Changing Scenes (Changing Teams #2), page 17
“The last thing I need is some OCD white girl alphabetizing my shoes,” I said. “Besides, I like living alone.”
“Mm hmm, sure you do,” Michael said. “While you wallow in your delusions, I will send these pictures around.”
“And I’ll get some shots over to Kendra, have her people watermark a few,” Sam said. “Things are looking good, folks.”
“They sure are,” I agreed. If things were looking good, why did I feel like there was a stone on my heart?
Chapter
Thirty-Eight
Donnie
Another Tuesday, another day at work. I got into my Jeep that morning and drove to the restaurant, on autopilot in more ways than one. I used to enjoy my job, and was satisfied cooking for others. Ever since my blowup with Astrid, I just went through the motions at work, hardly caring if the food was done or even edible. I’d sent Astrid a thousand texts, called her a hundred times, and gotten silence as a reply. I didn’t even care about that guy I saw her with anymore, I just wanted to talk to her.
Okay, maybe I still cared about the guy, but only a little.
Astrid might think she’s avoiding me, but I had an ace up my sleeve—not only was I preparing Britt’s rehearsal dinner next weekend, I would be at the wedding helping Dianne with the cake. One way or another, I would see Astrid. I would make her hear me.
My phone buzzed just as I pulled into the restaurant’s parking lot. I glanced at the screen, and saw that it was my sister Amelia. “Am I an uncle again?” I asked.
“Not yet,” she replied. “This kid is way too comfortable. I’m going to text you a website you need to look at.”
“What website?”
“It’s a fashion blog,” Amelia replied. “There are new pictures of Astrid, and the internet’s going crazy over them.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I haven’t talked to her in a few weeks.”
“She still not replying?” Amelia was the only family member I’d told about me and Astrid’s fight.
“She’s not,” I replied. “If it might be over, why get all nostalgic over a few pictures?”
“Maybe they’ll make you fight harder.”
“If I fight any harder I’ll start earning medals.”
“She’s not worth it?”
I smacked the steering wheel. Astrid was worth fighting for, worth a frickin’ full on battle charge. “All right. Text it to me.”
“You got it.”
I got the link a few seconds later, but the pictures were so tiny on my phone I could hardly see anything. When I got to the restaurant I tore into the back door and went straight to the office computer. All the employees used it, from entering time sheets to ordering bulk items.
I typed the address in the browser, some fashion website called If The Shoe Fits. It was one of those trashy gossip pages that Lucia liked. I scrolled down a bit and whistled.
Amelia was right, those were some smoking pictures of Astrid. She was wearing this bright blue-green dress, the top so low and tight she was almost topless again. Britt was kneeling beside her, and there was a picnic basket on a blanket in front of them. Britt was pouring iced tea and Astrid was holding out a big, juicy slice of cherry pie toward the camera. Damn, but I wanted to take a bite out of her.
I grabbed my phone and called Amelia. “God, I miss her,” I said when she picked up.
“Then call her,” Amelia said.
“I do. All the time. She doesn’t answer.”
“Then write her a letter, send her a smoke signal, do something.” When I remained silent, Amelia continued, “You’re really going to let her go?”
“I’m not the one letting go.” I scrolled lower, and saw another picture of Astrid. She was in a restaurant, wearing this sexy as hell black lace dress. The next picture was her in that same dress, getting into a car. No, not a car; a stretch limo. I read the caption:
Has Astrid Janvier Finally Succumbed
To John Archer’s Charms?
“What the…”
“What the what?” Amelia squeaked.
“Scroll down,” I said. “That guy she’s with, that John Archer. He owns her agency. Been chasing after her for years.”
“Yeah, so?” Amelia asked. “They’re just eating.”
“Does a woman wear a dress like that if she’ll just be eating?” When Amelia didn’t answer, she confirmed every nagging thought I’d had. Astrid had moved on, far on from me. Maybe I’d bunk out of helping Dianne with the cake. “Listen, I appreciate all this. Maybe Astrid and I just weren’t meant to be.”
