Let It Breathe (19 page)

Clay drove the truck back to the vineyard, conscious of Reese warm and round and beautiful in the cab beside him. God, he’d almost lost his mind back there in that office. What was it about her that made him so crazy, so thirsty for her? It was a little like being a drunk, but without the hangover.

“So tell me about your recovery,” Reese said, and Clay wondered for a moment if she’d read his mind. He glanced over at her, surprised to see her biting her lip. Was she nervous? “It’s okay,” she said quickly. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, but I just thought—”

“No, it’s great,” he said, and gave her a reassuring smile. “I want to talk about it. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

“You’ve mentioned the steps, but I don’t know that much about them. Can you tell me more?”

“Sure. Examining past behaviors and trying to figure out how you got there is one of the big ones,” Clay said. He kept his grip loose on the steering wheel, relieved to feel like he could talk to her about his. That he didn’t have to pretend it never happened.

“And what did you figure out?”

“I wasn’t such a great guy when I was drinking,” he said. “I did some pretty dumb things.”

“Like what?”

“There was the time I stole that scooter from the old folks’ home and challenged Axl to a race.”

“You would have won if he hadn’t cheated.”

“Or the time I got on the PA system at the school library and told everyone there was a faculty orgy happening in the rec hall.”

“Half the students believed you.”

“Or the time I forgot to wear pants when I went out to buy Cheetos.”

“I think Eric still has that video somewhere.”

Clay grimaced, wishing she hadn’t been a witness to so many of his worst moments. He took a shaky breath, wondering if he should apologize again. He was still deciding when she asked her next question.

“So what made you an alcoholic? I mean—how does it happen, exactly?”

“Well, genetics are a factor,” he said. “My grandpa was an alcoholic, and so was my dad.”

“That’s right, I remember,” she said softly. “It seemed like things got worse for you after he died.”

“They did, I guess. That’s not an excuse, but it was definitely a trigger.”

He glanced at her in the mirror again, expecting to see pity in her eyes. Instead, he saw a mix of curiosity and determination that made his heart feel like it might burst. “So what’s left?” she asked. “Are there still more steps left?”

He nodded. “Learning to live a new life with a new code of behavior,” he said. “I’m working on that one now.”

“You’re doing a good job.”

It was the simplest nugget of praise, but his whole body surged with pride. “Thanks. I’m trying.”

She reached over and put her hand on his knee, and the warmth in his belly grew. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”

“Thank you. I will.”

“And thank
you
for your help just now—with the bottles, I mean. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

“My pleasure.”

They rode in silence for a moment, but it didn’t feel as awkward as it had earlier in the day. He wanted to reach over and brush his fingers over her cheek, but wasn’t sure about the rules in this relationship. Everything was so new.

Finally, he cleared his throat. “Look. I want you to know last night was special. I don’t do that sort of thing all the time. I mean—maybe I had a reputation in college, and obviously I did some dumb stuff when I was drinking and slept around more than I should have, but since I got sober—”

She turned and smiled at him. “Not so much?”

“Not at all.” Clay downshifted as they turned onto the gravel driveway, then glanced over to watch her face. “Not since rehab, anyway.”

Reese’s eyes widened. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Huh,” Reese said, grinning up at him with those green eyes flashing. “In that case, I’ve gotta say that while you were pretty terrific in bed when you were drunk, you’re phenomenal now that you’re sober.”

A faint roar began to surge in Clay’s ears, and it wasn’t just the sound of gravel under the tires. He felt himself growing dizzy, regretted the words even before they left his mouth.

“What do you mean?”

He glanced at Reese in time to see her eyebrow quirk. “I mean that night fifteen years ago—” She stopped, her eyes fixed on his face. On what Clay knew was a very blank expression.

She frowned. “Are you kidding?”

Clay brought the truck to a halt in front of the winery barn and turned to face her. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—I don’t understand.”

Reese’s eyes narrowed. “I’m talking about the time we slept together in college.” The words were slow, clipped.

Clay stared at her. He watched her face for a few seconds, trying to buy himself some time to find the right words. Maybe he could just pretend he knew what the hell she was talking about—

“You don’t know what the hell I’m talking about, do you?” Reese demanded.

