Nuts (Hudson Valley, #1)(84)
“Don’t you see, Leo? You can’t just bring a girlfriend home when you’ve got a kid. It’s not fair to her, it’s not fair to you, and it’s sure as hell not fair to me.”
“Oh come on,” Leo said, his voice angry. “That’s bullshit.” He advanced so that I was pressed back against my Jeep.
I pressed back. “Don’t tell me what I feel is bullshit! Don’t you dare do that! I let you in, and I don’t do that with anyone! You give me this incredible summer, and then I find out you’ve been hiding a kid from me this whole time, and then you expect me to just become Miss Susie Homemaker and be exactly what you need, what she needs, what everyone needs? What about what I need?”
“What do you need, Roxie? What exactly do you need? You say you let me in, but that’s not true. I still don’t know how you feel about me, how you feel about us. You think you know what I want? How the f*ck could you know that, when I don’t even know what I want!”
He dragged his hands down his face, scrubbing. “I want you. I know that. But how that happens and what that looks like, I have no idea. And if you’d stop f*cking running away from me, and just let this happen—Christ, Roxie!” He stepped closer to me, reaching out across the divide, and caressed my cheek. How could a hand so rough and tumble be so gentle?
I leaned into his hand, unable to stop my body from responding the way it yearned to.
“Just let this happen, Roxie, and we’ll figure it out.”
I wanted to. Truly. But I couldn’t.
“I have to go,” I whispered, my throat raw. “With what I went through with my mother, all those broken hearts—I can’t do that to you, or to Polly.” My voice broke. I steeled myself, then looked him in the eye. “I won’t do it.”
“Your past is legitimate.” He looked back at me, pain in his eyes, but resolve as well. “But so is your present. And so am I. And what’s right in front of you. And if you’re leaving to prove a point? Then you should go—but not for the reason you think.”
His hand caressed my cheek once more, then he pulled away. And I climbed into my Jeep and drove off.
I didn’t look back. I couldn’t. I knew if I saw him, with our hearts broken all over the dusty country road, I’d never be able to leave.
I drove to my mother’s house, stuffed some clothes into a bag, drove my car to the Poughkeepsie station, and jumped on the Metro North into Manhattan.
I needed to see my best friend.
Chapter 23
When I was a kid, everyone referred to Manhattan as the city. We never said Manhattan, and we certainly never said New York City. And though as a kid I thought I had to go to California to make a name for myself, I know now that the city was far enough away and large and fabulous enough to have been able to lose myself in it entirely.
Natalie was the city. She grew up in the Village, the daughter of a real estate developer and an art dealer. Other than dabbling in culinary school her freshman year, when we met, she stayed firmly on her island, venturing off only to head to the Hamptons . . . if she must. She had concrete running through her veins.
It surprised the hell out of her when I texted her from the train station, saying I was on my way and to cancel her Friday night plans. And now, here I sat. On a large, comfy couch in her apartment, while she mixed up a batch of margaritas in the blender. Since her father owned several townhouses in Manhattan, she was the beneficiary of a very specific kind of rent control. Occupying the ground floor of a three-story building, her apartment was the kind one might see on an episode of Million Dollar Listing. Tall ceilings, intricate millwork, flawlessly gleaming wooden floors—the apartment was stunning.
Like Natalie. She was the kind of girl you looked at, whether you were into girls or not. If you were into humans, she appealed to you. She was statuesque, at least five eight in her bare feet—and she was never in her bare feet, preferring the latest, highest teeter-tottery heels. With strawberry blond hair, she was supermodel beautiful—and had the foulest mouth ever heard on land. She could even make a sailor blush, then tie himself into knots trying to get with her. She was loud, always the first to crack a joke, or make an indecent proposal—which was never turned down.
The girl personified curves, having a natural hourglass figure with an extra hour or two at each end. I’ve actually seen men nearly crash their cars when she walked down the street—the girl was a brick house.
She owned every room she was in without even trying. She was equally at home in the fanciest restaurant, ordering wines even I’d never heard of, or in the diviest dive bar, snort-laughing and throwing peanuts on the floor.
She dated politicians and cops, artists and firemen, a butcher, a baker, and while not technically a candlestick maker, one guy she dated was the president of the largest supplier of flashlights on the East Coast. She never got her heart broken; she was the heartbreaker.
After her year as a culinary student she enrolled at Columbia University, majored in advertising, and was now blazing a trail for herself in one of the hottest boutique ad firms in the city. She worked with Fortune 500 companies, putting together campaigns that everyone knew—you’ve probably hummed the song from a commercial she created.
Plus, she made a f*cking killer margarita.
“Explain to me this,” she said, peeling the lid off the blender and pouring the frothy lime wonderful into two glasses. “He’s gorgeous.”