“I wish you were.”
“Me too.”
I ended the call, shut off the monitor, and went to work.
***
There’s this little bar between the restaurant and my place that I walk to after my shift sometimes. It’s a hole in the wall, offers three kinds of beer on tap, and all of the mixed drinks involve either vodka or rum mixed with juice that may or may not be expired. Still, the place was quiet and the people were nice, and I could quietly drink myself into oblivion.
I wondered if the bar Astrid was working in was like this.
I started coming here a few years ago, with a few of the waitstaff, the joke being that if I got too drunk to drive I could walk home. Tonight, I might just make good on that. Even when Astrid had thrown me out, and later when she stopped taking my calls, I hadn’t really thought we were done. If she was having dinner with that Archer guy, it might just be over.
If she was having dinner with that rich asshole, I bet she quit the bar gig.
So I had a drink. And another. After the third things got a little blurry, and blurrier still after the fourth, but it was okay. I was good. I could walk home.
“Hey.”
I looked to my left as Leela claimed the stool beside me. “I didn’t know you came here,” I said.
“Never have before.” She tossed her hair behind her shoulder, and leaned on the bar. “I came to see if you’re all right.”
“Fucking fabulous,” I said.
Leela touched my arm. “I saw the pictures of that girl you know and the man.”
“You mean Astrid?” I asked.
“Yeah. Her. You left the search window open on the computer.” Leela moved closer and said, “She doesn’t deserve you.”
“I don’t deserve her,” I mumbled. “Astrid’s just so pretty, so soft…so perfect.”
“You know, there are other girls that think you’re perfect,” Leela purred.
“Really?” I asked. “Who?”
“I think you know.” Leela called the bartender over and settled the bill. “Come on, big guy,” she said as she stood, grabbing my arm and helping me up. “I’ll get you home.”
***
Every muscle in my body hurt.
Whether it was stiff as a board or sore as if I’d been beaten with a rolling pin, they all hurt. In addition to the sore body, my eyes were gritty, my head throbbed, and my mouth tasted like something had died in it.
I guess that’s why they call it rotgut. I remembered going to the bar last night, but what I could not remember was getting myself home. I hoped I hadn’t driven home. Man, I hope I paid the tab too.
I raised myself up just enough so I could see out my window—empty driveway. I flopped back to the mattress, relieved that I wouldn’t be adding drunk driving to my resumé. When I hit the mattress, the woman beside me sighed and shifted closer to me.
“Astrid?”
Had she come by last night, had she gotten me home? I grinned, happy for the first time in weeks. If Astrid was here, it meant she wanted to work things out. It meant that John Archer asshole meant nothing to her. Then I rolled over and saw the last person I wanted in my bed—Leela.
Since she was still sleeping, I took a minute for damage control. I was still dressed, which was a good sign. She was wearing her bra, and when I tugged the blanket lower I found her work skirt and tights present and accounted for. Thank frickin’ God, we hadn’t had sex. That still didn’t explain what she was doing in my bed.
I got up and went into the bathroom, and the continued lack of evidence that we’d had sex was the only good thing about this morning. I brushed my teeth, grabbed a quick shower, and returned to the bedroom.
“Leela,” I said, shaking the mattress. “Leela!”
She stretched and yawned, then gave me a lazy smile. “Hey, baby.”
“I am not your baby,” I said. “What are you doing here?”
“You were drunk, so I got you home,” she said.
I nodded. “Where’s your shirt?”
“You took it off me.” Leela sat up, moved her hands behind her back.
“No,” I snapped. I saw her shirt on the floor, and tossed it at her. “Listen, thanks for helping me out. I really appreciate it.” When she kept staring at me, I added, “I don’t really remember what happened last night, but I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong idea.”
“Wrong idea?” she asked. “Don, you were all over me.”
“Leela, I was so drunk I don’t even remember leaving the bar,” I said. “Is that what you want?”
She leaned forward and tried grabbing my hand. “I want you.”
