I couldn’t do it.
“I’m sorry, Pedro. I have to leave. It’s not you—” I stopped talking. I couldn’t trot out that trite little speech that had been so useful so many times before. Pedro deserved better. “I’m broken, Pedro. I’m damaged goods. You deserve better than that.” Better than me.
Pedro shook his head, reaching for me. “I’ll fix you,” he whispered, and I tried to dodge his hands, to turn away and leave, but he caught me, pulling me in close. “Let me help fix you. Our love—we can fix anything, mi amor.”
His arms felt like tight bands of steel enfolding me, crushing me, suffocating me. I struggled, and I could feel his tears soaking the back of my shirt.
“You can’t fix me, Pedro,” I whispered. I couldn’t be fixed. I broke free of his grip and scooped up my backpack. “I’m so sorry, I have to go.”
I ran to the door before he could grab me again. I slammed it shut behind me, and felt the door shudder as he hit it on the other side. I flinched, and stepped away warily, my gaze on the doorknob.
He hit the door again, and then I heard the rustle of fabric as he slid down to the floor on the other side, sobbing. I backed away, tears streaming down my face. I turned and fled.
I smiled shakily at Rich. That memory was a shock. I’d happily avoided it, and had only really taken stock when I was out on the street, stunned to find myself operating on autopilot. At the time, it had felt like a gap in my memory, but every now and then, something would surface, something from the black void that hid so much that I’d gotten used to its murky protection. I bit my lip gently. I wasn’t going through that again. I didn’t want another scene. It was cowardly, it was pathetic and it was the only way I could do this. I learned from experience. I tilted my head into his touch, and closed my eyes. I’d leave in the morning. Before he woke.
“It’s nothing,” I said, finally meeting his gaze, masking my pain, my intent. My pathetic cowardice. “I’m just tired, I guess.”
He drew me closer, his muscled arms enfolding me ever so gently. “Are you...too tired?” he murmured, dipping his head to nibble at my ear.
I blinked back tears. I shouldn’t, but I’m selfish. I’d be gone tomorrow, but we still had tonight. “No, I’m not...too tired,” I whispered, sliding my arms around his neck.
He moved his head, trailing his lips from my ear to my mouth, and kissed me. I hated myself, but I kissed him back. He tasted of home brew and coconut, responsibility and obligation. He tasted of dreams, and for one night I was going to cheat forever, and grab my happily-ever-after and have it right now. For one night, I’d indulge Rich, I’d indulge me. The cruelest of sweet fantasies, I was going to pamper that daydream. Tomorrow, with all its regrets, remorse and recriminations, would come. But tonight, right here, right now, tomorrow could kiss my ass.
Rich scooped me up, and I wrapped my legs around his hips as we kissed, long and languidly. Even drunk, Rich was a fantastic kisser. I writhed against him, and he panted as he turned and lowered me to the mattress. I hit it a little harder than I’m sure he intended, but I didn’t mind. A perverse voice in my head whispered I didn’t deserve softer, kinder consideration for what I was doing.
I pulled the tank top up over my head, gasping as Rich pulled my bikini top aside and bared my breasts. I moaned, arching my back as his hands lifted and molded my breasts, and he tweaked my nipples as he took my mouth in a scorching kiss.
I raked my nails down his back, and he lifted his head briefly, groaning in delight. I fumbled for the waistband of his shorts, unbuttoning them and sliding the zipper down to grasp him, already hard, in his boxer briefs.
He groaned. “God, Lucy, I lo—”
I moved up to kiss him, to stop him from uttering words that couldn’t be unsaid, from using that name that wasn’t mine. It was like unleashing the beast. He growled, his fingers sliding into my short hair, angling my head so he could deepen the kiss.
He rocked his hips against mine, then ran his hands over my body. We twisted in the sheets, dragging at each other’s shorts. When we were both naked, I rolled over on top of him, straddling his hips. He glanced up at me, a sexy, goofy smile on his face, as he slid his hands over my hips. I dipped my head and kissed him, caressing the dark hair off his forehead, then gasped as he rolled us over and slid into me.
It was beautiful, it was hot and it was so bittersweet. Every sigh, every muscle clench, every caress, was laden with tenderness, with an unspoken farewell.
When it was over, Rich rolled to the side, breathless, his arm lying across my chest.
“Good night, Lucy,” he murmured, his eyelids flickering as he tried to stay awake. I watched him lose the battle as his chest rose and fell evenly, and his eyelids slid shut.
“Goodbye,” I whispered when I knew he was asleep.
You’re doing the right thing, Maisey. I frowned at the voice inside my head. Sometimes, doing the right thing sucked.
I slid from the bed and gathered my things. Twenty minutes later, I slung my backpack over my shoulder, grabbed my wallet and passport and slunk out into the night.
I didn’t look back.
“Sarah, how wonderful to see you. It’s been ages.”
Plastering a smile on my face, I return Genny Winton’s greeting with the ubiquitous air kiss on both cheeks. If there was one advantage to being pregnant, it was having a legitimate excuse to avoid Genny and her tribe. But those days are over—no one can miss the East Hamptons Village Fair, especially when Eleanor is one of the organizers.
“It’s for charity, Sarah. The hospital needs us,” she’d say whenever I’d invent a new excuse. To make matters worse, the sadist had put me in charge of the bake stand. The aromas of sugar and cinnamon are a constant siren call.
“So this is the little man,” Genny says. She appraises my son with a frown. “He doesn’t seem happy.”
Elliot’s face flushes scarlet as he fusses, kicking his little legs and seizing a lock of my hair in a tiny fist. He yanks, and I manage not to shriek in pain. Instead I disentangle myself and bounce him on my hip, doing my best to channel Super Mom. It’s not easy, but then again, nothing is in the 1950s tea dress Warwick insisted I wear. It’s his favorite, and I couldn’t talk him out of it. He refuses to acknowledge that the majority of my clothes no longer fit.
“He’s not normally like this.” I wish Genny would go away so I can give my son another bottle. That’s what he wants, but I don’t dare do it with an audience. “He’s colicky.”
Her frown deepens. “How old is he?”
“Three and a half months.” I watch her brain struggle with the simple math until I’m surprised smoke isn’t coming from her ears. Go away, you stupid cow. Go away and leave us be.
“He should be past that by now.” Her voice oozes with fake concern. “He’s a bit old for colic. Perhaps you should take him to the doctor. Is he sleeping through the night?”
“Sometimes.” More like never, but I wasn’t about to tell her that. I already felt like a failure in the shadow of her perfection. Genny had given birth to her twins, what, a year ago? And within a month or two, you wouldn’t have known she’d ever been pregnant. What was she, a size zero? Double zero? It took every ounce of willpower not to push my old “friend’s” face into a lemon meringue pie. “What would you like, Genny? Is that sweet tooth of yours still plaguing you? I have a few of Tessie’s caramel buns left.”
As I’d hoped, Genny’s appraisal of my son is replaced by an expression of