Page 22 of Easy Reunion
Chapter 9
Rierson
Judging by the look on Kelsey’s face, she’s misconstrued my words and is berating herself up about what happened in Savannah. Fuck. Taking the coffee and treats from my sister, I lean down and brush my lips against her cheek. “Thanks, darlin’. Now, don’t let Professor Owens scare you in class again.”
Lisa shudders. “I don’t know what made me decide to do this.”
Brushing my hand over hair the same shade as my own, I grin. “I do.”
“Yeah, yeah. You’re a pain in the ass, but you’re my pain in the ass.” Lisa wraps an arm around my waist and gives me a brief hug before disappearing into the crowds.
I open my mouth to ask Kelsey’s friend where I can find her, but I’m taken aback by her full-on attack. “You’re even more of a piece of shit than she described you over the years. When she got home the other day, I scolded Kelsey for not allowing you to explain what happened all those years ago before she snuck out the other night, for not facing her insecurities. And now I know nothing even comes close to what you did.” As she stands, I see Kelsey’s friend is ripe with pregnancy. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Perrault, I have a ride to catch.”
Stepping in her way, I block her. “By her not telling me who she was, she never gave me a chance to explain what happened all those years ago. I went to that damn reunion with the sole intent of apologizing,” I snap.
“And instead, you compounded your atrocity by cheating on your wife?” She makes a tsking sound. “A classy move.”
“Wife? What the hell are you talking about?”
She grabs my arm and jiggles the bag of beignets I’m holding. “Spousal equivalent? Girlfriend? Live-in lover? Whatever you call the woman who brought you these. Kelsey would never cheat,” she declares.
“But she’ll lie by the sin of omission?” I throw back hotly. “And not for nothing, I call the woman who gave me this ‘sister.’”
“How dare you, you son of a…wait. Did you say sister?” Her head jerks in the direction Kelsey went in.
“Yes.” The sudden paling beneath her caramel-colored skin hits me like a ton of bricks. I let out a harsh sigh at what Kelsey must have thought. She didn’t recognize Lisa. Crap. “Christ, can one thing go right with Kelsey since that damn day?” And I don’t mean the reunion; I mean our graduation day.
A brief flash of empathy crosses her face. “That sums it up beautifully.” Turning, she heads off in the same direction Kelsey went in, leaving me standing there holding a bag of almost nauseating-smelling sweets and a full cup of coffee.
The cup’s overflowing with sweet richness, but I couldn’t swallow it right now if I tried.
Having lost my appetite, I walk over to the nearest trash can and throw away my breakfast my sister bought me while I took a call from the office before heading to Bayou Enterprises. I keep searching for a glimpse of Kelsey or her friend as I cross Jackson Square, but of course, I can’t be that damn lucky.
* * *
Later that night,I’m at my local fitness center, burning off my frustration by swimming lap after lap. I replay my last three encounters with Kelsey in my head. So much misunderstanding with no resolution, I think angrily. My arms rotate over and over, hands cupping and pulling back until I reach the wall, execute a turn, and push off again.
The burst of adrenaline I feel when my body sluices through the water leaves my mind blank, and at that moment, I’m weightless and free. Kicking to the surface, I begin to wonder what it must have been like for Kelsey to have lost all of that weight, to feel less burdened.
I’m so proud of her for her accomplishments, but is that what I said today? No. Of course not. I immediately went on the attack, thereby giving her more reason to reinforce her fortress walls. While I glide through the water, I recall the creative-writing assignment I failed that almost got me thrown off the swim team. She was asked by our teacher to work with me. At first, I was resentful a teacher had asked another student to assist me until I was handed a one-page paper. All Professor Wiley said was, “Read this,” before she walked away. And so I did.
I can’t remember every word of Kelsey’s essay, but I’ve never been able to forget this one line. It made me begin to look at her differently. Her words gave me the window to see her—beneath her skin, inside her heart. I knew the calm facade she used to ignore the bastards was simply a coping mechanism. She refused to show them she was broken. She would never let them see how she used everything inside of her to deal with the trash thrown at her. It’s why her words grabbed me by the throat, the guts, and the heart. And they still do. So much so, I’ve had them etched on glass where they rest in my study at home.
“The worst thing that’s happening to you is the best thing that will ever happen to someone else. All you can do is move past it. After all, if life were meant to be easy, I’d have already won the game.”
My hand slaps the wall a final time. I’m breathing hard when my head breaks the surface. I go to rip off my cap and goggles when I get a glimpse of long legs standing at the edge of the pool next to me. Sinking further beneath the surface, I follow the line of them up, over the hip where the Speedo emblem rests, past the intricate tattoo I touched, tasted, only a few days before. Her body is fit, conditioned, but not so skinny that I’d wonder if I was going to break her in bed.
Then again, I already know the answer to that: I won’t.
She swings her arms around in windmills to warm them up. Her dark hair, still loose, doesn’t hide the troubled expression on her face. Unlike the dimly lit hotel room, I can make out her tattoo more clearly. My eyes widen when she turns her back to slip on her own cap and goggles. From this angle, it’s easy to notice that on one side her skin is discolored outside of the tattoo’s delicate lines.
A scar.
The urge to pull Kelsey into the water and to demand what happened is overpowering. But I have no right, particularly after my spectacular display of idiocy at Cafe Du Monde. She’d likely wrap the lane line around my head and send me into the deep end to sink.
What happened to her? Quickly I think through everything I devoured on the internet about Kee Long after I got back to New Orleans. Nothing mentioned an accident of any kind to cause that kind of scarring.
I stay submerged while she scoots to the edge before letting her legs effortlessly slide out from beneath her into the warm water. Without a look around, she sinks into the deep blue and pushes off.
Her stroke isn’t that of a competitive swimmer. I stand to my full height to watch her as she makes her way to the deeper waters. But her kick is surprisingly strong.
Just like the woman herself.
As she touches the far wall, I duck under the water, yanking my cap off as I do so. Hauling myself out, I admire the gracefulness of her glide, not too fast, not too slow.
Much like the way her hands touched my body a few nights ago.
Gritting my teeth against the tingles forming in my lower spine—something I came to the pool to work out—I make my way to the men’s locker room and debate if I should approach her or if I should give her the solitude I know the deep blue waters can give to a soul that’s in need of some quiet.
