Addicted, Page 4

  “I’m fine,” I tell her while concentrating way harder than necessary on spooning rice onto my plate.

  “Where have I heard that before? Oh, right, just before you drank yourself into unconsciousness and then went batshit on a blender.”

  “I’ll take full responsibility for the blender, but the excessive tequila drinking was all your fault.”

  She ponders this for a second before nodding. “It really was, wasn’t it?”

  “Completely.” I take the two Tylenol she has very thoughtfully placed next to my wineglass. I start to thank her, but the fact that she obviously thinks it’s a good idea for me to use pinot grigio to wash down painkillers is a little concerning.

  “So, how are you going to quit?” she asks me a couple minutes later over a shared order of kung pao chicken. “By email? Voicemail? Or are you just not going to show up for a few days? The last one is a bit passive-aggressive, but I’m sure it won’t take that asshole Ethan long to get the message.”

  “He’s not an asshole.”

  “Don’t defend him. That’s pathetic.”

  “You don’t even know what he did!”

  “Because you won’t tell me. But, really, does it matter? Anything he did that had you showing up looking like your world was ending makes him a total dick in my book. And just so you know, I never liked him.”

  I nearly choke on the bite of chicken I’d forced myself to try to eat. “Oh, no. You don’t get to rewrite history now. You’re the one who hounded me to go out with him in the first place.”

  Tori thinks about that truth for a second, then sniffs haughtily, in a manner only she can carry off. “Yes, well, that was back when I thought he was going to treat you right. Now that he obviously isn’t, I don’t like him. And I never will.”

  I don’t have the energy to argue with her, not when it’s taking every ounce of strength I have to just sit at this table and pretend like I’m not falling apart. It’s hard though, now that the shock and the anger have worn off. Now that all I’m left with is the grief.

  Besides, she’s not wrong. Ethan didn’t treat me right. Not when he ignored me the last few days, not when he chose to freeze me out instead of breaking up with me properly, and not when he decided to make love to me last night when he knew about Brandon. Knew how I’d react.

  “You are so totally quitting,” she announces again, like it’s a foregone conclusion.

  “So that I can do what? Wait tables at some bar? That will look great on my law school applications.”

  “So will losing your shit on some other non-combative piece of machinery and getting carted off to jail or some mental hospital somewhere.”

  “The blender was a one-shot deal.”

  “So you say. But do you really want to take the risk? Besides, what’s the alternative? Going back there and seeing him every day? I’m not claiming to be the most mentally healthy person around, but even I know that’s a bad idea. I saw you this whole weekend, saw how upset just being ignored by him made you. How are you going to handle that at work? Especially after whatever went down between the two of you last night?”

  I know she’s right, know that seeing Ethan again will only make things worse. And not just between us. It’ll make things worse for me. I’ve worked so hard to get past the rape, to put it behind me and build a decent life for myself. But how can I keep the past where it belongs if I’m confronted with it every day?

  Frost Industries is Ethan Frost and after this morning, I can’t imagine looking at him—looking into his blue eyes that are identical to Brandon’s—and thinking about anything but the rape. Anything but what happened in that deserted parking lot five years ago, and what came after.

  It’s not a good idea.

  I’ve survived this long because I just don’t think about Brandon or my parents or what happened to me. At all. I put it out of my mind when I moved here and I refuse to be dragged into it. Refuse to be the girl I was when I moved here three years ago. The girl Brandon and his friends made me.

  At the same time, I can’t imagine giving up my dream so easily. I mean, sure, getting into law school isn’t all about where you intern. A million other factors go into it, factors that I’m hoping to have locked up. But at the same time, the kind of law school I want to go to almost always requires connections to get in. I don’t have those connections, so I need to make sure my application is better than anyone else’s.

  An internship with Frost Industries’ legal department does that for me. Or at least, it did. Now, I’m not so sure. About anything.

