“I did. How could I not with such wonderful company?” I answer, holding her steady.
“You flatter me.”
“I meant Patrick.”
She laughs so loud it echoes all the way down the emptying road. “What a dickweed. What’s she doing with him?”
“Well, apparently that’s what it takes to move to the US these days,” I respond with a nonchalant shrug.
“Ugh, she should marry you instead.”
“Yes, that sounds like exactly what everyone wants.” Well, me at least. But not for the reason she thinks.
She rifles through her handbag for her ChapStick. “She warned me off you, you know?” “What? When?” And why?
“When we went to the restroom, she asked me if I was involved with you. By the time I stopped laughing three minutes later, she finally got the message. But that didn’t stop her from telling me that you’re a horndog caring about nothing but what’s between a woman’s legs.”
I drop my mouth in mock shock. “Rude. I’m a tit man and everyone knows it. So, what did you say?”
Her lips stretch over his teeth for a minute as she lines her lips with the ChapStick. “I told her that kissing you felt like kissing my brother, but even worse.”
“My ego’s taking a beating today.” I frown and fidget with my belt buckle as I think about what
Leanne’s just told me. “I wonder why she cares.”
She grins and punches me on the arm, a little harder than I actually thought she could punch. “Yeah, right! You don’t know?”
“Should I?”
A sigh, and a patronizing pat on the shoulder she just punched. “You’re really fucking dumb for a billionaire.”
I have the distinct feeling that I’m being insulted. “You’d actually be surprised how dumb billionaires are. But no, I have no idea why she cares.”
“You will. Until then, it’s a good thing you’re good looking.”
My car shows up and I gesture at Kevin not to worry about getting out. I open the door and help Leanna into the car. She sighs and leans against the seat. “You’re going to make someone such a wonderful husband someday.”
I wait until the taillights are just dots in the distance before I tuck my hands in my pockets and turn to start my walk home. My nightly walks are the most important part of my day, a jog first thing in the morning and a long, quiet walk to go over the thoughts at the end of the day before I go to sleep.
There’s a cough in the alleyway. I look up to see Clarissa, in her heels, carrying two large trash bags toward the curb. Toward me. I have to rub my eyes to make sure I haven’t inadvertently fallen asleep from a little too much cognac. But I haven’t. She gets to the end of the alley and steps into the light, stopping in her tracks when she sees me.
Some primitive masculine instinct inside me compels me to walk over and take the bags from her.
But she holds on tight, trying to turn her body to block me,
“Let go of the trash bag, Clarissa.”
She just tugs on the bag, trying to free it from my hold. “You let go, Matthias.”
“I’m just trying to help you!” I knew she was a bitch, but was she always this stubborn?
She kicks her leg out with a grunt, and I can’t tell if it’s out of frustration or if she’s actually trying to kick me. “Oh, I’m sorry, but I don’t remember asking you to help me.”
“You will be sorry when the bags rips and those cans spill all over your precious Ferragamo’s!”
“So then I’ll be sorry! I’d rather that than ask for your help!”
I huff and turn my body so that my back is against her chest, and block her as I yank one of the bags, pulling it out of her hand. She catches on quickly; she turns away from me, and swings the other bag away.
In an almost Stooges-worthy sequence, both bags rip at the same time, just as I’d predicted and what looks like a million cans spill out all over the street.
“Shit!” she yells and throws what’s left of her bag on the ground and drops to her knees. I watch, openmouthed, as she starts gathering the cans closest to her into a pile that keeps toppling over and falling all over the ground again.
“Clarissa, stop. Let me do it. It’s my fault.”
She doesn’t say anything, just spins around on her ruined shoes, reaching for the can behind her.
Guilt creeps in, settling on my skin, to see her this way. I kneel down next to her, grabbing the cans she can’t reach.
“Go home, Matthias,” she mumbles under her breath. “Just go home.”
My voice drops, soft. “I’m trying to help you.”
“I don’t want you to! Stop! I don’t fucking want anything from you!” This time she yells and looks up at me for a second before lowering her face again.
But it’s long enough for me to see the tears streaming down her face.
Fuck.
A pressure builds in my chest.
Is she actually crying?
I was just trying to help. Something tells me that whatever is happening right now probably has less to do with me than something else going on with her.
“Clarissa,” I say, the guilt now moved to my voice. “Are you okay?”
She doesn’t answer, just crawls a little further away, her arms full with crumpling cans of Duvel beer and imported grape soda. A little sniffle escapes, but she swallows it down. “Clarissa. Look at me. Please.” She doesn’t.
I have no choice. I grab her arm and drag her to her feet, pushing her up against the front entrance of her club.
“What are you doing, Matthias? Are you fucking mad?” she yells, the confusion in her voice raising the volume and it momentarily sends a bolt of relief to me. The angry, fighting Clarissa is the one I know. But when I catch a glance at her face again, my stomach sinks.
Her cheeks are completely drenched with tears, her eyes still filling with more, and every time she blinks, she sends another torrent of saltwater down her face.
The pressure in my chest builds to an almost unbearable level. This girl I’ve known all my life, broken. “Oh, Clarissa. Tell me what’s wrong.”
My out of character gentleness does nothing to soften her anger. “You mean you causing my recycling bags to burst? Do you know how long it took to crush them and put them in the bag? And now I’m going to have to go back inside and grab another bag!” she yells, each word getting louder and angrier.
I wait for her to finish and say, “No. Not that.”