A Toast to the Good Times Page 16

  “My pleasure. Thanks for the invite,” Rusty says before he gives me a quick, knowing nod.

  “Dessert?” Mom calls over her shoulder. The entire table chimes in in agreement.

  “Ma, let me help you with all of that.” I push myself away from the table. Mila starts to follow suit, but I brush my hand over hers to stop her. “No worries. You just sit and relax. I got it.”

  I follow Mom into the kitchen where she’s already cutting into the array of pies she and Mila worked so hard on all day. There’s a row of them across the island counter top.

  “Sugar Cream?” she asks, like she actually needs to.

  “Two slices, please.” I smile at this whole homey holiday scene, my mom, my favorite pie, my girl at the table with my family and friends, who seem to be on their best behavior. .

  “She’s good for you, you know?” Mom says as she slices into a lemon meringue.

  I nod, because I know she is, but I don’t add anything to keep the conversation going. I’m on edge about things with Mila even since Paisley’s comment.

  Don’t break that girls heart.

  No pressure, right?

  “We have a good time.” I shrug, trying to keep the tone of the whole conversation casual.

  “I’d say it’s more than that,” Mom suggests smugly.

  “Ma, really? You just worry about cutting your pie there,” I joke, shaking my head. “I’ll wash these dishes.”

  By the time Mom and I get the mess in the kitchen under control everyone has cleared out of the dining room and moved into the den. I follow behind her and her tray of pies with as many glasses of Mila’s punch as I can hold, and when you carry glasses for a living, that’s a lot. Mila was excited to contribute this punch, and these people are going to enjoy it or else. Mom passes out the plates of pie, while I do the same with the frothy glasses of punch.

  “Henry, banana cream or pumpkin?” Mom offers my brother his choice of the last two pieces on the tray, just as the doorbell rings.

  “Both, Ma,” he says, jumping up enthusiastically. “One for me, and one for my guest. Hope you don’t mind, I figured since Paisley has Cal over, and Landry has sweet, sweet Mila, I might as well invite someone for dessert.”

  “‘Course,” Mom says absently, but Henry is already out of the room.

  I plop down in the overstuffed chair next to Mila, cramping her space, but she doesn’t seem to mind.

  “Sorry Santa Claus didn’t bring you anything today.” Mila tips her head to meet mine. My parents didn’t expect me, so, no, there wasn’t a gift under the tree for me.

  “Oh, I beg to differ. Santa brought me a pretty freaking awesome gift.” I press my lips to her temple and breathe her in. “Maybe he’ll let me have another after everyone goes to bed.” I pull back and wink at her just to watch the blush fill her cheeks.

  “You’re not drinking your punch,” Mila says.

  “We didn’t have a toast yet.”

  “I thought you hated toasts?”

  “Meh,” I scoff. “That was before I had anything worthwhile to toast.”

  “Okay, so, what are we toasting to tonight?”

  “To remembering the moments worth never forgetting,” I say, raising my glass.

  I glance around the room taking in my sister and her assbasket of a boyfriend, canoodling on the edge of the sofa like a couple of seventh-graders. Mom and Dad apparently have the same idea as Mila and I, and are clinking glasses over by the brightly lit tree.

  And then Henry is back.

  With his guest.

  With Heather.

  Mila follows my eyes over to them, and then looks back at my face, silently questioning my shocked expression, waiting for me to continue. I pull my lips into a tight line and snarl out the rest of the toast. “And forgetting those not worth remembering.”

  “Um, that was…poignant?” Mila forces a small smile and presses her glass toward me.

  I touch my glass to hers, then tip the faux-alcoholic drink back, swallowing it quickly and wishing I’d spiked it with some extra booze like Dad had suggested earlier.

  “Excuse me.” I pat Mila on the knee and she frowns back at me. “I’ll just be one minute.”

  I’m trying to reassure her, but I’m pissed as hell that my brother invited my ex here.

  On Christmas.

