Page 76 of Under Locke & Key
“I’m not going to lie. I was surprised to hear about it.” Steph steps further into the room and I fight the urge to back up.
“Howdidyou hear about it?” Was Logan bragging? It’s not unlike him to be petty when it comes to those who have seemingly wronged his friends.
“Christopher Mitchell.”
“Ourbanker?” The one I called those months ago to figure out a starting point to this whole endeavor.
“I called in about something a week ago and he congratulated me on your new undertaking and hoped it was going well for you. He mentioned you’d called him a few months ago to find out about some business banking options and ultimately recommended you go somewhere local. He seemed convinced you’d made something of it though, mentioned a website. So, I checked it out and here I am. From there it wasn’t hard to ask around. Apparently the town is abuzz.” Steph shrugs, as if it makes sense in any way.
“So, you drove down from Philly just to see for yourself? Is that it? After the way we left things?” I can’t for the life of me piece it together. “You made yourself perfectly clear the last time we saw each other.”
Steph sighs. “I was hurting. I was trying to get a reaction out of you. All I ever wanted was for you to take some initiative and stand up for something. To notice me and show it. I never stopped caring and wanting the best for you. I was just tired of trying to urge you to doanythingto make something of yourself. When I heard you’d done that here, I wanted to see it for myself.”
Steph steps closer again and the room feels too small. She’s close enough that if I wanted to I could reach out and touch her. I fold my arms in defiance, in an attempt to keep my distance. A few months ago Iwouldhave reached out. A few months ago the prospect of her here giving me some kind of validation would have had me riding a high for weeks.
Now all I have is a hollow ache in my breastbone and anxiety eating its way up my stomach.
She clearly has the same thought about touching, though she doesn’t hold back. Her manicured fingers come to rest on the skin of my forearm. Thumb stroking over the hairs on my arm, the sensation is too much and unpleasant, and very much unwanted.
“Don’t.” It’s all I manage, twisting to try and dislodge her hand.
“I have so much I want to ask. So much to say to you.” She looks pleadingly up at me, the expression one I’m familiar with. It’s not her genuine sad face. It’s the one that usually precedes her trying to get her way. Years with her, studying every expression and nuance in tone, and I am an expert on Stephanie Dawson. If she even still goes by my last name.
“I miss you, Bryce. I didn’t realize how much until you were gone. I wanted to reach out so many times but pride got in my way. I promised myself that if there was a sign—if something came along that showed you’d taken my words to heart there might be another chance for us—and I would try again. Then I heard about the business and you forging your own path. No longer complacent but ready to take on the world. I knew it was time.” Steph ignores my attempt to pull away and instead she holds my forearms in each of her hands and pries my arms open, forcing me into a more vulnerable position.
She smells the same. It’s been over a year since we’ve had anything resembling a relationship but I can’t deny that there’s something about that familiar cloying sweet scent that disgusts me now.
How is this happening? Why now? I would have begged to have her coming after me when I first started this. It’s too late. I open my mouth to say so, ready to set the record straight.
But she goes up onto her toes, and with the help of her heels she’s much closer to me in height than she would have been otherwise. Removing my glasses and threading her hand into my hair with the other hand, she lurches forward to lay her lips onto mine. Shock slows my responses and although I am too frozen to shove her off of me, I have the wherewithal to turn my head. Her kiss deflects, more on the side of my chin than my mouth, but there’s contact.
“What the hell was that, Steph?” I ask, removing her hands from my person.
Before she can answer another voice sounds in the small space, a mere whisper but it’s enough for both of us to turn.
“Steph?” Rachel asks, or rather repeats with some kind of alarming note in her voice.
She sounds confused and hurt. I wish I still had my glasses on so I can see the expression on her face to make it easier to analyze. Though I don’t really need to. If the situation were reversed I have a pretty good idea of what I’d be feeling right now. She’s turned on her heel and is leaving by the time I’ve stepped away from Steph and toward the doorway.
Steph’s hand grips my arm again, nails digging into the skin and whatever lingering comfort or familiarity that made me put my guard down is nowhere to be found.
“You better not be here when I come back. You ended this—us—and there’s no place for you in my life.”
She sputters, “Don’t be like this. This isn’t you.”
I give a bitter chuckle, one that rises from the pit in my stomach—worsening with every second I’m delayed in going after Rachel.
“I don’t give a damn about your opinion or about how youthinkI am or should be. You don’t have the right anymore. You made your bed, and I’m not in it. I won’t ever be again. There’s no big sign from the universe or a swell of romantic music that’s supposed to set the scene for a reunion. I meant what I said. Leave. Get the hell out. Or I will have you ejected from the premises.” I don’t wait for a response, plucking my glasses from her grip and tearing through the theater but Rachel’s already gone.
I rush out onto the sidewalk. She’s already two blocks ahead and I can see her ponytail swinging from all the way over here. She's rushing with so much force. Jogging, cursing each traffic light that prevents me from following her—reaching her.
By the time I make it to that robin’s egg blue door she’s nowhere to be seen. But at least she didn’t lock the door. I press inside, the wood sticking slightly with the humidity, and head upstairs.
I take the fact that this door isn’t locked either as a good thing. Maybe she didn’t expect me to come after her. Or she’s inside and waiting to lay into me. Not knowing isn’t enough to freeze me though, not with something this important.
Everything is as I left it this morning. The dishes from last night’s dinner are still on the drying rack, forgotten in favor of kissing our way toward the bedroom. The decorative paperweight she picked up from the antique mall sits on the kitchen counter. Her bedroom door is open, if the light spilling into the hallway is any indicator and I swallow up the distance between the entryway and her bedroom in mere strides.
The bed is made, barely. Still a little rumpled. And Rachel is nowhere to be found. My heart sinks into my abdomen as I walk back toward the living space, peering into the bathroom and coming up empty again.
