Page 224 of Love in Riverbend
He nods once. “Maybe after your date, you can consider forgiving me.”
Walking to the door, I open it. “Feel free to delete my contact information. I’ll delete yours.”
He stops inches away. “I’m not deleting your information.” His eyes sweep from my lips back to my eyes. “It’s taking every ounce of control not to kiss you right now.”
I shake my head.
“I’m not lying, Marilyn. I never have lied to you. I think life turned out the way we both wanted, the dreams we didn’t even know we had seven years ago. I didn’t know I wanted out of farming. You didn’t know you’d accomplish so much. I didn’t know that while I wasn’t watching, you became someone I find irresistible. Whether you’re smart-mouthing me or, one day, kissing me, I never knew you would be part of my dream.”
Swallowing, I step back. His shoulder brushes mine as he turns to leave.
As soon as he’s across the threshold, I close the door.
For a moment or two, I wait to see if he knocks. When he doesn’t, I walk away, taking the ice cream to the kitchen, grabbing a spoon, and making my way back to my bathtub.
Chapter 11
Ricky
When I wake the next morning, I hear sounds of life beyond my bedroom door. Reaching for my phone, I see multiple text messages from Justin, one from Devan, and no text or call from Marilyn. Of course she didn’t contact me. She said she wouldn’t. That doesn’t mean I’m not disappointed.
Curiosity takes me to my sister’s text first—the time stamp tells me it was sent earlier this morning.
* * *
“What the hell, Ricky? Seven years ago! Marilyn deserves better. Don’t be mad at Justin. We don’t keep secrets from each other. Maybe you should try that. Make this right.”
* * *
“Fuck,” I growl and roll to my back in my bed. Sunlight streams from around the cheap mini blinds on my window, telling me that it’s past time to wake up. Tonight’s the night of the partner dinner, and even though I RSVP’d for two, I’m going solo.
Great. Not only am I alone, but I’m also not even stable enough to RSVP as one. I flop my arm over my eyes, remembering Marilyn’s expression as she stared down at my phone. If I could turn back time, I wouldn’t go back to seven years ago. I would go back to yesterday and erase that note or, maybe, erase her number altogether, allowing her to enter it.
I reread my sister’s text message—try honesty. I did that last night and all it got me was Marilyn’s wrath and out nine bucks for a pint of caramel ice cream. I begin reading Justin’s texts. The first few are from last night, asking what I did to make up to Marilyn and asking how it went.
“Shitty. That’s how it went.”
The last one is from this morning, confessing he told Devan my story. Not only my story, but our story—Marilyn’s and mine. Shit, now we’re an our. That wouldn’t be so bad. My lips curl as I recall the way she looked last night at her apartment, that sexy short robe, her hair all piled on top of her head. She was fucking gorgeous.
The thoughts I had after our hookup seem ridiculous today. I worried about her age, because seven years ago, she was only eighteen. It’s not that twenty-five is old; there’s still a ten-year difference between us. It’s that ten years doesn’t feel as large anymore.
The last sentence of Devan’s text message repeats in my thoughts: Make this right.
I don’t know if I can, but I know without a doubt that I want to. I want to make things right. Throwing on a pair of nylon shorts, I make my way out of the bedroom. After a stop in the bathroom, I head toward the kitchen, stopping in the doorway.
There’s a woman, with hair the color of Marilyn’s, sitting at the breakfast bar, facing the other direction and looking down at a phone. One of her slender shoulders is exposed, revealing part of a colorful tattoo.
Does Marilyn have a tattoo?
For a split second, I think it’s her, here, in my apartment. If she’s here, she hasn’t been with me. My hands ball into fists at my sides, thinking of Marilyn with Max.
I clear my throat as a warning.
The woman turns. “Hey. Max said it was okay if I hang out for a while.”
She isn’t Marilyn.
In that second, I realize she doesn’t hold a candle to Marilyn. This woman isn’t ugly, but she doesn’t have Marilyn’s blue eyes, turned-up nose, cheekbones, or soft lips. “Sure. Make yourself at home. I’m Rich, by the way.”
