Page 9 of Just Say Christmas
That should feel better. You were meant to make the fella pay, to make him sorry, after he cut you off like that.
Ghosting, they called it. She hadn’t even known the word, much less the concept, because, yes, she’d been just that naïve and clueless, but she knew it now. When the person stopped answering your texts, and he never called again, and you kept reaching for the phone to ask why, then dropping your hand again. When he couldn’t even be bothered to break up, because what you’d thought was the love of your life had been nothing but entertainment.
It was a terrible thing to do, wasn’t it? It was more than hurting somebody, it was going out of your wayto hurt them, or, rather—not being willing to go out of your way at all. And the worst of it was that she couldn’t even talk to Nyree about it, couldn’t ask her why or get the reassurance that you knew wasn’t really true, but just the things a loyal friend always said.No, it’s not you. You’re great. He’s an idiot.Because Kane was Nyree’s brother.
He’d looked . . . blank just now, though. Hadn’t he? That might be how you looked when you were seeing a ghost, of course, somebody who wasn’t really alive to you anymore. He’d looked almost hurt, though, under the blankness. Surely he had. He’d broken his nose again, too, because the hump at the top was broader than before, and his cauliflower ear was much worse. All of that must have been painful, and she hadn’t even known about it, because she hadn’t watched any Crusaders games this season, or the Rugby World Cup, either. She’d gone cold turkey on rugby, which had been good for her career, probably, but hadn’t done much for the color in her life.
She had new hair now, plus all the other things she’d done. Pity she still felt exactly the same.
She’d said something about his face just now, to make him think he looked bad. That was when he’d seemed hurt. Why had she done that? How did that make her feel better? It didn’t. Kane didn’t always have confidence in his appearance, not like you’d think somebody like that would. He hid it, but he hadn’t hidden it from her, not quite.
Stop it. You’re hopeless. You keep thinking he’s like you. He’s not like you. He’s probably got a new girlfriend, or more than one. Probably on Number Five by now. It’s been more than a year.
Her mouth was open, she realized, like a fish out of water, and she snapped it shut and headed down the passage. Past a bathroom, toward the sound of voices. She stopped midway, put her hand on the wall, and commanded her legs to stop shaking. The first time was over, but there were going to be more times. How was she going to manage those?
Pretend it’s a murder trial, and you’re summing up.She could do that, easy-peasy, and that was harder, right? If less . . . personal. If she could find the words that would bring the worst kind of man to justice, why couldn’t she do this?
There was no hair pomade in the world that went this deep, that was why.
What had he said, though? Not much. Maybe what she’d thought of as “not cool” was just surprise. This was probably perfectly normal for him. He’d be running into former bed partners left, right, and center, and he’d probably run away from them just that fast, too, when they got too needy or too embarrassing, no matter what he’d said or not said. It wasn’t like a man would actually tell you,Yeh, I sleep around. Bit of a tramp, you might say.Of course he’d make her think she was special. What woman wanted to be Ms. Just for Tonight? What professional sportsman wouldn’t know that by the time he reached thirty?
Well, some women probably wouldn’t mind. Women who wanted to know what it was like to be held by somebody that big, and how a man that strong, that quiet, and that carefully restrained would finally make love.
With focus, that was how. With size and physicality that took your breath and took you over. With intensity in his eyes that told you he was one hundred percent dialed in on this, on here, onyou,and a smile that let you know it was going to be all right, because he didn’t need to scare you to thrill you, and he knew how to make it fun.
Which was all it had been. Which should have been enough, if only she weren’t so bloody stupid. Which she wasn’t anymore, so—brilliant, right?
Brilliant.
* * *
The first timeshe’d met him, nearly two years ago, he’d been driving them to a dog wedding.
She’d been meant to go as Nyree’s date, but it hadn’t worked out that way. It wasn’t Nyree turning up, on a day that promised to be as hold-back-the-giggles silly as the two of them had been having together for eight years now, ever since they’d met on a pavement outside the Maths building during their first year at the University of Canterbury, when Nyree had spilt the contents of her backpack and Victoria had stopped to help her collect them. After that, she’d tutored Nyree in maths, and Nyree had tutored her in life.
