Rogue (Real #4)(19)
I don’t want to remember a month ago, when I watched her spill her coffee as she walked to the office, how devastated she looked because she’d messed up her scarf, her whole outfit ruined. From all the way across the street, where I ducked behind my newspaper, I heard her rant that she’d rather be fired than head to work wearing only two colors! Looking drab! That was no way to meet a client!
God, I laughed. I laughed, and I was still grinning over what a passionate little thing she was on my flight back to where my team was stationed, hiding my grin under my palm as I stared out the window.
From the moment I found her on my list and then laid eyes on her, I’ve followed her.
I’ve followed her in the pretense of finding out her social habits, her weaknesses, so I can sweep in for the kill, but the truth is, I follow her because I’m a sick f*cking *, obsessed as a dog with the way she walks, all the colors she wears, all the ways she smiles, the bubbly, lovely little package that she makes.
I had two emotions in my life before I met her, anger and detachment.
Now she’s given me ten more. Lust, frustration, concern . . . even joy. I have never, ever wanted anything the way I want those green eyes to memorize me the way I’ve made it a religion to memorize her.
I grab my duffel, the ziplock bag with all the phone pieces, and the card. I build it back up as I ask Derek to drive me to the airport.
The phone comes alive in my hand and my gut starts to heat when I start texting her back, finally, at last:
Be home tonight.
EIGHT
* * *
MESSAGE
Melanie
Saturday morning, as dictates our comfortable little routine, I find my parents having breakfast, bathed, perfect, and smiling. Maria, their cook, has the best breakfast in town, and having breakfast at Mom and Dad’s makes me happy because the table is always set with linens, silver, and the food is placed in such a perfect way that you feast with your eyes first before reaching into the offerings and serving yourself.
“Lanie!” Mom says as I walk in. “Your father and I were just talking about Brooke’s wedding. When did you say it was?”
“Less than a month.” I kiss her cheek and then hug my tall, handsome dad. “Hey, Dad, you look cute.”
“See? She noticed I cut my hair, unlike you,” he tells my mom, pointing an empty fork in her direction.
“You hardly have any hair, how am I supposed to notice? So tell us about the wedding. I still can’t believe she’s getting married before you. You were always prettier and so much more lively,” my mom says, squeezing my hand as I sit down.
“I’m sure her fiancé would disagree,” I counter. I hate when my mom always puts Brooke down merely to make me feel better. I don’t feel better—she feels better, making excuses as to why a good guy won’t want me. Sometimes I think her own desperation to see me happily married makes little ole Murphy poke his head out and lay down the law—the more she wants it, the less it’ll happen. Woe is me.
“Still doesn’t excuse why no decent man out there can see that my baby girl is about as good as they come. You’re fit, you have a beautiful smile, and you’re sweet just like your momma.”
“Thank you, Daddy. I’m sure my unmarried state has everything to do with the fact that all men are *s except you.”
“Lanie!” Mother chides, but she doesn’t really chide, she laughs softly.
“Well, Ulysess’s son is running for senator and he always asks about you. He’s not the brightest nut out there, but he’s good looking and—”
“He’s gay. He wants a beard, Dad. A sham marriage to fool his constituents. I can do better than that on my own.”
“When I was twenty-five . . .” my mom begins.
“You were married and already had me, yeah yeah yeah. But I have a career. And I have a . . . very busy dating life. In fact, I’ve been dating so much I wouldn’t know who to pick to take to Brooke’s wedding,” I exaggerate.
My mom and my dad, what can I say? I love them. I like pleasing them. They’ve loved me my whole life. I have been showered with love. They not only love me, they want me to find the kind of love they share. I don’t ever want them to suspect what I already suspect myself—that for some reason, it’s just not happening for me.
“Just remember what I told you, Flea,” my mother says. “Choose the man who treats you best. The one who will not break your heart, who can be your friend, who you can talk to.”
I poke at my French toast. “You say that because Dad was your best friend. I, however, have a female best friend, and I would never marry my closest guy friend, Kyle. Ever.” I shudder when I think of my sexy Justin Timberlake-look-alike-BFF and me having so much as a kiss. Continuing to poke my food and softening my voice, I add, “I don’t think you can plan these things, Mom. I think they just happen and suddenly you’re standing on the side of the ring, meeting the man you’re going to marry when he winks at you. Or you find yourself standing in the rain, and all you pray for is that whatever feeling just struck you struck the man in front of you too . . .”
I look at my phone wistfully.
God, I’m such a fool fool FOOL!
The only thing that struck that man was lust, and now he’s been stricken with the Run-Away-From-Melanie syndrome.