One Week Girlfriend (11 page)

“We should probably go inside,” I start to stay but he touches me, settles his big hand over mine and I shut up.

“I can’t go back in there,” he says, his voice so low, I almost don’t hear him. “I can’t face them. Not yet. Stay out here with me.”

Did something happen in there that I missed? He doesn’t seem too upset, but I don’t know him that well to tell. I don’t answer him, figure it’s best to remain quiet and try to reassure him and he doesn’t say anything either.

But he does wrap his arm around my shoulders and haul me in close to him. I try to resist at first, stiffening my body so he can’t really move me. But it’s stupid to fight this, especially with the promise that he’ll warm me up.

So I go. Let him guide me into his arms and he wraps them around me and I’m resting my hands on his hard, warm chest. His hands settle at the small of my back and I’m pressed against the railing, pressed against him. His body is hard and unyielding. He’s trapped me and I have no interest in escaping.

I’m going against everything I thought and worried over only moments ago, all because he’s touching me.

When it comes to Drew, I’m weak. So weak, it’s almost embarrassing. But he seems just as weak over me, and I find that reassuring. At least we’re in this screwed up mess together.

“Did something happen in there?” I ask, curiosity killing me. I had to know.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

I risk glancing up at him and I see how tight his jaw is. “Well, if you ever do want to talk, I’m here.”

He glances down at me. There’s such despair in his eyes, my chest aches for him. This perfect, beautiful boy is not so perfect after all. “You wouldn’t understand.”

I laugh, though I’m not mocking him and I hope he gets that. “I’d understand more than you think.”

“If I told you the truth, you’d hate me.” His voice is harsh, his expression pained. “
I
hate me for what I’ve done.”

My stomach sinks into my toes. He sounds so lost and I realize he’s right. Maybe I don’t want to know. What he’s saying—well, not saying—fills me with uneasiness. I’m scared.

What did he do that he hates himself so much?

~* Chapter Eight *~

Day 3, 7:02 p.m.

I always want the one I can’t have.
 
– Fable Maguire

Fable

He’s ignored me all day, which is fine. Really. I don’t mind being left alone at the guesthouse because oh my God, the last thing I want to do is hang out with that screwed up set of parents of his. Drew took off to golf with his dad early this morning and I haven’t seen him since. I have no idea if he’s even come home. For all I know, they could be making happy family time at the main house while I’m stuck here alone.

Yikes, I sound bitter even in my own head. And besides, I know he’s not home because I’ve been here all day and haven’t seen them return.

Being alone has brought me back to reality though. Again. And this is a good thing. I get too caught up with Drew when I’m with him and that’s definitely not a good thing. This way, spending time by myself at this unreal house with the unreal view, I know it’s all a fantasy.

I caught Adele snooping around the guesthouse earlier. Peeking in the windows, walking around the entire house. I watched her for a bit, hiding in corners but then I started to get mad. What was she doing? Trying to spy on me? Or was she looking for Drew?

Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore and threw open the door when I saw her skulking around the front. “Looking for someone?” I asked her, using the snottiest tone I could muster.

She crossed her arms in front of her, elegant as always in a pure white sweater and black leggings. I would look like a slob in a similar outfit. Of course, hers was probably designer and cost tons of money, while my sweater and leggings would come from Wal Mart or Target. “I thought you were gone,” she said.

“Hoping I was gone, I’m sure.” I don’t know where I got the balls to talk to her like that, but I’d had it. The ride home the night before had been a study in torture. No one talked and the tension had been near unbearable. A complete turnaround from the ride to the country club, when Drew and I kissed and he had his hands all over me.

She smirked. “You don’t like me very much, do you?”

“I figured the feeling was mutual.” I shrug, trying my best to look like I didn’t care, but inside my stomach had churned with nerves.

“You won’t last, you know. You’re not his type.”

I frowned. Of course, I’m not his type. That’s pretty freaking obvious, but I didn’t figure his bitch of a stepmother would so blatantly call me out on it. “And what, exactly, is Drew’s type?”

“Someone more like me.” Her smile grew, like she knew her words socked me straight in the stomach. Without another word, she turned and walked away.

Adele’s answer stuck with me the rest of the day. What the hell did she mean? I didn’t like it. She talks about Drew, looks at Drew, as if he belongs to her. Almost like they’re the ones in the relationship. It’s freaking creepy and makes me wonder if maybe they’ve fooled around in the past.

So gross. And scary. Drew acts like he hates her and that opens up another can of worms in my brain. Lots of what ifs I don’t like thinking about because they’re too ugly to face. It’s none of my business, I tell myself over and over again as I sit alone and wonder.

But he’s brought me into this mess. He’s sort of made it my business, right?

Wrong. Some things are better left alone.

Not if someone’s hurting because of them.

The internal argument battles within me for the rest of the day. Until I’m a total bundle of nerves while I wait anxiously for his return. Where could he be? I know golf games can take forever but nothing like this. And I know he’s with his dad because I’ve kept watch on the damn garage for hours and no one’s returned.

Though Adele left about thirty minutes ago. That freaks me out. What if she went somewhere to meet them?

Crap. I don’t know what to do.

When the door finally opens around seven-thirty, I’m filled with relief. I hear his footsteps echo in the tiled entryway, see him stride by, headed down the hall while I sit in the living area. I have one of those unbelievably soft faux fur throw blankets draped over me and I probably blend in with the couch. He doesn’t notice me, doesn’t bother saying a word.

I chew anxiously on my fingernail, my stomach growling since I never ate dinner. I hear him enter his bedroom and shut the door and I let out a shaky exhale. I was holding my breath and didn’t even realize it.