Victoria had never had a girlfriend like that. She was too serious, and possibly too shy. With Nyree, she’d learned what it meant to laugh until your belly ached, and never mind who was watching. What did you care, after all? Who was keeping score? Their friendship had been such glorious freedom, and Victoria had missed her ferociously since she’d moved in with Marko. It was better for Nyree, and she knew it, but still—there was her life, and its lack of color.
It was Marko’s cousin Ella at the door, though, not Nyree. She looked young, extremely pregnant, excited, and confident. Pregnant women didn’t usually glow, in Victoria’s experience, no matter what anybody said. They mostly just looked tired. Maybe that was because they weren’t sixteen. How did Elladothat, though? Victoria wasn’t that confidentnow.
Beside Ella was a fella Victoria didn’t know, but whose lanky frame, arm muscles, and forearm tattoo spelled “rugby” all the way. Also “Maori.” His and Ella’s bodies were turned slightly more than a normal degree toward each other, like sunflowers, their body language mirroring each other’s, and Ella didn’t look one bit surprised to have attracted somebody this fit, good-looking, and obviously in-demand, pregnant as she was. Confidence again.
Victoria noticed that, because it was part of her job to notice people. You couldn’t convince somebody if you didn’t follow their cues, and she was better at reacting than acting around other people anyway. Besides, you learned more if you shut up and watched, and you embarrassed yourself less, too. Bonus.
“Hi,” Ella said. “Nyree’s driving to the wedding with Marko, because—surprise! The boys are coming, too, and you’re driving with us instead. This is Tom. He plays for the Blues with Marko.”
“Oh,” Victoria said. “Well, brilliant. I’ll just grab my bag.” And thought,Wait, what? Nyree keeps saying there’s nothing going on with Marko. Why would he be coming along for this? He can’t want to do something this silly, and this public. Not like him at all, Mr. I’m-Too-Tough, Mr. Don’t-Ask.
She’d thought, once, that she’d be interested in Marko herself, in the way you looked at something completely unattainable, a fabulous dress, maybe, or an emerald necklace, and let yourself imagine having it all the same. Unfortunately, it turned out that Marko scared her a bit, and not in a sexy way. In a not-for-me way.
Well, she might be a fifth wheel today, but since she didn’t want Marko, and she didn’t want Tom—if he was over twenty, you could color her surprised, and anyway, there was Ella and the body-positioning—she’d go along and enjoy herself, and hopefully do some of that helpless, barely-stifled giggling. It wasn’t every day that you got to attend a dog wedding with somebody who always saw the funny side. Life experience.
Then they got to the car—Marko’s, but with no Marko in it, and no Nyree, either, for some reason—and there was somebody leaning against it. Somebody extremely tall, extremely dark, and extremely powerful, with hair that was a bit shaggy and definitely rumpled, heaps of black eyebrow, a beaky nose with a slightly off-center hump at the top where it had been broken, and a pink line of barely-healed scar along one cheekbone. A man who absolutely didn’t belong here, dressed like that, in her driveway. He should be holding a sword in some medieval fantasy,although he wouldn’t fit in well there either, since he was wearing rugby shorts, a T-shirt, and jandals.
His clothes were casual, the rest of him wasn’t, and he looked at her out of serious, deep-set brown eyes behind the most incongruous set of spectacles she’d ever seen, like another not-good-enough disguise, pulled himself to his full—hisveryfull—height, and then smiled with all the sweetness in the world. Her heart dove, or flipped, or something. Or maybe that was her stomach.
She inventoried people, and then she categorized them. It was what she did, and it was useful for the job. She couldn’t categorize him.
She thought fuzzily,Oh, bugger, I should’ve worn a dress.She’d gone for a navy-blue skort, trainers, and a buttoned-down shirt—yes, it wastechnically a man’s white dress shirt, but she was wearing it, so it was a woman’s now, and it was so hard to find shirts that fit her. Nyree had said they’d be outside today, running around with dogs, Victoria’s skin burned too easily, she didn’t need any more freckles on her chest, and she was short on clothes that fell outside the “business” and “casual” categories anyway. Shopping was hard, this had seemed like a casual occasion, and who was going to care? Ella was wearing a dress, though, as if itwerea wedding, so she’d got it wrong.
