Page 13 of One Night Collision

"Yeah, Cody, that's going to keep him from doing it." Emma laughs, putting her hands on her stomach.

He swims over to her and puts his hand over hers. Their gazes meet and it's like the rest of us aren't even here.

"They're sweet," Maggie whispers in my ear.

"They've always been. I'm glad they found their way back to each other." What I don't say is how jealous I am, because I want exactly what they have. I don't say anything to her because I know she's not ready for it yet, but I am, and I hope I don't fuck this up. But me being the asshole I am, I can't help but ask."I was honest when I said you're not a fuck 'em and leave 'em situation for me, but what am I for you?"

Chapter

Ten

Maggie

I didn’t expect to be put on the spot like this. And I don’t have an answer ready for him, but maybe that’s for the best. No time to think about it and having it roll off the cuff is making me be more honest with him and myself. “I don’t know. I’ve not really done this… I’ve gone, aside from you, on a grand total of two dates since my husband and I separated. And none, other than you, since our divorce was final. I’m kind of finding my feet here, hoss.”

He nods, but his grin isn’t quite as cocky as it normally is. In fact, he looks a little vulnerable and that makes me feel bad. But I’m perverse enough to admit that it makes me feel hopeful too.

“I don’t want to rush you,” he says, then shakes his head. “No, that’s not true. I do want to rush you, but that’s just for my own selfish reasons. Some things, Margaret Sloan, are worth waiting for.”

Why didn’t I meet him when I was twenty and full of hope? Why the fuck did I have to meet Calvin Farnsworth first? I spent five years with him, and the whole time he picked at me like a buzzard with roadkill. That’s how it felt too, like he was tearing away little pieces of me one at a time until—by the end of it—I didn’t even know who I was anymore. Tack on another three years of fighting to get the divorce finalized, and here I sit, twenty-nine, bitter as fuck, and too gun-shy to take that last big leap.

“Can we have this conversation later? When we’re alone?” I ask him. Because if I’m going to expect him to wait, he deserves to know why. But that’s not something for public consumption.

He doesn’t say anything. Just leans in and kisses my cheek. It’s a sweet gesture and one that I know other people caught. This man is going to be trouble for me. By turns cocky and arrogant, then vulnerable and achingly sweet. It’s the best and worst of both worlds.

—

After we leave Cody and Emma’s—a long process of Southern goodbyes—we head back to Damien’s house. And I’m nervous. I hate talking about my ex. I hate talking about my marriage. And it’s not that I’m heartbroken or that it’s too painful. The fact is, it’s just humiliating. I hate myself for letting it get to that point, for tolerating everything that I did for as long as I did. I look back at who I became during all of it, and I don’t even recognize myself.

“I can literally hear the wheels turning in your brain,” he says.

“I know. There’s a lot of things I need to tell you… about me, and I just am not looking forward to it,” I confess.

“Do you think it’s going to change anything?”

Logically, no. But anxiety is never logical.

“You know that I was married to Calvin Farnsworth… I was with him for five long, hellish years.”

“Cause he’s a lying, cheating sack of shit with bad hair plugs and worse taste,” he says. “And you clearly had the worst lawyer on the fucking planet because you walked away from it empty-handed.”

“How do you know that?” I ask with a laugh as we enter the family room of his house. Leave it to Damien for that to be his takeaway.

“One, you’re working. Two, I’ve seen your apartment. Three, I know Cal—I know what a dick he is. What an entitled fucking ass he’s always been. And you should have, by virtue of tolerating the son of a bitch for even a day, been due a very large settlement.”

“All of those things are true.” I pause long enough for him to open the back door and turn on the lights. I follow him inside then. “But I didn’t want his money. I didn’t want anything that would make me feel tied to him in any way… How exactly do you know him?”

“We’ve got history. Middle school bully. High school rival. Then watched him crash and burn in college ’cause he couldn’t stop boozing and partying long enough to go to class. Then, since I moved back, I’ve represented some people who have taken legal action against him,” he says. “And won some pretty significant judgments against him. Your ex is a shady motherfucker.”

“You have no idea… When I met Cal, I was twenty. Working as a waitress in a fairly upscale restaurant in Louisville… going to U of L. Not a fucking word about the Cardinals,” I warn him. “This is not the time for basketball rivalry.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says. Then points up. “I don’t have to.”

I look to where he’s pointed and see an entire display case of UK memorabilia. I just shake my head. “Do you want to hear this or not?”

“Only if you want to tell me. It’s not gonna change a fucking thing in the way I feel for you.”

It might. “He never hit me, but you don’t have to beat someone to break them. It was just endless criticism. That dressmade me look fat. My hair was too dark. My hair was too light. I needed a boob job. I needed to lose ten pounds. Gain ten pounds… From the minute we got married, I was never enough… and that, according to Cal, was why he fucked his secretary. And his best friend’s wife. And his cousin’s wife. And—you get the drift.”

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