  Tori seems to sense my indecision, so she spends the rest of dinner giving me the hard sell for quitting. I have to admit, what she says makes sense—if I don’t look too closely at my future. Once I do … all the arguments seem to fall away.

  Well, all the ones that have nothing to do with my mental health, at least.

  Hours later, I’m still thinking about it. To be honest, for the rest of the day and most of the night, I do nothing but think about it. God knows, just the idea of going into work tomorrow and having to see Ethan makes me physically ill. I can’t imagine how awful it will be to sit in a meeting with him about the Trifecta merger we’ve been working on. Or how much I’ll hate running into him in the halls or the cafeteria. Or, God forbid, what it will feel like if he seeks me out. Or worse, calls me into his office.

  I won’t be able to handle it. I know I won’t be able to. Not when everything inside me is scraped raw and I can’t so much as breathe without bleeding.

  But at the same time, I can’t just skulk away with my tail between my legs. This isn’t my fault. None of this—bar falling for my employer—is my fault, and I refuse to act like it is.

  I ran away and hid once, because my parents forced me to and I swore then that I’d never do it again. While this situation is different than that one, it feels eerily similar. Considering how well it worked out the first time, I can’t believe I’m seriously considering running away—hiding—ever again.

  No. I’ve worked too long and too hard to get where I am to just throw it all away because of a past that I buried a long time ago. A past I have no control over.

  Which is why, after a sleepless night—when I finally watch the beginnings of dawn wind its tendrils of lavender and gold above the endless Pacific—I am shaky but resolved. I am going in to work today and I am going to do my job. If Ethan seeks me out or tries to talk to me, I’ll find a way to deal with him. And if he fires me … well, then, he fires me. But at least I won’t be the one giving up on all my hard work, giving up on the future, and the security, I want so badly I can taste it. Besides, it will just give me another reason to hate him …

  “You know you don’t have to do this,” Tori tells me as I walk out of my bedroom dressed in my one and only designer suit. In the grand scheme of things, it isn’t much, but it’s the only armor I’ve got and at this point, I’ll take whatever I can get.

  “I don’t have to do anything,” I tell her as I walk into the kitchen, carefully skirting the crack I caused in one of the floor tiles with the falling blender. “But I’m going to do this.”

  She sighs heavily, like my stubbornness is personally offensive to her. Then again, it probably is.

  “By the way,” she tells me as I stand in the kitchen, wondering what I’m supposed to do now. “Your brother called again last night. He said it was urgent.”

  “He always says it’s urgent.”

  “He does. But this is the fifth time he’s called in the last five days. Maybe it really is urgent this time.”

  “Maybe.” But just the thought of talking to him, of hearing about my parents and the company they built with his inventions and the money they got for selling me out, makes me crazy. And since this week is already filled with more than enough crazy, I think it might be best to just let this one slide for a little longer.

  Not forever, I promise myself. Just long enough for me to get my shit together again. However long that might take.

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nbsp; In a bid to do just that, I start to pour myself a glass of orange juice, but my stomach is churning so badly that I figure adding anything acidic to it probably won’t end well. Instead I settle for a small glass of water and a prayer that I’ll be able to keep it down.

  “Are you sure you don’t mind running me in to work today?” I ask as I sip cautiously at the water. “I’m ready early enough that I can still take the bus.”

  Tori snorts. “Like I’m going to let that happen. I’ll drive you to work all week if you need me to.”

  “I’m hoping that won’t be necessary.” I didn’t deal with my car yesterday because I just couldn’t, not on top of everything else that happened. But it’s not like I can leave it parked in Ethan’s driveway forever. “I’ll call for a tow truck to pick it up at Ethan’s today while he’s at work—his housekeeper is there all day today, so if I call and warn her, I’m sure she’ll open the gate so they can tow it back here.

  “I’ll stop by the auto parts store after work today and then I can put in the new starter when I get home. It shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours.”

  Tori rolls her eyes. “You know, there are mechanics who can do that for you.”

