The Trade(73)

Is everything okay with you and Natalie?

You look distraught? Should I come over so we can talk?

Ignore, ignore, ignore.

I’m a shitty brother, an even worse friend, and whatever I had with Natalie, I fucked up monumentally.

The only thing I have going for me right now is the lasagna I popped in the oven—thanks to my housekeeper—before I jumped in the shower. Lucky. Me. The coolest of the cool. Idiot.

Knock, knock.

Was that someone at the door? Christ, is it Milly? I wouldn’t be surprised at this point. Her approach is to confront me, an easier method since I moved back to Chicago.

I rinse off quickly just as there’s another pound to the door.

Definitely Milly.

I turn off the shower, try to dry myself as quickly as possible, wrap the towel around my waist, and head out to the entryway, almost biffing it across the hardwood floor when my wet foot slips. I grab the wall, steadying myself, and then make it to the hallway where I tear open the door.

Natalie.

I was not expecting that. Her. I also wasn’t expecting my heart to trip in my chest from the mere sight of her. We’ve been separated for an hour? And here I am, feeling like a lovesick fool with her at my door.

Gripping the side of the door, I say, “Natalie, what are you doing here?”

She stares down at her suitcase and then looks at me, eyes wide when she sees I do the same thing. In a voice so fast, she says, “I came straight from the airport. I’m not moving in or anything, if that’s what you’re thinking. No St. Croix shared hotel room part two. Just couldn’t leave it in the town car.” She taps the suitcase handle. “Love rolling this guy around Chicago. A real joy.”

“Okay,” I say. “Why are you here?”

I see her falter for a second, before she straightens up and says, “Don’t be rude. Invite me in.”

When she says shit like that . . .

I step aside and let her in, offering to roll her suitcase for her, but she swats my hand away and sets it against the wall just inside my apartment.

When I shut the door, I ask, “Can I throw some pants on real quick?”

She glances at my towel and then back up at my face where she gives me a curt nod. “I’ll just hang out in your living room.”

I watch her for a second cautiously as she floats over to the couch and takes a seat, crossing her leg and sitting poised.

Hell, I think I’m about to get it.

I make quick work of getting rid of my towel and putting on a pair of slate-gray sweatpants. I don’t bother with a shirt, because I don’t want to leave Natalie waiting too long. Did she really just come straight from the airport?

Pushing my hair to the side, trying to comb it with my hand, I make my way to the living room where Natalie is . . . unmoved. Before I take a seat I ask, “Would you like something to drink?” She shakes her head, so I sit opposite her on my couch. I turn my body to face her, propping one leg up on the couch.

And I wait.

When she sees that I’m not going to talk, she rolls her eyes and huffs. “This is exactly what I’m talking about.”

Umm . . .

“Talking about what?”

“You, you’re being weird. You’re being really weird. We had this wonderful time all week, and I thought we were building something. When I thought I was about to combust from the sexual tension between us, you gave in and touched me, fucked me, made me feel so incredible that I can’t even begin to describe the emotions I felt.” I swallow hard, nervous of where this is going. “And then, you act like I don’t even exist.” She swats at my leg. “What’s with that, Cory? Don’t you care about me?”

“I do,” I answer quietly.

“Oh-kay,” she drags out. She tilts her head and asks, “Do you understand what it means to care for someone?”

Sighing, I lean back on the couch and press my hand to my forehead. “Are you here to yell at me?”

Her eyes turn to fire, and I immediately regret my words.

“I’m here because you hurt me, Cory,” she answers honestly. “I’m here because I thought there was something special between us. Was it just me? Was I the only one feeling it?”

Her eyes water, her voice shakes, and I hate that she’s not only emotionally wrecked over this entire situation, but that my behavior has brought her to tears. I thought I was a better man that this.

Looking at my bent leg, I shake my head. “No, you were not the only one feeling something.”

“Then explain to me what’s going on in your head.” She scoots closer and takes my hand in hers. Her soft, warm skin breaks through to me, reminding me why I so desperately want to have this woman. “Is it because I’m damaged goods?”

“What?” My eyes shoot up. “No, fuck, Natalie . . . that’s not it at all.”

“Then what is it?” She tugs on my hand. “Please let me inside your head, tell me why it looks like you’re trying to solve the hardest math problem known to man when you look at me. Why won’t you—?”

“You want a fling,” I say, my voice coming out harsh. I shake my head. “And that’s not something I can give you.” I glance up, see her eyes wide as she takes in my words. “You’re fresh out of a marriage from a guy you’ve known almost your whole life. You’re in your twenties, you want to live, experience things. I get that, but I’m nine years older than you.” I pause and catch my breath, shocked that I’m letting this all out. “Nine years, Natalie. I’m in a different place than you. And I don’t want to be a fling.” I look her right in the eyes and say, “I like you too goddamn much to be your rebound.”