, Adam hadn’t come to Trish looking for sex. He’d been seeking companionship—something his wife apparently didn’t provide. Trish’s ache mutated from one of betrayal into something more like mourning for two souls kept apart by circumstance.

  A couple of weeks into the new year, Michael emerged from the corporate wing and approached her desk. “I need you to send a flower arrangement to a client.”

  Trish pulled out a notepad to take down the information. She found her job at River South increasingly dull. At first she’d thought she was simply caught in a funk about no longer anticipating Adam’s visits, but as the weeks had passed, she’d realized it was more than that. The fleeting idea of quitting this job to work with Adam and do more with her life had awakened a latent ambition. She’d stayed in neutral long enough. It was time to move on. She’d updated her résumé and begun poking around jobs listings, trying to figure out exactly what she’d like to move on to. In the meantime, she’d answer phones and send flowers to clients.

  “Ready when you are,” Trish said, her pen poised.

  “They’re for Adam Helms. His wife died. I’d like the flowers sent to the funeral home in time for the wake tomorrow evening.” He read the address off of his phone.

  Trish copied it down, her fingers moving in precise, robot-like moti
ons. Her brain likewise reverted to a safe, mechanical mode.

  “Please write something like: With sympathy in your time of grief. Sincerely, Michael Guttierez and the entire staff of River South Partners.” He turned and headed back toward his office. “Charge them to my card.”

  “How did she die?” Trish blurted.

  Michael paused, turning only half way around. “I’m not sure exactly. She’d been in the hospital for quite some time. Since before I met Adam. I don’t know the details, but he’s far too young to be a widower—feel free to splurge on an extra-large arrangement.”

  Michael left, and Trish snapped her attention to her computer, pulling up the florist’s website and typing the information exactly as Michael had dictated. She continued to stare at the screen long after she’d placed the order. The sound of a door opening behind her barely registered in her mind.

  “What’s wrong?” It was Cliff’s voice.

  She flinched and turned to look at him, her mouth opening and closing a few times before any sound came out. When she did speak, her voice sounded wispy, ethereal, to her own ears. “She died. She was sick, and…I sent flowers.” She lifted a hand, vaguely gesturing toward the computer screen.

  “Who died?” Cliff came closer, his features pinched in concern.

  Trish locked her eyes on his and nodded a few times, working up the courage to say it. “His wife.” She continued nodding as she watched understanding widen his eyes. Her face crumpled, falling into her cupped hands as she repeated in soft whispers, “His wife…his wife.”

  Cliff’s hand was at her shoulder, pulling her into his side. She heard the click of her office phone being lifted from its receiver. “Blake,” Cliff said, “can you cover the front desk for a little while? Trish has to run out.” After a brief pause, he added, “Thanks. We’re heading out the door right now so please get up here as fast as you can.”

  Trish didn’t try to fight him. With Cliff guiding her, she stood and walked to the elevator, keeping a hand over her face as she teetered at the edge of her composure.

  Once the elevator door slid shut, Cliff told her, “I drove in today. Let’s go to my car.” They exited at the parking level where he whisked her to his car and started it. “I’m only turning it on for heat. We’re not going anywhere and can stay here as long as you need to.”

  In the protective bubble of Cliff’s car, Trish was ready to fully face the horror of the new revelation. “She was sick, Cliff. She was sick for a long time in the hospital—suffering while I was in a treehouse, fucking her husband!”

  “You had no way of knowing any of this—don’t you dare take on blame.”

  She shook her head. “You don’t know what’s been going on in my brain the last few months. I convinced myself she must’ve been some kind of hag, that it was her fault she couldn’t hold onto her man. I actually started feeling bad for him.” The purr of the car’s engine filled the next several beats of Trish’s silence. “Do you know that I haven’t gone on one single date in the last three months? Even though I knew it was impossible, I stayed caught up in him, thinking that maybe, somehow…” She let out a huff, staring out the windshield.

  Cliff let her linger in her own thoughts for a few moments before breaking in with a quiet voice. “At some point, I’m sure we’ve all held out hope for someone we can’t have—for far longer than we should’ve.”

  Trish slid her gaze sideways to see him watching her. His soft brown eyes grabbed onto hers and held them. The car had fully warmed, and their breath no longer fogged. She hated to think Cliff’s unrequited feelings for her had ever caused him even a fraction of the pain Adam had inflicted. But Cliffy had dealt with it, and so would she. “I guess all we can do is get over it.”

  Cliff nodded, and then one side of his mouth twitched up into a wry half-smile. “Though I hear Adam Helms is single now…” Trish’s glare doused his tentative grin. “Sorry. That was tacky. Way too soon to joke. Sorry.”

  She shrugged, the warm, watery pool of her tears finally surfacing. “Maybe I’ll be able to laugh in a few weeks.”