  “Yes, well, mechanics cost money that I can’t afford to waste—especially not if I keep this internship instead of getting a paying job—”

  “Another brilliant idea, if I do say so myself,” Tori interjects.

  I ignore her, pretend I don’t hear the doubt in her voice. It’s hard though, considering it’s the same doubt that’s been riding me hard from the second I made up my mind. “Besides,” I continue, like my mental health and my stomach lining aren’t dependent on how well the rest of today goes, “I’ve been working on cars since I was in elementary school. My brother used to take them apart just to see how they worked and then I’d help him put them back together again. I can put in a new starter in my sleep.”

  “I should probably be impressed by that.”

  “But you aren’t.”

  “Not even a little bit.” After downing her coffee, Tori reaches for the oversized Louis Vuitton bag she carries everywhere. “Ready to go?”

  “Not even a little bit,” I echo. But the longer I put it off, the harder it will be to do, so I grab my briefcase and head for the door.

  “I totally owe you,” I tell her as we take the elevator down to the parking garage beneath our building.

  “You don’t owe me anything,” she answers. “A ride to work is no big deal.”

  Maybe not, but it’s more than nearly anyone else in my life has ever been willing to do for me. And though Tori is uncomfortable acknowledging it, we both know I owe her for a lot more than a ride to work. Between letting me live in her condo rent free so I could take this internship and the pep talks she delivers at regular intervals—whenever my own confidence flags—I’m not sure what I would do without her.

  But when we get off the elevator and head toward the two parking spots designated for our condo, I only make it a few steps before stopping in surprise. Because right there, in my parking spot, is my car. Obviously washed, obviously detailed, and more than likely already repaired.

  Ethan.

  I haven’t cried since those moments yesterday, clutched in Tori’s arms after that horrendous walk home, but as I stand here I feel tears well up in my eyes all over again. Of course Ethan had my car fixed. Of course he had it brought back to me.

  That’s just the kind of guy he is.

  “Well, I guess he’s not a total asshole,” Tori drawls from her spot beside me.

  “He’s not an asshole at all.”

  “But I thought—”

  “It’s complicated,” I tell her, walking the last few yards to my car.

  “Isn’t it always?”

  She really has no idea. I reach into my purse, pull out my spare set of keys. And then I’m in the driver’s seat, cranking the ignition. Sure enough, it starts right away. Not to mention the fact that it all but purrs. Something tells me the faulty starter isn’t the only thing Ethan had taken care of on my little Honda.

  I want to be angry at his presumption, I really do. But it’s hard to be upset when he’s doing what he always does—and what up until yesterday, I always loved about him. He’s taking care of me in whatever way he can, whatever way I’ll let him. Besides, I took most of my anger out on the hapless Vitamix last night. I don’t have any rage left. At least not toward Ethan. Not right now.

  “So, I guess I’m heading back upstairs,” Tori says after a minute. “Unless you need me for something?”

  “No. I’m good. Thanks, Tor.”

  “No problem. Knock him dead, Chlo.”

  “I’m not even going to see him today,” I protest.

  She smiles wryly. “Of course you’re not.”

  “I’m not.” I can’t. Just the thought of seeing Ethan makes me shaky. I may not be angry at him, but that’s a far cry from wanting to see him. And I don’t. I really don’t. Not now, when all I can see is Brandon’s mocking grin. When all I can hear is him calling Ethan his brother. His brother.

  Maybe it’s cowardly, maybe it’s self-preservation. To be honest, I don’t really care. All I want to do is get through the day without any more casualties.

  Surely that’s not too much to ask.

  Except obviously, it is. Because as I move to set my briefcase on the passenger seat, I see a thick, cream envelope on the passenger side floorboard. It’s facedown, but I don’t need to see the Frost Industries return address to recognize Ethan’s stationery. He’s sent me so many letters and packages over the last few weeks—all on or accompanied by official company letterhead—that I’m pretty sure I’d recognize it in my sleep.

