All of Me (Inside Out #5.5)(39)

Next for me and Chantal are our appointments at the spa, and while I’m dying to ask her about Tristan and Rey, it’s impossible, since we’re split up for facials, manicures, and pedicures. After we’ve been pampered, we head to one of the hotel restaurants for a snack and settle at a table for two.

I glance at the round bar in the center of the room and sigh. “I’d get a drink to calm my nerves, but the lady in the spa said it would make me puffy for the wedding.”

Chantal huffs at that and flags down a waitress. “Get a drink. You’re bouncing off the walls.”

That’s all the convincing I need. I order a glass of champagne and Chantal does the same, along with some spinach and artichoke dip and a plate of nachos to share. Halfway through my bubbly, with a few bites of food down me, I finally ask what I’ve wanted to for hours. “How bad was it flying over with Rey?”

She shoves her long brown hair behind her ear, looking uncomfortable. “Miserable. I hate him. I don’t hate him. He feels the same about me.”

“Okay, then. That sizes that up. What about Tristan?”

“He’s Tristan. Tormented, angry, miserable.”

“And that means what for the two of you?” My brows dip. “Or . . . uh, the three of you?”

“Two of us. There is no me and Rey. As for Tristan, I want to make his pain go away, but I think I’ve decided I can’t.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means he needs more. Or something else.”

“And how about you? What do you need?”

“I need to freshen up.” She sets her napkin on the table, then walks away.

I’ve clearly hit a nerve. I was afraid of Tristan hurting her, but it seems like Rey is the one tearing her to pieces.

My gaze drifts to the window and the view of the Mayacamas Mountains, and I’m fondly remembering seeing them the first time with Chris, when I hear, “Hello, Sara.”

I freeze at the familiar voice, the only voice other than Michael’s that could make me nauseous in an instant. I turn, swallowing the knot in my throat, to find my father claiming Chantal’s chair. It’s been years since I’ve seen him, and the only time I’ve heard his voice was when he was on speakerphone with Chris, being the bastard that he is.

I don’t speak. Neither does he. We just sit there, staring at each other. He’s still thin, his regal carriage as evident as always, but money and time have been good to him. His thick, dark hair might be more gray, and there are a few more lines on his face, but he still looks like the arrogant, self-important, but incredibly good-looking man I know as my fallen idol.

“What are you doing here?” I finally ask.

“I know I haven’t been the best father,” he begins.

“Are you kidding me? Are you really going to have this conversation with me today?”

“I’ve put it off for too long.”

“And you choose the day before I get married?” I cross my arms in front of me, shutting him out, wishing this didn’t cut so deeply. “Please leave.”

“Sara—”

I lean forward and point at him. “Your timing is so poorly thought out that even if I wanted to hear what you had to say, which I don’t, I wouldn’t listen.”

“I’m sorry. For now. For the past. For everything.”

“You think sorry makes it all go away? You think sorry makes you dismissing Michael”—my breath hitches—“and what he did to me okay?”

“No. I don’t. I think it’s a beginning. That’s all I want.”

“Why?”

“I had a cancer scare. It’s over. I’m fine, but it made me look in the mirror.”

Cancer. That one word chills me to the bone. It’s like it’s all around me, touching lives, destroying lives. Mark’s mother. Rebecca’s mother. Dylan.

“All I’m asking is for you to be open to a conversation with me after the wedding. I’ll call you.” He gets up and leaves. He just . . . leaves.

I sit there watching him, my mind blank, and I suddenly realize that I’m shaking, on the edge of an explosion I can’t have here. I push to my feet, grab my purse, and rush in the direction of the bathroom. Rounding the bar, I enter an L-shaped hallway and stop dead when I hear rapid French. A man’s voice, Rey, I think, and then Chantal is responding, first in French, and then shifting to English.

“Sorry? What are you sorry for?” she asks, contempt lacing her words. “Because I’m not sorry for Tristan. He needs me. He thinks I’m woman enough for him. He thinks I’m good enough.”

“You think I think you’re not good enough?”

She snorts. “Shall I quote you? I’m too young. I’m too—”

“It’s me that’s the problem. I’m a problem for you.”

“You’re right. You are. You keep messing with my head. Just go, and let me go.”

“I can’t,” he rasps hoarsely, and I can tell from Chantal’s gasp that something has happened.

I peek around the corner to find them kissing. Sinking back against the wall, I turn to leave . . . and see Chris approaching, his black T-shirt stretched over his perfect chest, his jeans hugging his powerful lower body. He’s just . . . Chris. He is perfect.