Tiebreaker Page 8

  “What the hell has gotten into you? You’re acting like a real bitch.”

  I waver between being hurt and offended. He’s never used that word before. Not at me anyway. It’s one of the qualities I appreciate most about him. That he doesn’t get petty, lashing out at me with personal insults when we argue. I guess I can cross that one off the list.

  “And you’re acting like a real jerk,” I snap, not above dishing out some of what I just got from him. “I gotta go. I’ll call you when I have some news.”

  “Maren––” I hear but I’m already pressing the end button.

  * * *

  Hiding my bloodshot eyes and wicked hangover behind my Oakley shades, I walk across the street to Noah’s house on my way to an apology tour. The objective is to give him one and leave as quickly as possible. It’s high time I get on with completing my grandfather’s wishes and return to my life.

  Knowing that there’s a very good chance his girlfriend is home makes it all the more excruciating. An apology is due, however, and I am not one to shirk my responsibilities.

  I ring the doorbell over and over. No one answers so naturally I do what any normal person would do––I attempt to spy through the windows. In the process I also trip through the shrubbery, fall, get my running shorts caught on some sharp branches, and cuss loudly. Obviously my snooping skills leave a lot to be desired.

  Once I’m sandwiched between the killer shrubs and the picture window, I cup my hands around my sunglass-covered eyes and peer inside. I can’t make out any sign of life. Only some brand-new furniture staring back at me. It’s cozy, a home not a house. Something around my heart twists and punches.

  That’s when I hear something, the distinct sound of water splashing, and it’s coming from the backyard. I follow it around the corner to find a brand-new Olympic-size pool––and Noah swimming laps.

  He’s made quite a few improvements actually. The pool, a new blue slate patio, a garden complete with a gazebo. Somebody’s been nesting.

  If my mood was sour before, now it could very well strip the paint off a car. It makes me think of the flat I share with Oliver. The only things that distinguishes it from a hotel room are our clothes and my tennis rackets.

  Unnoticed, I stand at the foot of the pool and watch him cut through the water with ease, each delineated muscle of his body powering toward me in an American crawl.

  I should probably leave. No probably about it––I should definitely leave. Unfortunately, by the time I convince myself to stop being a filthy creep his hand hits the edge and his head comes up.

  He spots my feet and surprise flashes on his face.

  “Hi,” I mumble. Seems only polite since I’m intruding on his workout. I’d be more than a little peeved if I were him.

  Bobbing in the water, he squints up at me, open suspicion his expression of choice. That’s all I get in return. He probably knows I was watching him. He probably thinks I’m still hung up on him. Whatever, I’m in too much pain to care.

  I glance around. A quick assessment of the surroundings tells me we are blessedly alone. I will not have to eat heaping portions of humble pie in front of his girlfriend, the first bit of good news I’ve had all morning.

  “I like what you did with the place,” I offer as an icebreaker and get more cool silence. Ice still very much intact.

  He wipes water away from his face with a slow drag of his hand. Then his gaze openly and without an inkling of shame climbs from my sneakers up my bare legs to my compression running shorts.

  For a moment I think I detect a glint of sexual interest. Or it could be the after-effects of the alcohol talking––I’m not a credible witness right now. But then his progress falters at my stomach and the grip he has on the lip of the pool tightens, his knuckles turning white. So who knows? Maybe not the booze talking.

  Part of me wants to run a victory lap. After the way he dumped me, I think I’m entitled to gloat a little, thank you very much. The rest of me reminds the first part that he has a girlfriend. The word cheater flashes like a strobe light inside my darkened mind, which is not fun and sexy like a nightclub, more like a place no one should ever visit. Especially not today.

  His amber eyes reach my face and he shakes his head, splattering me with water.

  “Hey!”

  I instinctively back up, and in one swift move, he vaults out of the pool. A wall of testosterone blasts past me, headed for the towel sitting on a deck chair.

  “The hell…easy there, Speed Racer.” Nothing. I might as well not have spoken.

