“You know I don’t mind being creamed by you, Dean.” With a wink, she heads into the locker room and lets the door swing shut behind her.
I head toward the men’s locker room. At least my relationship with Kelsey is the same. If I’d ever tell anyone what Liv and I went through, what we’re still going through, it would be Kelsey. The fact that I won’t underscores just how shitty it all is.
I shower and dress, then drive home. By now, I’ve come to expect the smells of cooking drifting from the kitchen, but there’s nothing except the scents of pine and holly.
Liv’s curled on the sofa watching the news. She turns to watch me enter.
I drop my duffle and briefcase on the table. “Hey. How was your day?”
“Okay.”
Her eyes are all puffy. She’s been crying.
Shit.
I sit beside her and pull her against me, brushing my mouth across her temple.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
She lets out a shaky sigh. “Me too. How are we going to fix this?”
The only thing I can think of is that I need to get the hell over it, but I don’t know how. All I know is that I drove her toward another man and… anger floods my throat.
“Will you come with me to counseling again?” Liv asks.
I want to say yes. I should say yes.
But I can’t stand the idea of a counselor gnawing at my problems. Expecting me to talk about more than I want to. Making Liv go through it all again. Telling me this is all my fucking fault.
“Maybe,” I finally say.
I pick up Liv’s hand and rub my fingers across the scar on her palm. Guilt punches me in the stomach. If I hadn’t stalked into her cooking class like a barbarian out for revenge, she wouldn’t have lost her concentration, wouldn’t have sliced her hand open with a knife.
Thank God there was no permanent damage, but she’ll always have the scar.
I need to stop punishing her. As much as I hate the thought of her kissing another man, this whole mess has been my fault.
I want to protect Liv from everything, but I can’t protect her from the truth. No matter how ugly it is. I know that now. I just need to remember it.
I run a hand down Liv’s back. “Hey, Kelsey wants to catch a movie or something this weekend. She also mentioned the holiday art fair.”
“The art fair’s this weekend?” Liv’s eyes light up. “I love the art fair. I’ve been wanting a new wreath for the front door. Oh, maybe we can meet Kelsey for breakfast first. The tearoom down on Poppy Street has a Saturday special with free cinnamon lattes. I’ll send Kels an email to set it up.”
She scrambles off the sofa and heads for her laptop. Her excitement eases some of my apprehension. For now.
Matilda’s Teapot is a nightmare of chintz tablecloths, china cups, frilly curtains and at least five tables filled with pink-cheeked grandmas. A plump woman in a floral dress and lace apron—quite possibly Matilda herself—guides us to a table.
As we sit down on the curved Victorian-style chairs, Kelsey shoots me a look. I shrug in defense and tilt my head toward Liv to indicate this was her idea.
“I heard they’re closing this place soon because the owner is retiring and there’s no one to take over,” Liv says. “It’s a shame because it’s such an institution.”
Kelsey rolls her eyes and opens the pink menu. “Do they have steak and eggs here?”
“Try the crepes,” Liv suggests. “With homemade berry preserves. They’re delicious.”
“I need something more substantial if I’m going to wade through piles of cheesy reindeer ornaments,” Kelsey says.
Liv looks a little crestfallen. “I thought you wanted to go to the art fair. Dean said you were the one who suggested it.”
Kelsey has the grace to appear contrite. “I know, I know. You’re right, it’ll be fun. They always have someone selling great fudge.”
The waitress brings our free lattes—both Kelsey and I also ask for black coffee—and we place our orders. Crepes for Liv, eggs and toast for me, quiche for Kelsey. Liv orders a side of scones and cream and a selection of tea.
I look at her. She’s leaning across the table, telling Kelsey about the holiday exhibition at the Historical Museum. The sight of her hits me in the chest. So pretty with her long hair and bright eyes. And so pure and damaged at the same time, like a priceless vase threaded with cracks.
No wonder I couldn’t stay away from her. No wonder I wanted to be her hero. No wonder another guy—
“Dean?” Liv nudges me with her elbow. She and Kelsey are looking at me expectantly.
“Sorry.” I swallow some coffee, fighting the anger. “What?”
“Kelsey has tickets to Handel’s Messiah next weekend,” Liv says. “Do you want to go?”
“Yeah, sure.”
Kelsey frowns. “Why are you so spacey these days? Liv, did he tell you I beat him at racquetball twice this week? Mr. Competitive hardly tried to get off an offensive shot.”
Liv shoots me a glance. “He has a lot on his mind with the conference next year and his book.”