For a second, Clay considered lying.
Of course I remember. It was amazing.
You
were amazing.

But hell, what if she was teasing him? What if this was all some kind of bizarre joke?

Stick with honesty,
his old sponsor used to say.
Hurts sometimes, but it’s easier to remember later.

“Um,” said Clay. “No. No, I don’t. There are so many blank spots in those years I was a drunk and—”

“So what did you mean the other night?” Reese snapped, folding her arms over her chest as the truck engine ticked nervously. “You didn’t drink when we played ‘I Never’—when there was that whole thing about not sleeping with anyone in the room? I guess that makes sense now that I think of it—but the next day when I asked you, you said it seemed like the respectful thing to do. To pretend nothing happened. Isn’t that what you said?”

Clay closed his eyes and nodded, not liking where this was headed. “Yes.”

“So what the hell were you talking about?”

Clay gritted his teeth, knowing there was no possible right answer here. There was no way this was going to be okay, no matter what he said next.

The truth. Just tell the truth. Own your mistakes.

“Larissa,” he said. “I was talking about Larissa.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Reese stared at Clay, his words echoing in her ears.

Larissa. I was talking about Larissa.

She swallowed hard and stared at him. “You fucked my cousin.”

Clay winced like he’d been slapped. “It was eight or nine years ago at a Halloween party. I was stupid and drunk and possibly dressed in a bear costume and a tutu—”

“You were drunk with me, too. The first time, I mean.”

Clay closed his eyes, looking pained. Reese would have felt sorry for him if she weren’t so damn mad. Mad and confused. She clenched her hands into fists, wishing she had something to grip.

Or to throw at his head.

“Let me get this straight,” she said, struggling to keep her voice even. “You have no recollection of drunkenly sleeping with me fifteen years ago, but you remember boning my cousin under the same circumstances?”

Clay winced and shook his head. “I thought maybe I kissed you once—that party over in McMinnville? But I—”

“Don’t recall fucking me?”

Clay cringed again, then let out a slow, shaky breath. “Please don’t call it that.”

“What should I call it then? Burping the worm? Batter-dipping the corndog? Riding the baloney pony? Putting the candle in the pumpkin? What is the correct term when one of the participants can’t even remember taking part in it?”

She hated the sound of her own voice, the shrill echo of it in the tiny, damp cab of the truck. But she was too damn hurt to figure out how else to speak.

“Reese, I’m sorry,” Clay said.

He reached for her, but Reese yanked her arm away, too stung for comfort now.

Clay drew his hand back. “I’m so sorry. I can’t explain which things I remember and which things I don’t. There are big chunks of my memory just blacked out. Things I did, things I said—important things. Things I can’t remember at all because I was too drunk—”

“It doesn’t matter,” she snapped. She tried to meet his eyes but found she couldn’t do it. She looked at the side of the winery barn instead, hoping like hell she wouldn’t cry. Then she wanted to cry anyway, looking at the charred mess of wood and spilled wine. “It doesn’t matter at all, Clay. It really doesn’t.”

“It does matter,” Clay said, and reached out to touch her arm. Reese pulled away.

“Look,” she said, “what happened last night shouldn’t have happened.”

Clay shook his head. “I disagree.”

She ignored him. “And what happened fifteen years ago
really
shouldn’t have happened. I never should have brought it up.”

“Reese, I wish I could remember—”

“Don’t,” she said, meeting his eyes at last. She blinked hard against the glare of sun-streaked raindrops on the windshield and something she hoped wasn’t the beginning of tears. “Just don’t, okay? This is awkward enough.”

Clay sighed, then looked down at his boots. “Does Eric know?”

Reese bit her lip, wondering if that was really what he cared about. “About last night or fifteen years ago?”

“Either.”

“No. Your secret is safe. Hell, it was safe from you until I shot off my mouth, wasn’t it?”

She couldn’t believe how stupid she felt.
Jesus.
She’d thought it had meant something. It sure as hell had meant something to her. She swallowed hard, trying to force the ridiculous lump back down her throat.

“I’m sorry,” Clay whispered.

“Stop apologizing!” Reese snapped. “Just stop. I need to get to work. It’s not a big deal, Clay. Just forget about it, okay?”