  He drapes it around his neck and turns to face me with his hands gripping the ends that have fallen over his shoulders––almost in a protective gesture.

  He’s acting weird.

  “I came over to say thank you for last night and to, umm, apologize…for, you know, the puking and whatnot.”

  I give myself major kudos for managing to do so without choking on the words. It nearly killed me but this was a self-inflicted wound. I have only myself to blame.

  I get a flashing image of him gently wiping my face with a washcloth and my mouth draws tight. I’m cringing so hard my facial features may actually get stuck in this position.

  A full sixty seconds have passed and he has yet to say a word. In the silent pause I get a worrisome thought. “There’s nothing else…right? Nothing else that someone needs to apologize for. Like…you. Or me…perhaps?”

  Pleasesayno. Pleasesayno. Pleasesayno.

  “If there was, I would’ve made sure you remembered.”

  Actual words. None of my personal favorites, but at least we’re making progress. The indignant look he gives me I can do without however.

  His gaze moves down and his brow scrunches. “What happened to your legs?”

  I think of the bushes. One of them is as good as dead. “Nothing.”

  “You’re all cut up and bleeding.”

  I see he hasn’t lost his appetite for playing doctor. And I don’t mean that in the dirty sense. When we were kids, he used to patch me up all the time…like he did last night. I am seriously tragic.

  “It’s fine,” I mutter, as I wrestle those thoughts aside and dust off my dignity, which is a little worse for wear at the moment. “Did you sleep over?”

  His eyes do this slight narrowing thing, like he’s assessing the intention of my query. “Someone had to make sure you didn’t suffocate on your own vomit.”

  Lovely. I instantly turn a florescent shade of red and it has nothing to do with the sweltering heat. What’s another hit to my pride at this point anyway. I guess it’s safe to say he’s not going to make this easy.

  “Look, in the spirit of Rowdy’s wishes, can we call a truce while I’m here?”

  After a searching stare, he nods.

  “I’ll be at the club first thing tomorrow so you can show me around.”

  He looks down for a bit, then into the distance. “I don’t get there till ten on Saturday.”

  He doesn’t want me near his business. I get it. I totally get it. I don’t want to be anywhere near it either. However, thanks to Rowdy, we don’t have a choice.

  “Then I’ll see you at ten. The faster we do this, the faster I’ll be out of your way and I can get back home.”

  He pins me with a strange look and again I have to wonder what his problem is. I’m the one with the hangover. “Do you want your truck back?

  “Keep it…just don’t slash the leather seats.” I can’t even muster a smile, the pulsing ache behind my eyes won’t let me. “You have a headache?”

  “You could say that.” Either that, or someone is using my head for soccer practice.

  “So you’re going for a run?”

  He wipes his face with the edge of the white towel, missing the water clinging to his thick black lashes. And out of nowhere, my mind floods with old images of us, intimate ones. Heat scorches my neck and cheeks, which subsequently makes me scowl, frown, and everything in between. This is why I can’t be around him. He makes me u
nstable. I’m emoji faces to the power of ten.

  “Maren––”

  “No rest for the weary,” I grunt, avoiding eye contact.

  He reaches over, and before I can stop him, lifts my sunglasses and sets them on top of my head. Then he ducks down to examine my eyes as if all the answers to the universe are hidden there.

  The space between us shrinks to nothing. He’s barely a few inches away. Too close, way too close. My heart starts to race and my breath gets heavy.

  “Stop. The sun is killing me,” I hiss, even though the sun has nothing to do with why I’m suddenly a heavy breather.

  I bat his hands away, fumble with the glasses, and push them back down taking half the hair that was in a neat ponytail with them. My hair is sticking up in every direction. I can’t win today.

  “You look like shit. Go home and sleep it off.”

  My back snaps straight and the temperature between us tanks. It’s easily ninety degrees and we may as well be standing in a freaking meat locker.

  “Is that your official diagnosis, Dr. Douchebag?”