  With Mila here.

  What am I saying? That’s exactly why Henry pulled this shit.

  “You. Outside. Now,” I say, clipping each angry word and gripping my baby brother by the collar of his starched shirt.

  “Landry, calm the fuck down,” Henry says through gritted teeth and a plastic smile.

  “You little shit, what are you trying to pull?” I yank him out through the open sliding glass door. “Are you trying to screw up what I have going in there? Because, why? You have a little crush on her?”

  Henry pulls back and brushes himself off. “Dude, you need to chill the hell out. I ran into Heather doing some last minute shopping yesterday. She mentioned that her family was all out of town because her brother and his wife are having a baby. She sort of wrangled an invite out of me. It wasn’t intentional on my part, bro, and I sure as shit didn’t expect you to get this bent about it. Your girl in there is crazy about you, so who gives a rat’s ass if Heather is here or not?” He waits a few beats, checking to make sure I calmed down. “So, can I go inside and enjoy my delicious pie that our mother and your woman slaved away making especially for me?” Henry laughs.

  “Get out of my sight,” I joke back at him.

  I know he’s right. It doesn’t matter. Heather and I are long over.

  Henry makes his way back into the house. I shove my hands in my pockets and stare up at the dark sky.

  “Landry?” Her voice is a little husky. A little sexy. Just like it always was. And I spin toward her, knowing exactly why I was so worried when I saw that Henry had brought Heather over.

  Because I’m Landry.

  I’m a fuck up.

  It’s what and who I am.

  I pinch the space between my eyes and try to ignore the short-as-shit black dress Heather is wearing, and her long ass legs that always begged me to run my hands over them.

  “Heather, what are you doing out here? My mom has a shit ton of pie in there, go eat some.”

  I take a few steps in her direction, but not to her. I want to make my way past her and back into that ridiculously comfortable chair next to Mila.

  I want to forget the things not worth remembering.

  “I heard you were in town.” This doesn’t surprise me. I want to call her out on the fact that I’ve seen her pass in front of the bar every so often, never coming in, but just watching me. But before the words leave my mouth, she flips her long blonde hair over her shoulder and I can’t help staring too long at her exposed neck.

  The neck I once knew the smell of, the taste of when I kissed her there before I got her into bed.

  I shake those thoughts out of my head, pissed at my mind for dredging them up.

  “Yep, here I am. It’s cold out here, let’s get back inside.”

  “Why don’t you just give me your coat. Then we can stay out here. And…talk.” She smiles coyly.

  “Right. I’m not sure what Henry told you, but I’m here with someone.”

  Heather smirks. “He told me before I came in. I just wanted to see you again, Landry.”

  “Why?” I sigh.

  “Tyler and I broke up, you know.” She’s shivering.

  “What the hell does that have to do with me?”

  “Well…” Her teeth chatter and she hugs herself closer.

  The slinky black dress was not appropriate winter-in-New-Jersey-attire, and she knew that good and well, but still, the miniscule inner gentleman I have hidden somewhere in me just won’t let her stand out here and freeze.

  “Take this.” I pull my arms out of my wool coat and wrap it around her shoulders, paying special attention not to touch her any more than is absolutely nece
ssary.

  “Thanks,” she coos.

  “Right, so, can we go in now?” I gesture back to the house, warm and comfortable, and the place where the girl who single-handedly changed my world is waiting for me to come back.

  “I’m sorry,” she blurts out. Heather hangs her head down , her hair grazing over her face and chest. “I’m so sorry I screwed things up with us Landry. I don’t even have a good reason why, I mean, I loved you. I still love you! I just…I got scared and Tyler was there and it was easy and fun—”

  And suddenly, it all clicks into place.

  And I get it.

  I understand why Heather treated herself to a little holiday delight with my best friend. Her friends were all running off and getting married. I left my family behind. I asked her to move in with me. And she was scared as hell that she was going to mess it all up.