  For a second, I’m tempted to take the coward’s way out. To leave the envelope where it lies and pretend I never saw it.

  Except I’ve never been a coward. And though there’s a part of me that thinks there’s no excuse Ethan can make, no story he can tell, that will make what happened yesterday okay, there’s another part of me that wants him to try. That wants to see what he has to say.

  It’s a double-edged sword, one I’m afraid I don’t have the skill—or the heart—to keep balanced on. And yet, even knowing how dangerous it is to my own mental health, I reach for the envelope.

  For long seconds, I just hold it in my hands, watching it like I expect it to spontaneously combust. When it doesn’t, I eventually lift it to my nose and breathe in the elusive, barely there scent of it.

  Like rain on a sunny, summer day.

  Like blueberries and warm, sweet maple syrup.

  It smells like Ethan and the truth of that nearly brings me to my knees.

  Again, I almost set the envelope aside unopened. Again, I think about shredding it, burning it, throwing it away whole. About doing anything and everything to it but the one thing Ethan intended—opening it.

  And yet, knowing Ethan wrote whatever is in there exclusively for me, makes it impossible for me to do anything but run my fingertips along the envelope seams in an effort to pry it open.

  Eventually I get it open and the first thing that falls out is a picture of the two of us.

  Just looking at it gets the tears burning behind my eyes all over again, but I clear my throat, blink several times. I’ve cried too much in the last twenty-four hours and I’m not going to do it anymore. Not now. Not today.

  It’s hard though, very hard, because I remember the day this picture was taken. It was right at the beginning, right after Ethan and I first met. It was a charity event on the beach benefiting the environment and I’d been trying, hopelessly I might add, to build a sand castle. Ethan had come around and—much to my chagrin—sat down next to me. Within half an hour, we’d built one of the most impressive sand castles on the beach. When one of the judges came by, she’d given us a perfect score and that’s the moment this picture had been taken, Ethan’s head and mine tilted backward with laughter as we stand over our sand castle and the tide slowly rolls in.
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  It had been a good night, one of the first nights we spent time together. I had tried so hard to keep Ethan at arm’s length, but I know that this is one of those times that I can point to and say that this place, this moment, is when I began to really fall for Ethan.

  Though I know I should probably throw the picture away, I shove it in my purse instead. Then I pull out the only other thing in the envelope, a folded letter that seems to actually be burning my fingertips.

  For long seconds, I just sit there with the letter in my hands, eyes squeezed shut and body shaking. Part of me is dying to open it, dying to know what Ethan has to say. But another part of me is terrified of what I’ll find, terrified of what his words will do to me. I’m barely hanging on as it is. The slightest thing—good or bad—might very well send me over the edge.

  In the end, though, I don’t have a choice. Knowing what Ethan wrote is a compulsion within me, one I have no shot at not obeying. With a deep breath, I unfold the paper, smooth my fingers over the creases. And then I start to read.

  Dear Chloe,

  After everything that has happened, I know I don’t deserve the chance to speak to you, let alone the chance to try to talk to you about the past—and the present. And yet I’m asking you for just that, for the opportunity to show you how much I love you and how sorry I am that I didn’t tell you about Brandon the second I found out about him and how I’d do everything differently if I could just turn back the clock.

  But I can’t turn back time, can’t change all the mistakes that I’ve made. All I can do is move on from here, loving you. And I do, Chloe, more than I ever dreamed it was possible to love another person. This picture is one of the few we’ve taken together, and it’s my favorite, because we took it at the very beginning of our relationship when almost everything between us was just a possibility, just a maybe. I knew even then that I wanted you, that I would do anything to have you, but I also knew that you didn’t feel the same. Not then. Not yet.

  I know you’re hurt and scared—you have every right to be—but I’m asking you to take another chance on me. On us. You took one once and I hurt you because I wasn’t strong enough to take care of you, wasn’t strong enough to trust our love to get us through.