Bad Cruz(38)

“Where’s your little wife?” Mrs. Warren sneered with derision, seconds away from blowing a raspberry at me. I swear if she had a heart attack right here, right now, I’d piss all over my Hippocratic Oath and let her kick the bucket.

“Admiring her flawless face and knockout figure in front of the mirror in our room,” I bit back, still holding a Cyprus-sized grudge against her for what she’d done to Tennessee. “Being with a woman of such beauty is a blessing and a curse.”

“Well, I don’t see no ring on either of y’all’s fingers.”

“That’s right. We’re updating the diamonds in her ring, so we had to send it to South Africa. Best 500k I’ve ever spent.”

“And what about your ring?” She parked her hands on her waist, while Fred waited for her inside the room, holding the door open.

“Mine was lost while we were playing a very grown-up game at the buffet today. Let me know if you find it in your dessert tomorrow morning, will you?”

With that, I proceeded to the elevators.

I looked for Tennessee (almost) everywhere. To be honest, I didn’t know what to make of that woman. One second she was the ball-busting, mouthy little thing I’d grown to admire, fear, and want to bed the past decade-and-a-half, and the next, she was sensitive, withdrawn, and shy. Almost like the girl who’d dated Rob.

I knew a better man—or maybe just a man who hadn’t spent his entire life with an imaginary golden crown on his head—would’ve simply owned up to what’d happened in the past and cleared the air.

Growing up, I’d always had something for Nessy Turner. How could I not? In my mind, she was supposed to have been my high school sweetheart. Beautiful, kind, and dignified, with straight A’s and a spot on the debate team (no surprises there).

Even when I’d found out that Rob had a boner for her, I didn’t do the usual Cruz thing and step back. We’d rock-paper-scissored it, three times, in fact, and I ended up winning.

But then Rob went ahead and asked her out anyway, beating me to the punch and revealing the first sign that he was a horse-crap friend in the process.

After that, there was nothing I could do about it because Tennessee told him yes.

She. Told. Him. Yes.

She didn’t like me, and that was a big enough blow to wreck my teenage ego and make me dislike her for the rest of high school.

Of course, in retrospect, I’d wondered.

Wondered what would have happened if I’d been the one to ask her out first.

Would she have said yes?

I suspected I knew the answer to that.

She didn’t like Rob all that much, yet she still gave him a shot. He’d taken her for an ice cream downtown and secretly laughed in the locker room about how he hoped to hell she didn’t order more than two scoops because his ass had been broke that week.

I knew I never would have let us end up in the position she and Rob were in. I’d have never taken her virginity the way he had, unprotected, publicly, with people watching.

And if I had, for whatever reason—if we’d been drunk or high or just completely witless one unfortunate night—I would have owned up to it and married her.

I would have.

But I wasn’t the one she chose.

So, this was my truth.

My two-whiskeys-and-a-beer truth.

And I was taking it to the grave with me.

I ended up finding Tennessee on one of the decks, leaning against the pulpit, watching the black waves crash against the massive vessel. Her hair had submitted to the wind, dancing around her face in ashy, frosty tendrils.

She hugged herself with her back to me.

It physically hurt to see her like this. So vulnerable and out of place.

Not wanting to startle her, I spoke before I advanced toward her.

“I’m sorry.”

She didn’t turn around to look at me. Instead, her head shook a little, the gesture so light I couldn’t even tell if it was intentional.

“What for?”

“Being an idiot.”

“Consider yourself forgiven. Most men are.”

“That’s no excuse.”

I came to stand beside her and saw that her face was full of tears. Black mascara crawled across her cheeks like spiderwebs, and her nose was red, swollen, and puffy.

She looked less than gorgeous, and my chest felt full and warm. She looked…real. Without all the plastic smiles and dramatic eyeliner.

“I know today has been challenging for you, and—”

“Don’t,” she cut me off.

“Don’t what?”

“Do the whole nice guy shtick. I can’t handle it right now.”

I pursed my lips. She’d had a disastrous day, with a slime ball who’d put his hand on her, a woman who accused her of being a thief—and a whore—Rob, who for reasons undisclosed, took it upon himself to bypass her and speak to their son for the first time ever, and then the cherry on the shit cake was my beating her—then telling her she must be used to losing.

Real class move, Costello.

“For the record, I don’t think you’re a loser,” I said somberly.

“Why?” She spun her head my way, the tears drying on her face caking her distorted makeup into place. “You were right. Hit the nail right on the head. I am a loser. In fact, I can’t even recall the last time I won something. Anything. I’m an embarrassment to my family and will bring shame on my son once he grows up and realizes just how much of a cluster pluck I am. I don’t have a real job, any prospects, or anything to look forward to. And you’re also right that I’m bitter about it. I’m an idiot, a failure, and I—”