“Reese, I—”

“I mean it, Clay. I don’t want to talk about it. It was just a misunderstanding. A mistake.”

“A mistake,” he repeated.

“A big, stupid mistake. Both times.”

She flung open the door of the truck before he could respond, oddly grateful for the giant hole in the wall of the winery barn. It meant she could walk right though the side of the building and straight to her office without fumbling at doors or feeling his eyes on her as she tried to keep her shoulders from shaking.

Clay sat there in the truck for a few minutes, feeling like he’d just been punched in the gut by a drunken gorilla.

Should he go after her? Try to say something to make it right?

There’s not a damn thing you can say to make it right
.

He opened the door and stepped out into the damp dirt. He stared out over the vineyard for a moment, watching a bird flit between the wooden posts at the end of each row of grapes. Off in the distance, he heard the field hands shouting to each other in Spanish as they pruned the rows of plants.

He slammed the door of his truck.
Dammit.

He’d screwed that one up big time. Why hadn’t he figured it out earlier? Surely Reese had dropped clues, given him some hint something had happened between them in the past. It’s not like this was the first time he’d been confronted with a story that began “remember when?” and ended with him staring blankly at the storyteller, having no recollection of the events.

But it was the first time it had mattered. The first time he desperately, urgently wished he could remember.

He’d been telling the truth about the kiss. He thought he’d remembered something like that, but he’d never been sure. It had always seemed safest just to forget about it, to be thankful he’d never acted on his fondness for his buddy’s wife.

She wasn’t his wife then
, the voice told him.
You could’ve done something about it then instead of pining away for her all these years. You could’ve had a chance.

Not anymore. Any chance he’d had was out the window. Then and now, his fault both times.

But you’ve changed since then
, the voice said.

Doesn’t matter. Not now, not to Reese.

God, he wished he could remember. Last night had been amazing, no doubt about it.

But what he wouldn’t give to remember the first time. The smell of her hair, the scrape of her nails down his back, the throaty murmur of her voice against his ear for the first time.

You can never get that back.

“Dude, you just gonna stand there with your thumb up your ass?”

He turned to see Eric approaching from the other side of the barn.

“Just enjoying the view,” he offered weakly.

“Whatever. Your crew isn’t here yet, and I need a hand. Help me move some of the cases out of the way so I can get the damn forklift up to the barrels.”

Clay turned and followed him into the winery barn, grateful at least that his best friend was a guy, and therefore not inclined to ask questions about his buddy’s sullen demeanor. Clay dared a glance at Reese’s office as they trudged past, but the door was shut tight and he couldn’t see inside.

“You do something to piss her off?” Eric asked.

Clay pulled his eyes off the door and looked at Eric. “Why?”

“She came stomping in here like someone spit in her Pinot. Figured you might’ve given her more bad news about the construction project.”

Clay shook his head and dared one last glance at the door. “Nope. No bad news on the construction. The ball’s in her court right now.”

“You said
balls
.”

Clay looked at him. “It’s nice how you’ve matured in your old age.”

“Maturity is overrated. So is politeness. You can still make dirty jokes, too, you know.”

Clay shrugged and eyed the pile of boxes stacked against one wall. “Sure.”

“What is it with you, anyway? You’ve been prancing around here like Miss Manners since you got back to town.
Please
this and
thank you
that and God help me if I ever fart or belch or have a dirty thought I happen to say out loud.”

“Whatever, man. I just don’t want to be a jerk anymore.”

Eric frowned at him and shoved an empty barrel out of the way. “It’s just us here now. The only way I’ll think you’re a jerk is if you tell me my Gewürztraminer sucks. Since you won’t be tasting that, I think we’re safe. Grab a box.”

“Right.” Clay moved toward the towering stack of wine cases lined up against one wall. He hefted one up and looked at Eric. “Where do you want it?”

“Over there against the wall. We just need to make room for the forklift.”

Clay nodded and trudged across the concrete floor to the spot Eric had indicated. He set the box down and turned around, headed back for another. They worked like that for a few minutes, silent except for one colorful string of expletives from Eric when he scraped his knuckles on the concrete.