  “You don’t love me, Heather.”

  “I really do. You were the first guy that ever treated me well.” She sighs and smooths her slinky dress hidden under the wool folds of my coat. “The only guy, really, who’s ever had any respect for me.”

  I think back to when Heather and I were in the thick of our relationship, and, while I was never mean to her, I don’t really remember treating her all that well. I don’t remember treating any girl especially well.

  Heather steps closer to me, pressing her hands onto my chest, tracing the outline of my pecs, just like she used to. I try not to react to her touch, but it’s really fucking hard not to. It’s familiar, and it feels damn good, even if I don’t want it to go any further. She leans in and her mouth is right next to my ear.

  “I promise I could make things right. If you give me chance Landry, I’ll make them better than they ever were.”

  And for a split second I think how much easier it would be to be back with her. There was zero expectation from Heather. From my parents. From Paisley. No one gave a shit whether I was with her or not, not even me.

  It was easy. And boring. And easy.

  And Mila….

  Fuck.

  Heather’s nails scratch through my shirt as I pull away from her.

  Mila is standing ten feet away, her arms shoved way up inside the sweatshirt that is three sizes too big for her. Her mouth tugs downward in a look of mixed shock and disgust. And it’s because of me.

  Because Heather is here, in my arms, wearing my coat, lips on my ear.

  I count to ten silently, hoping the entire situation just evaporates, but mostly waiting for Mila to launch into me and demand an explanation as to how I could have been inside her last night, and have Heather nibbling on my ear now.

  But she doesn’t yell at me. She doesn’t beg me to explain.

  Instead, Mila is silent.

  And that’s when I know I’ve really fucked things up. She nods like she’s seen everything she needs to know, spins on her heels, and walks away.

  “Mila!”

  She stops briefly and looks at me over her shoulder. Her eyes tell me everything; I’ve just proven to her that I’m exactly the person she came here hoping to prove to herself.

  She shakes her head and keeps walking away.

  From me.

  My palms sweat, my heart races, and panic glues me to my frigid spot in my parents’ driveway

  I don’t have any experience to pull from. Any idea what to do in this situation. Any clue what to say to make her stay.

  So, like the idiot that I am, I just let her go.

  Chapter 16

  The train ride back to Boston is torturous.

  It’s weird how the last time I was on this train, just a few days ago, I was running from Mila and the chance to be with her in any substantial way.

  I’m pissed at myself. I’m pissed that I wasn’t brave enough or smart enough to grab her when I had the chance. I’m pissed that she opened herself up to me and I crushed it. I’m pissed that I let other things, other people, get in the way of letting her know my full, absolute commitment to her in every way. All I needed was one day of reassuring behavior before I could have gone back to Boston with her. But I screwed it up, and it might not be fixable.

  I hope to god it’s fixable.

  But I’m not sure it will be. Because every mile closer I get to Mila, I’m that much further from having any clue what to say to her to make things right.

  When I finally stick my key in the lock, it occurs to me that there’s a good chance Mila may not even be here. I knock my forehead on the door and squeeze my eyes shut, saying the closest thing to a prayer there is for an asshole like me.

  There’s no reason to hold out hope that she’ll be standing on the other side of the door, waiting for me to get home, especially after seeing me and Heather.

  Damn it.

  If she’d only given me a minute to explain…that I’m an asshole. That I was confused. Scared.

  Mostly just that I’m an asshole.

  I unlock the door, and let it creak all the way open until it hits the wall.

  And then I feel myself deflate.

  No Mila.

  Of course.

  I stumble toward my bedroom, checking each open door to see if she’s curled up in a chair, her legs tucked tightly under her, reading a book the size of a brick.

  I kick the half-closed bathroom door open, not caring if I walk in on her.

  I crane my neck into the cramped kitchen, but it’s a longshot. If she’d been in there, the smell of charred food and billows of smoke would have announced her presence before I ever needed to look.