  It really shouldn’t surprise me that we didn’t make it. I can’t think of many couples that do. Sonny and Cher. Crash and burn. Siegfried and Roy? We all know how that ended. Simon and Garfunkel. Garfunkel quickly faded into obscurity after Simon left him. I’m Simon in this scenario naturally. I need to get away from him before he turns me into Garfunkel. I will not allow him to Garfunkel me.

  “You shouldn’t drink like that in public. It’s dangerous.”

  My jaw nearly collapses onto the ground. “That’s hilarious coming from you. Are you a comedian now? Is that a new thing? Like your haircut.”

  His chest puffs up and his hands go to his hips. “I haven’t gotten wasted in years.”

  And now he has the gall to look offended. This beauty deserves a slow clap. “Somebody hand the man a participation trophy. I came over to thank you for last night because my momma raised me right. I’ve said it, and now I’m leaving. Sayonara, Sonny.”

  “What?”

  Without giving him the opportunity to be rude again, I walk away at a brisk pace. “Goodbye, Garfunkel!” I shout over my shoulder.

  I remind myself that I don’t give a single shit about his opinion, haven’t for a long time. He is nothing to me other than a laundry list of regrets and a handful of good memories.

  As soon as I hit the street, I start to jog and keep jogging until the pain in my muscles overshadows all the others. Until it burns away all the memories that my brain keeps digging up whenever I’m near him. Because for both our sakes, those need to stay dead and buried.

  Chapter Nine

  Maren

  The most important part of winning the war is knowing when to forfeit the battle. When to cut and run. And where Noah is concerned, that’s what I’ve always done. It’s what has always worked for me. There’s no avoiding him anymore, however.

  The following morning I’m up at six as usual. I go on my morning run. I eat my breakfast: scrambled eggs with spinach because that’s all I can handle with one hand, oatmeal, and my protein shake. I get ready for “work.” Today is training day at Rowdy’s. I’m not sure what that entails. Stay tuned for more exciting news on that front.

  The good news is whatever qualms I may have had about spending time with Noah in close quarters a day ago were rendered obsolete by the whole he-held-my-hair-while-I-puked thing and the subsequent kerfuffle at the pool.

  I’m over it. I’m fine. I can be an adult about this. I can do right by my grandfather.

  I drive over to Rowdy’s in Noah’s truck. As I’m parking, a text comes in.

  Oli: Sorry for being such a prat.

  Sighing in relief, I fire a text back.

  Me: Me too. Let’s not fight. I’ll call you later.

  As soon as I step inside, the sound of voices talking and laughing greets me. Noah is seated at the bar while his tattoo girl and a bartender I recognize from the other night work behind it. Hard not to spot a dude when he’s over 6’5” and covered in piercings and tattoos. The bartender and the girlfriend stop speaking the minute they see me standing in the doorway.

  Wow. Can you say tense?

  Noah’s head swivels around and his hard eyes scan me from head to tails. I’m wearing jean cut-offs and a t-shirt. I’m hardly naked but he’s certainly making me feel that way. And not in a good way either. In a way that says he’d rather I turn around and march out the way I came in.

  Patience. According to Rowdy, he deserves my patience so he’ll have some.

  “Hi,” I throw out when I reach them.

  “Hey,” tall guy and girlfriend respond simultaneously while Noah keeps quiet.

  Okay, awkward.

  It doesn’t escape me that I’m intruding on their quote unquote turf. They may even see me as the enemy, and if I wanted to sell my share of the properties, I would be. Which I would never do. This place is as much a part of my family legacy as the people in it. I’m not here to start a turf war. I’m here to tie up loose ends. In all likelihood once we settle the will I won’t be back here for another decade.

  “I’m not here to cause trouble––umm, just so you guys know.” Even though the information is intended for Noah, I direct it at the people behind the bar.

  “Oh, no one thought that,” the woman says.

  “We didn’t,” the big guy concurs, looking between his two cohorts.

  Yeah, they totally did.

  “I’m Jana, by the way. Nice to meet you.” Jana thrusts out her hand and I take it.

  “Maren.”

  “Knox,” the big guy says, and reaches for my hand as well.

