Sweet Cheeks(44)
“Saylor?”
“What?” When I look up from where I’m playing with the umbrella garnish from my fruity rum punch, I meet his eyes and realize he’s asked me yet another question. I was too engrossed in thoughts of my parents—of the guilt I continually feel over loving them to death but wanting to be nothing like them—to have heard him.
It strikes me how weird this is to be talking about this now. It’s been nearly seven years and yet it feels good to talk to someone who knew them like I did.
“I asked if your parents’ unrealized plans had anything to do with you not marrying Mitch.”
I stare at him long and hard, my gaze impenetrable, my thoughts a whirlwind, and chew the inside of my cheek. But I don’t need to think at all because I know the answer. It’s clear as day now that I’ve had this time away from him.
“Yes.” My voice is quiet, eyes fixated on my drink and the condensation slowly sliding down the side of the glass. I question myself, hate that I almost feel like I’m cheating on Mitch by talking about him to Hayes, but then realize how absolutely absurd that is considering the situation. And I have to hand it to Hayes; he is patient. He sits and waits for me to find the words to express the conflicted emotions I’m certain blanket my face. “Mitch treated me well. I just think that his idea of what a wife should be and mine are two completely different things.”
“I can assume here,” he says as he lifts the bottle of Red Stripe to his lips, “but I’d prefer if you’d explain.”
“Well, for one thing, he hated the bakery. Even before I rented the actual space and applied for my business license, I was running it as a side business out of our house. It drove him crazy. And not just the mess of it, but more the mess on me. He disliked that I was so lost in it that I didn’t care if I had frosting in my hair or if my clothes were smeared with piping. And it wasn’t that I didn’t care but rather I was just so absorbed in whatever I was creating that I didn’t notice the mess. God, he loathed the days I forgot to put on makeup because I had a harebrained idea for a new flavor and had to go do it right then before I forgot it.”
“You always were that way. Spontaneous. Needing to see for yourself. I used to love and admire that about you.”
I preen under his simple praise. Feel stupid that I do but can’t help it considering I’m so used to the opposite opinion.
“Yeah well, not everyone does.” I laugh. “I guess I wasn’t proper wife material.”
“That’s the biggest bunch of bullshit, and if you believe it for a single second, I’m going to kick Ryder’s ass for letting you.” His eyebrows are lifted, lips pursed, expression unforgiving. And I’ve seen them throw punches at each other so I have no doubt he would.
This time around, Hayes definitely has the advantage.
My laugh floats out and draws the attention of the bartender who flashes a smile my way—eyes roaming over Hayes momentarily—before turning back to her customer. “When it came down to it, our marriage would have worked. I would have made it work,” I say with more conviction than I feel. Resentment I never realized I harbored comes out of nowhere.
Hayes snorts and I’m not sure how to read the sound since his eyes are focused on people on the golf course beyond.
“You would have made it work so long as you sacrificed yourself. That sounds like a stellar marriage. One made to last.”
I stare at him, his sarcasm loud and clear, wanting him to meet my eyes and not meet them all at the same time. I need to show him I’m not that woman. Was I back then? Maybe that’s another reason I stayed with Mitch for so long.
“It doesn’t matter now, really. That or any of the other reasons because we’re not together.”
“Hmpf.”
“Hmpf? What does that mean?” I straighten my spine, suddenly defensive over the feeling that I’m being judged. And who is he to judge when he wasn’t the one here for me after my parents died?
“It could mean a lot of things,” he murmurs as he tips the bottle up to his lips and signals for another one. We’re interrupted momentarily when another guest comes up and asks for his autograph. He handles the woman’s nervous chattering like a pro before turning back to me. His eyes are unrelenting as they stare into mine, gauging how candid he wants his next comment to be. He starts to say something and then shakes his head and closes his mouth before turning back to the view beyond.
“Just say it, Hayes. It’s not like you hold back.”
“The way I see it from the outside is that he was the problem in your relationship, Saylor, not you, as you seem to continually assume. Having a passion like your baking is something that just happens. It’s not controllable. It’s a huge part of you that makes you happy. Calms you. Any person who tells you to suppress it for their own benefit is trying to stifle you. Mold you. Make you someone different than you are. Never let someone steal your passion. If you do, then you’ll resent them. And resentment is the death of any relationship.”
For the umpteenth time since he’s walked back into my life, I just sit and stare at Hayes. Wonder how he’s in my head and knows exactly how I’m feeling. First he connects the dots with my parents. How I don’t want to miss chances like they did. And now this. Understanding the numerous nights I’d sit stewing at home because Mitch made a big fuss about me spending too much time at the bakery. How I’d be miserable, sitting idly by while he perused the Wall Street Journal or New York Times. It’s like he wanted me to want to be with him more for his own ego’s sake, to know I chose him over my work, and not because he actually wanted to spend time with me.