  I stalk back into the living room and yank the curtains open like the desperate idiot I am, as if I can give myself hope, just for a flash of a second, that maybe it’s just too dim for me to see her. Maybe she’s sitting on the couch, in the shadows, and I can tell her everything, anything, that will convince her to give me a second chance.

  It occurs to me that I may be losing my mind in a very serious way.

  I just have to accept facts. She’s. Not. Here.

  I let my backpack slide off my arms and hit the floor with a thud. I don’t know why, but I really thought she’d be here, waiting for me. I thought I’d have my chance to explain. Instead, the drawing I gave her for Christmas is on the counter and the apartment is empty. At least her things are still here. I guess that means she’ll be back at least once more.

  But that can’t be it.

  She wouldn’t actually move out, would she?

  Fuck.

  I lie back on my bed that I’ve been missing so much the last few days, but it doesn’t feel like I want it to. Because I’d rather be crammed on that damn futon, fighting for covers and more than four-inches of space to myself with Mila in my arms, than sprawled out on this damned California King.

  I flip over and reach into the top drawer of my nightstand. I need to try to find Mila before this goes too far. Before she runs into Reggie and he sweeps her off of her feet and takes her to Comic-book-land or wherever.

  I find a Sharpie in my drawer and dig around for a piece of paper to write Mila a note telling her to stay put in case she comes home while I’m still out looking for her.

  Instead of a Post-It, I find a check.

  The check.

  From Mila.

  Before she left the bar that first night I met her, she insisted on getting my address so that she could pay me back for the drinks. A few days later, I had a notecard with Snoopy on the front, a quick thank you scrawled inside, and a twenty-dollar check from Mila.

  I never cashed it.

  Having drinks with her that night was worth every cent and more. I see that now, but the fact that I never even shredded the check, what does that mean? What about the fact that I hung on to it all this time? That I didn’t just give it back to her?

  I trace my finger over my name in her handwriting.

  I loved her before I even realized I did.

  That’s what it means.

  Why else would I have this in here? I’m not a nostalgic guy. I don’t surround mys
elf with little pieces of my youth or hold onto many things for sentimental value. But I held onto this check, from this girl, because…she felt like home the minute I met her.

  She’s why I never ran back to Jersey. Not because she made things easy or gave me good reasons to stay. Because she was home, immediately. Because I never even had to fall for her; I loved her all along, since the first time she smiled at me.

  I’ve loved her from the second she ordered that Tom Collins. From the minute I asked her to be my roommate and she clapped her hands together and squealed like such a typical girl.

  I’ve loved her every time she burned French toast, but still insisted on making it for me anytime I had a bad day because it’s the only thing she halfway knows how to cook and I’ve let her believe it’s her specialty.

  I love her in all the little ways that seem inconsequential, and all of the big ways that make my heart want to explode with passion and pride because she’s as amazing as she is and she still chooses, day after day, to hang around with me.

  I love Mila.

  “Hey, Landry,” Mila says.

  And there she is, standing in the doorway, leaning against the wall like it’s no big deal that we’re here, together, finally.

  She’s wearing her yoga get-up and glistening a little from a thin layer of sweat on her forehead. Her hair is piled on top of her head in some kind of messy bun, and I don’t think she’s ever been more beautiful to me.

  “You’re here?” I say it like it’s not obvious that, yes, she is standing right across the room from me.

  I want to run over to her and kiss those sweet lips, but the look on her face tells me everything I need to know. And that’s that it’s a bad idea.

  She crosses her arms and pinches her lips together. “Yep. I just got home.”

  She touches her hair self-consciously, and I want to tell her how goddamn beautiful she is, how I’ve never been more turned on by any girl, ever, than I am by her right this instant.

  “I was, uh…just…I was leaving you a note,” I stammer. I start to hold up the check in my hand as evidence, but catch myself and slide it back into my drawer.

  She nods slowly, and the painful squint of her eyes tells me that this whole conversation is sheer torture for her.