I stepped back, out of her reach. “I’m sorry, but I’m not interested.” Leela’s jaw dropped, and I moved toward the door. “Get dressed, then I’ll get you home.”
“I paid your fucking bar tab last night!”
I took out my wallet and asked, “How much do I owe you?”
Leela looked down. “I don’t want your money.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t like owing people.” I counted out five twenties and handed them to her. “I mean it, Leela, I appreciate you helping me. Now get dressed. I’ve got to be at the restaurant soon.”
Leela looked at the money on the bed, then up at me. “This is about her, isn’t it? That little slut from New York?”
“Don’t you dare call Astrid a slut,” I yelled. “We’ve had some problems, but we’re going to work through everything.”
“You, her, and the man in the suit?” Leela demanded. “Face facts, Don. She’s fucking him.”
“Out,” I said. I found her shoes, coat, and purse, and thrust them at her. “Out of my house. Don’t ever come near me again.”
“What about work?”
“Only talk to me about work-related things,” I said. Luckily Leela only worked weekends in the off season, so I’d only see her four days a month anyway. “Go.”
Leela stared at me for a second, her lower lip trembling, then she put on her coat and shoes. “You’re gonna regret this, Don.”
“I already do.”
A fully clothed Leela stomped down the stairs and out the door. After she was gone I sat on the couch and held my head in my hands, wondering what the hell was wrong with me. I drank from time to time, but I’d never blacked out like that. And I knew exactly why I’d done it—those pictures of Astrid and her boss.
I’d thought I could let Astrid go, but I was wrong. She was under my skin, in my heart, and I didn’t want her gone. I wanted her back, and I was going to get her.
The alarm on my phone beeped, letting me know I had to be at work in an hour. Today was Wednesday, and the Sullivan-MacKellar rehearsal dinner was in two days. Astrid would be there, and I’d talk to her. Apologize. God, I’d beg if I had to, but I needed to make her understand what she meant to me.
I needed her to take me back.
Chapter
Thirty-Nine
Astrid
It was two days before Britt and Sam’s wedding, and the entire wedding party—except for Sam’s cousin from Iowa, who would arrive on Friday, hopefully in time for the rehearsal—had taken over Jorge’s shop for our final fittings. The men had been in and out of their tuxes in record time, but us ladies were enjoying every second of the princess treatment.
The dresses Jorge had crafted were exquisite, from Britt’s cream and gold and burgundy wedding gown to our burgundy bridesmaid dresses. Since Jorge would never allow his Matilda to fade into the background, he’d made her a dress in a similar style as the bridesmaid’s, with flowing layers of chiffon showcasing her bump. No, he wasn’t a proud papa, not at all.
“So, today are the fittings, tomorrow we confirm floral arrangements and the menu, and we head up Friday?” I ticked off. Maid of honor duty involved quite a bit of list making.
“I have already confirmed the menus,” Melody said. “Both rehearsal and the banquet. The florist should call me back any minute now.”
“Good,” I said. “You’ve got this down, Mel. Maybe you should be a wedding planner.”
She flashed me a grin. “Don’t think I haven’t thought of it.”
I smiled tightly, hiding my disappointment. I’d wanted to confirm at least the rehearsal menu, just to call the restaurant. I hadn’t spoken to Donnie in any way, shape, or form since I’d shattered my phone on my coffee table and resorted to using the prepay phone for everything. Obviously Donnie couldn’t call me since he didn’t know the prepay phone’s number, and I had steadfastly refused to ask Britt for Donnie’s number. If he wanted to talk to me, he could ask her. Not like he hadn’t gone behind my back before.
“Astrid,” Jorge snapped, jarring me back to reality. “What have you been eating, lard sandwiches?”
“What?” I demanded. “Did you leave your manners at home, Jorge?”
“This dress does not fit,” he said, tugging on the zipper. He was right, the zipper didn’t want to go past my waist. “It fit last week. Explain.”