Clay’s brain began to wander back down the dark alley toward thoughts of Reese and last night and that long-ago night he couldn’t remember. Had her hair been different then? He was pretty sure she’d kept it the same. Long, with a little bit of curl at the ends. Had she trailed it over his chest that first time the way she had last night? He shivered a little at the thought, remembering how she’d smiled down at him as she teased his skin with the soft, grass-scented strands, drawing her fingers down his rib cage, along his stomach, over his—

“Way to go last night, by the way,” Eric grunted as they both stooped to lift a box.

Clay froze. “What?”

“You were kind of a stud, huh?”

Clay stared at him, speechless. Had Larissa said something? Had Reese? “Um—”

“The fire?” Eric raised an eyebrow. “I heard you were the one who helped put it out, the one who called the fire department. Isn’t that right?”

“Oh. Right.” Clay swallowed, feeling his heartbeat return to normal. “It was nothing, really. I just happened to be driving by.”

“Yeah, that’s what I heard.” Eric cleared his throat and hoisted his box. “So you just happened to be driving by at one a.m.?”

Clay picked up a box and avoided Eric’s eyes. “Dropping off Larissa. She got into some trouble with a guy at Finnigan’s. I happened to be there and helped her out.”

“Sure, sure—that’s what ’Riss said. Must’ve been pretty late?”

Clay shrugged and carried his box across the floor toward the pile. Did Eric know something, or was he just being his usual nosy self? “Beats me,” Clay said. “Took us a while to finish things at the police station, and then I had to go get my truck so I could drive ’Riss back here. We were trying to give Reese a little alone time with her date, you know?”

“That’s right—I almost forgot Reese had a date. Did you meet him?”

“Yeah, met him the other day. He’s a veterinarian. Seems like a good guy.”

“That’s what Reese deserves. A good guy.”

Clay set his box down, trying not to read too much into Eric’s words.
A good guy,
Clay thought.
That’s not me
.

“Absolutely,” Clay agreed. “Nothing but the best.”

“She looked good this morning,” Eric said. “I mean, considering everything with the fire and the drama with Larissa. She seemed kind of glowy.”

“Maybe she’s getting sick,” Clay suggested. He dusted his hands and trudged back across the floor toward the boxes. Behind him, Eric set his box down with a solid
thunk
.

“Maybe she got laid.”

Clay stumbled. He caught himself quickly, glad he’d already set his box down. “Dude—are you sure you should be talking about your ex-wife’s sex life?”

Eric just laughed. “Relax, I’m kidding. Mostly. She did have a certain look about her this morning, didn’t you think?”

“I have no idea.”

“Not that she’s the sort of girl to jump into bed with a guy she hardly knows, but good for her if she did. She deserves to cut loose once in a while.”

“Right.” Clay bent down to pick up another box, still avoiding Eric’s eyes. “Don’t you think this is a weird topic of conversation?”

“Spend enough time around this family, you get used to weird in a hurry.”

“Good point.”

Eric grinned. “So maybe this guy is the one. Someone who can pull her out of her rut, shake her up a little, put some spring in her step.”

“Maybe so.”

“She deserves it.”

“Absolutely.”

“Don’t fuck it up.”

Clay froze, the box of wine suddenly deadweight in his arms. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I’ve seen how you look at her. How you’ve
always
looked at her. And the way she looks at you. I know, I know—” He held up his hands to silence the objection Clay was too dumbfounded to raise anyway. “I know you’re not planning to lay a hand on her. I know there’s the whole guy code and all that shit about her being my ex-wife and you not wanting to screw up the friendship. But I also know how things can happen.”

“Nothing’s going to—”

“You two would be the worst thing in the world for each other.” Eric picked up another box, his eyes still fixed on Clay’s. “She’s got all these hang-ups about marriage and her parents, and you’ve got your issues with addiction and recovery. Seriously, you’d be a disaster together.”

Clay stared at Eric for a few seconds, then nodded. “I’m touched by your concern.”

“Yeah. Well, just forget about any touching and you’ll be fine.”

Clay turned his back and headed toward the far wall with his box of wine. “I can pretty much guarantee there won’t be any touching between Reese and me.”

Not now, anyway,
Clay thought.
Not after today.