  She was able to laugh again during the weeks that followed, but never about Adam. Early one Saturday afternoon as she flipped through her mail, a small envelope with foreign postage stamps caused her to pause. There was no return address but she knew immediately it was from Adam. She dropped the letter onto her bistro table as if it had bitten her. Seconds later, she thrust her feet into her boots and arms through her puffy coat, deciding to go for a brisk walk before returning for a letter-burning ceremony. He’d caused her too much stress and taken up far more than his share of her attention already. It was time for that to end.

  She made it to the bottom of her stairwell before spinning around and charging back up the steps. Stomping to her kitchen and yanking open a drawer, she pulled out a lighter and took it to the table. Slowly, she unzipped her coat with one hand as she stared at the offending piece of mail and flicked the wheel of the lighter, generating fleeting, blue sparks. Taking a deep inhale, she held her breath for as long as she could. Warm air eventually drifted out through her nose, relaxing tension’s grip on her taut muscles. She laid the lighter down and picked up the letter, taking it to her sofa, where she balanced precariously on the edge of the cushion.

  With a long fingernail, she made a clean slice through the top of the envelope. She pulled out several folded papers filled with a distinctive scrawl. Something small fell onto her lap. Glancing down, she saw the oblong hoop earring she’d left behind at the hotel room that awful day. Not daring to touch it, her eyes darted to the first page.

  Trish,

  I can only imagine what you’ve been thinking. I’ve started and stopped writing a letter of explanation so many times, knowing it’s best for you to not have to think about me anymore. Then I received the flower arrangement and realized you’d probably heard through the office that Susan had died. When I consider the scenarios that must be playing in your mind, I can’t stand knowing how monstrous I must seem to you. The truth of it isn’t pretty and doesn’t exonerate me in any way, but I hope when you know everything, if you can’t forgive me, at least you’ll be able to understand a little better.

  Susan and I married eight years ago. On paper we were the perfect match, and we pretended to be exactly that throughout our first year of marriage. Soon after, however, we could no longer ignore our differences. We’d been so eager to enter into that new phase of our adulthood that we hadn’t truly thought of what it would mean to spend the rest of our lives together.

  We’re always told marriage is hard work, and both of us were stubborn, so we moved forward, trusting the kinks to work themselves out. But our problems only became more pronounced. A career like mine doesn’t happen without putting in long hours away from home, and I’m sure those hours played their part in our issues, yet I started putting in even more than were necessary because it meant less time at home arguing with her. She became bitter and hostile, a very different person than the woman I thought I’d married. I know I’d become a different man, too. Over time, the arguing tapered off—only because we rarely communicated on any kind of meaningful level, anymore.

  We could have continued on that way, as many married couples do, living separate lives under the same roof. At some point I’m sure we could’ve even reached a more amicable, if not entirely loving, coexistence, but that wasn’t what I wanted from a marriage. When I took stock, I realized I wanted to be partners with my wife in everything. Something had to change if that were ever to happen with Susan. I took a hiatus from work so we could travel together and try to arrive on the same page. Away from our daily lives, however, we were back to dwelling on our problems rather than seeking solutions.

  Instead of building each other up to be the best versions of ourselves, we tore each other down. It wasn’t a healthy relationship for either of us. Poetically, my wedding ring went missing during our travels, and I never had an inclination to replace it. Any glimmer of hope I might’ve had for our m
arriage had disintegrated. I was tired, and I was done playing the game.

  In the weeks following our return home, I did some heavy thinking, unsure of how to proceed. Then one night—it was three years ago—we were out at a formal charity function. I watched her from across the room as she mingled and laughed with other guests. I was struck by the notion that somewhere in that crowded room was a man who could love her in a way I couldn’t. The thought didn’t cause so much as a spark of jealousy. It only led to sadness, a deep regret that she, that both of us, were denied the chance to find a genuine partnership because we’d taken vows too soon.

  On the way home from the party, I foolishly shared my new insight. She responded hotly, accusing me of having my eye on someone else. I realized too late how many cocktails she’d consumed. She continued on in a violent rant, unleashing all her many grievances against me. My retorts were far from charitable, and the argument escalated, driving Susan to near hysteria.

  I should have pulled over, let her calm down, but she was screaming to be let out of the car. I didn’t want to have to chase her down the side of the highway, so I kept on, trying to talk her down. She tore off her seatbelt, reached out, and jerked the wheel toward the shoulder of the road. I reacted, overcorrecting, and we swerved into oncoming traffic. We were hit—glass shattered, and the world spun out of control until we stopped dead at the bottom of a ditch. I ended up with a few broken bones but nothing serious. Because she wasn’t wearing her seatbelt, Susan was hurt much worse. She never regained consciousness after the accident.