“Explain what, you crazy tailor?” I muttered. “Check your measurements. I have not gained weight.”
Jorge yanked on the sides of my dress. “My measurements are perfect.”
He yanked on the dress again—truly, a tailor scorned is far worse than any woman—and I felt my breakfast coming up to say hello. I clamped my hand over my mouth; luckily, it subsided. When I looked up, I saw Matilda eyeing me, her mouth pressed in a flat line.
“Jorge, leave Astrid be,” Matilda said. “Surely you can let out a seam?”
Jorge grumbled, but agreed to make the alteration in time for Saturday. He walked away and I stepped off of the pedestal and went to the changing area, Matilda hot on my heels. She entered the alcove with me and snapped the curtain closed behind us.
“Well?” she demanded. “How far along?”
“How far along is what?” I countered.
“You’ve gained weight. Sudden movements make you nauseous. Booze has been making you sick for weeks.” Matilda’s gaze softened. “And, you’re glowing.”
My mouth fell open, ready to disprove everything Matilda said…but, I couldn’t. It was the first thing that had made sense in my life in a long time. “I can’t be pregnant,” I whispered. “We always used protection.”
“Every time?”
“Every time,” I replied, then I remembered the time in the shower. Donnie had followed me in there, and one thing had led to another. When I admitted that I’d never had sex in a shower, Donnie had taken it upon himself to enlighten me. He was a damn good teacher.
“No, once we didn’t,” I said, pressing my hand to my belly. “You think so?”
“I think it’s a strong possibility,” she replied. “Donnie’s?”
“Yeah.” Tears pricked the backs of my eyes, and I turned toward the wall. “I haven’t even spoken to him in weeks.”
Matilda wrapped her arms around me, and said, “You’ll see him Friday. Talk to him then. If you don’t think you can do it alone, I’ll go with you.”
“I can do it,” I said. For my baby, I could do it.
Chapter Forty
Astrid
“You okay?” Britt asked as we pulled into Thirty-Nine and Twelve’s parking lot. Sam had driven us down, which was convenient since I had my professional makeup case stashed in the trunk. I was also crammed in the back seat with Melody. Don’t get me wrong; I love the girl, I just love my personal space as well.
“Absolutely,” I lied. Sam glanced at me in the rearview mirror; trust the man who’d lied for over half his life to be able to smell an untruth a mile away. Or in this case, from the backseat.
“Think he’ll bother you?” Sam asked.
“No, Donnie wouldn’t do that,” I said, shaking my head. “He’s one of the good guys.”
Melody touched the back of my hand. “Think you’ll get to talk to him?”
“I don’t know,” I replied. I hadn’t told anyone about Matilda’s suspicion that I was pregnant, since there no reason to get everyone worked up over something that might not even be happening. I shook my head again, and said, “Look at me, dragging everyone down. This weekend is all about Britt and Sam. Let’s get in there and celebrate.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Sam said, then he leaned over the gearshift and kissed Britt like he meant it. Normally I didn’t mind their public displays of affection, but my heart clenched at the sight of them so happily in love.
I wondered if Donnie would kiss me like he meant it ever again.
We got out of the car, the nearly empty lot telling us we were almost the first to arrive. That honor went to Britt’s mother and stepfather, Cynthia and Patrick Sullivan.
“Mom,” Britt cried when we entered the restaurant, as she threw herself into her mother’s arms.
“Oh, Britty, I’m so happy for you and Sam,” Mrs. Sullivan said. After they’d hugged for a few minutes, Britt stepped back and Sam swept Mrs. Sullivan into his arms and off her feet.
“This time tomorrow I’ll be calling you momma,” Sam said.
“That’s right you will,” she said. Sam set Mrs. Sullivan down and swept his arm toward Melody and me.
“You know Astrid, right?” Sam said. “And Mel, you definitely know her.”
“Of course,” Mrs. Sullivan said, stepping forward and grasping Melody’s hands. “How are you both?”
“Yes, Melody, how are you?” Mr. Sullivan asked.