  “I have no intention of selling my half and I won’t get in the way––what I mean to say is that I can see Noah is doing a great job and…” My voice fades under the intense scrutiny of the three people before me.

  Maybe I said too much. I can’t tell. I either say too much, or not enough. I’m not great with people. I’ve never had any close girlfriends. People outside of tennis never understand the time commitment, how little of it I have to give, and people in tennis are adversaries. Teammates were out of the question. Every single one was notoriously competitive and more interested in seeing me injured and out of their way than being friends. Besides, I never felt a lack when I had Noah.

  I figured going with the truth was safe. Judging by the size of the crowd last night, he is doing a great job.

  “We have a stand at the fair tomorrow,” Noah says, saving us from more uncomfortable silence. “I have to go and make sure the tent is set up. Ride with me and we can talk.”

  I nod and he rises from the barstool. Jana eyeballs me curiously. It makes me wonder if Noah told her about our history. I don’t know whether their relationship is serious or not, but I wouldn’t want her to worry about us spending time together.

  “I’m not gonna be here long.” My gaze hops between Jana and Knox. “In case you were wondering, I have a boyfriend to get back to.”

  Blank stares all around. Nuts, I said too much. I definitely said too much. It just went from mildly awkward to downright weird.

  “Nice meeting you,” I chirp a bit too loudly, and flash my trademark smile. At this point in my life, it’s a knee-jerk reaction.

  “You too,” Jana answers. When Noah turns to leave, she speaks. “What do you want for dinner?”

  My stomach gets queasy. My chest feels tight. I’m pretty sure this inappropriate jealousy I’m feeling is all over my face. Hence, it’s no surprise that Knox catches it and returns a curious smile. I force my lips into a semblance of one too. It feels more like a grimace, stiff and creepy, and I regret it instantly.

  Noah finally glances my way and the hardness of his expression eases into a softer one, one I can’t decipher. Though if it turns out to be pity, we’re going to have a serious problem. And when I say problem, I mean I’ll strap on a flame-thrower and burn everything he holds dear to the ground. Pity, I won’t abide.

  “Anythi
ng. There’re a couple of steaks in the freezer,” he absently answers while he continues to watch me.

  “’Kay, see you at home,” she cheerfully replies and he gives her a quick smile in return.

  I can’t be around this. I’ll turn into a stark-raving wacko if I have to endure them making kissy kissy faces at each other every day.

  “Ready?” he says to me with a new spark of humor in his voice.

  “Ready,” I answer tightly.

  * * *

  Neither one of us has said a word since we got in the incredible shrinking cab of his truck, the air between us rife with tension. Actually, pause and rewind. That’s only on my part. Apparently sometime since we got in the truck his mood took a sharp left into happyland while mine went in the opposite direction, right off of a cliff.

  I assumed he’d be in a relationship. I’m not an idiot for heaven’s sake. It’s been a decade. He’s a grown man with needs. I’m also pretty sure he’s quite the hot asset around here, on every single woman’s radar. It’s one thing to assume and another to witness it, however. I have no right to these possessive feelings. Rationally, I know this. That’s the thing with feelings however. They can’t be reasoned with.

  His hand hangs over the steering wheel, long fingers wiggling, tapping the dash in time with the music while he happily whistles along. Even occasionally joining in with the chorus. In other words he’s having a grand old time.

  What am I doing? Perfecting my resting bitch face as I pretend to flip through emails on my phone.

  “Can you please stop that? It’s annoying.”

  “You used to love my singing.”

  “I barely tolerated it.” I’m lying. I loved it. This s.o.b.’s got a great voice to boot. I hate him.

  “I distinctly recall you begging me a time or two.”

  I look up from browsing through my phone. “Oh please. I did not beg you––ever.”

  He cocks an eyebrow. “Ever?”

  My face goes up in flames. We both know he’s not talking about singing. This man lives to humiliate me, to remind me what a lovesick fool I’ve been. “You look normal. And yet you’re the devil’s favorite minion.”