Not two minutes later he’s out of his room, entering the living area and stopping short when he sees me. “Hey.”

“Hi.” I press my lips together, tell myself to breathe.

“I didn’t see you when I came in.” He looks amazing in a black hooded sweatshirt and
khaki
cargo shorts, his dark hair ruffled by the wind that seems to be constantly blowing around here. I’d bet a million dollars he has a polo shirt on underneath. Typical golf wear, though he should be wearing pastel plaid shorts and not cargoes. Not that I know anything about golf.

“I’ve been sitting here the entire time.”

He runs his hand over his head and my fingers literally itch to do the same. I remember how silky soft his hair is, how much he liked it when I touched him there. Does he ever really allow anyone to touch him? He tends to move through life all by himself.

That realization fills me with sadness. While I allow an endless, faceless stream of guys to touch me. I crave it because for a brief moment, I feel like someone cares about me. The feeling is always fleeting and I end up as empty as I was before. Sometimes more so.

“I didn’t know where you were all day,” I say to fill the silence since he’s not talking.

“I’m sorry I’ve been gone so long.” I wonder if it took a lot for him to apologize to me. I bet he doesn’t have to answer to anyone most of the time.

I shrug. I need to act like what he’s done doesn’t bother me. “I’m not your keeper.”

“Yeah, but you’re my guest. I’m sure you were bored all day.” He moves closer to the couch and that’s when the smell hits me.

He reeks of beer. And his eyes are kind of bloodshot, his cheeks ruddy. I bet he’s drunk. My guard goes immediately up and I shove myself into the corner of the couch when he settles down beside me. I hate the smell of beer—crazy, considering I work in a bar.

But when I smell it at La Salle’s, it’s different. I’m busy, I’m moving, I’m serving customers and working my tail off. In a one-on-one situation, the scent of beer reminds me of my mom and all her shitty boyfriends. How they drink constantly. Almost every one of the guys she’s been with were complete alcoholics with rage issues.

Angry drunks scare the hell out of me and Drew’s a big guy with lots of pent up issues. If he displays even a glimmer of anger toward me, I’m out of here.

“I was fine,” I say. “I sat on the beach for a long time.”

“Didn’t you get cold? The weather wasn’t the best out there today.”

I shrugged. “Figured I should soak it up while I’m here, right? Doubt I’ll ever be somewhere as beautiful as this again.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here, Fable.” His voice is soft, his expression…it breaks my heart. He looks so bleak, so disturbed, I wish I could say something, do something to ease his pain.

He studies me, his blue eyes dark, his head tilted to the side. I wonder what he sees. I know what I see—a confused, lonely man who won’t let anyone in.

For whatever stupid reason, I want to be the one he lets in. Maybe I could help him, maybe I couldn’t, but he needs comfort. I can tell.

Like souls find each other, you know. As corny as it sounds, I’m starting to believe we were brought together for a reason.

Drew

As usual, she’s looking at me like she can see right through me, and she’s making me nervous. I’ve stayed away from Fable all day on purpose. Everything that happened last night left me feeling like I could spiral completely out of control if I didn’t get my shit together and quick. I haven’t felt that way in long time. This is the reason why I don’t come back home.

And I’m never coming back here after this visit. I don’t care how much I might hurt my dad, I can’t do this any longer. I can’t pretend that this place, these people don’t affect me. They do. Everything fucks with my head and reminds me of what I used to be. I don’t want to be that person anymore. I’m not.

There’s no other choice. I have to stay away.

Looking at Fable, seeing the sympathy in her eyes, I know I should stay away from her too. Once she really gets to know me, I could hurt her. I know I’ll hurt her. I’m afraid she’s this close to figuring out what my problem is. And if she doesn’t, I’m afraid I’m this close to blurting it out. Once I confess, I can never take it back. Ever. It’ll be out there, making the both of us uncomfortable. Ruining whatever sort of relationship, friendship, whatever you want to call it, we have.

I couldn’t stand the thought, so I left the house early, jumping on the chance to golf with my dad when he asked. Not only did we play a long, intense eighteen rounds with a couple of his friends, we then ended up at the golf course bar. I’m not a big drinker but I slammed back beer after beer, enjoying the buzz the alcohol gave me. My brain settled into a numb, fuzzy place where I could just forget.

We joked, we talked, my dad bragged about what a great football player I am and that made me feel good. Dad and I don’t get a lot of time together alone. Adele’s always there trying to muck stuff up, or we’re doing something that doesn’t allow for too much one-on-one time. The lunch we had together yesterday had been uncomfortable, and I’m thankful we got past that.

Spending today with Dad was good for both of us. But I always had that nagging feeling in the back of mind. That I was ditching Fable and doing it on purpose and the guilt lingered.

That’s why I told her I was sorry.

“I caught your stepmom sniffing around outside this afternoon.” Fable’s tone is casual, but her words are like nine little bombs dropping all over me.

Tension radiates up my spine, across my shoulders and I stiffen. “Yeah?”

Fable nods. “I confronted her.”

“What?” Shock rips through me. So does fear. What if Adele said something?

“Yeah. She didn’t like it either. Told me that we wouldn’t last, that I wasn’t your usual type.”

I remain silent, afraid of what she might say next.

“And when I asked her what was your type, she said
she
was.”

The blood is roaring in my ears so whatever else Fable says I can’t hear it. Her lips are moving and I literally cannot hear her.

Without thought I stand and go back to my bedroom. She’s calling my name, her voice is faint and I think she’s following after me, but I’m not sure. I can’t see, my vision is blurred and I’m ready to boil over in shame and fear and rage.

Adele’s taken it too far. Again. She always does. I want to tell Fable everything but I can’t. I’m scared she’ll hate me. Judge me.