The Edge of Us Read online

  He thinks I don't know how he feels just because he's never admitted it. But I know.

  The silent resentment radiating from him worries me because it's all directed inward. He hates himself for what happened between him and Amber. He's tried banishing his ex's name from his vocabulary much in the way I've banished mine. Just to try to move on.

  "She has nothing to do with it. This news…" His mouth remains parted as he takes in the sight of Amber's photograph one more time. "I couldn't care less about this. She and I are ancient history."

  He's so convincing I almost believe him. But then there's the way he crumples the page up in his hands and stalks over to where his desk used to be. Walking away from me, adding space between us to keep me at bay. To keep himself at bay.

  No way in hell I'm letting him push me away now.

  I've been indebted to him from the night we met. The night I downed liquid courage and resolved to have a one-night stand wearing my bridal lingerie. I was broken and wanted revenge on the ex who'd left me stranded at the altar weeks before. I thought I'd found the perfect, handsome, dark-haired stranger to screw. Instead, I ended up sobbing half-naked on Andrew's shoulder for almost two hours. He was just a stranger, with no context for what I'd been through, but he didn't ask questions. He sensed my desperation, my embarrassment, my pain, and he held me in the dark.

  The morning after the failed one-night stand, I rushed out of Andrew's apartment, mortified and sure I'd never hear from him again. Instead, we went on to become friends. I watched him meet and fall in love with Amber. I watched them fall apart. And now, I'm watching him pretend the news of her engagement doesn't pick at his wounds.

  "You need to go home," I say.

  "Is that a suggestion or…?"

  "It's not a suggestion. I'll handle your clients, but right now? You're a bull." I throw my hands up at his near-empty office, only a set of side tables and a couple of chairs remain. "This is a china shop. I happen to like my glass furniture."

  "It won't happen again."

  "I know it won't. I know this isn't you. That's why you need to go cool off…" I pause, fighting the guilt of juggling the needs of the company with the needs of my friend. Andrew is as good at reading people as I am, and it's always a standoff between us when one of us tries to hide something from the other. "Let's get together tonight and talk over dinner. You can let all your caveman feelings out with words instead of smashing things."

  "I don't have feelings, you know that."

  We lock eyes, a staring game we play too often. I don't care about winning today. I walk over and set a hand on the side of his face. He tenses for a second then averts his gaze, jaw flexing under my fingers. This kind of tenderness makes him uncomfortable, but that's exactly why he needs it.

  "Your hands are freezing," he says, trying to mask his reaction.

  "Be serious for a second," I say, lowering my voice until he meets my eyes. "You stopped me from spiraling once. And now you're stuck with me. I won't let you push me away. You know that, right?"

  He lets out a breath, his shoulders sagging a fraction.

  "I know, Mila, but that's not what's happening here." He brings his hand over mine and gives it a light squeeze before removing it from his face. "And for the record, I'm no hero. I was trying to get into your pants."

  I laugh and his lips twitch upward for the first time all morning. And just when I think the moment has passed, he pulls me into a hug. One of his rare hugs. A truce. I hug him back and his strong arms squeeze me for a few seconds too long. A silent admission. Maybe even a subconscious one. To what's really going on inside his mind, to the things he can't admit to himself. The genuine moment loosens up something in me, too. The smallest trace of a realization. That sometimes the past can resurface, wrap around us and consume us in all the ways it did before.

  THREE

  ANDREW

  I KNEW IT WAS only a matter of time before Mila figured out how to get me alone to talk. I've managed to escape her attempts at a heart-to-heart discussion all week. A work emergency made us cancel our dinner plans Monday night. On Wednesday, Mila tried again, but we ran into friends on our way to dinner. I invited them to join us, even as Mila glared at me in disapproval.

  I thought her urgency to get me to open up would fade with each passing day. But here we are on Saturday night, taking a cab to the restaurant of her choosing.

  Only, that's not where we're going at all.

  Mila's distracted, her fingers moving across the screen of her phone as she drafts emails to put out a small fire at work. She hasn't yet realized we're headed in the wrong direction. The look of concentration on her face is too entertaining to disrupt. When she finally peers up from her phone, she hesitates at the street signs we pass.

  "We're going to the harbor?"

  "I know how you like surprises," I say.

  Mila narrows her eyes at me, her face framed by strands of jet-black hair. She grabs her purse from under her seat, slips her phone into it, and takes out a tube of lipstick and a compact mirror.

  Passing headlights illuminate her face as she glides the red color across her lips. Her hand remains steady even as she mutters something that sounds a lot like, tonight was supposed to be low key.

  "Low key? Is that why you wore that dress?"

  "Is that your way of telling me I look nice?"

  "You look more than nice."

  She snaps the cap back on to her lipstick and throws it and the mirror back into her small, black purse. Her lips now match her form-fitting red dress. The sleeves are long, the neckline modest, but the hemline is much higher than anything she'd wear at work.

  The driver pulls to a stop and Mila continues her dissent even as I process my card payment on the display.

  "I know what you're doing, Drew."

  I allow the feigned expression on my face to convey my innocence.

  "Did I mention you look pretty tonight?"

  "And you…need to work on your deflecting skills. You're bringing me somewhere crowded and loud so you don't have to talk about your glass cage of emotions."

  "Let's go," I say, enjoying the combativeness in her eyes. "Quit stalling because you know you're going to twist an ankle in those shoes."

  "These are practically flats," she shoots back.

  She leans over to adjust her shoe and my gaze follows down a pair of legs impossibly long for someone so short. Mila's stunning in heels, but I like to give her shit about her shoes because I'm amused by her insistence to appear taller than she is.

  The cabbie watches us in the rearview mirror, waiting for us to get out of his car.

  "Remember the time I bought you a pair of ballerina flats and suggested you keep them in your purse?" I ask Mila.

  She lets the sound of her seatbelt unlocking be the response, before adding, "Watch yourself. I'm getting hungry and stabby."

  I get out of the cab and come around to her side to find her standing, poised and ready for the long walk up the brick pedestrian road of South Street Seaport, past shops and stores, to reach the pier at the harbor.

  "Bet those ballerina flats sound really good right about now," I tease.

  "Shut up."

  She takes off, drawing up every millimeter of her small frame and walking effortlessly down the uneven road. She doesn't glance down at her steps, yet her feet land between the cracks at a steady rhythm. I imagine she's putting all her effort into not falling on her face, but outwardly she appears more comfortable than someone walking barefoot on a yoga mat.

  Her confidence is a magnet and it draws the attention of every hot-blooded male we pass. I adjust my pace to walk alongside her. At six foot two, my natural strides are three of hers. I'm like a bodyguard, towering over her and daring one of those assholes to try their luck.

  We reach the pier and find the bar and grill I frequent with the guys; the loudest place I could think of that's not filled with kids. I walk off toward the front door, but Mila comes to a stop and stands with her hands on her
hips. An argument brews in her hazel eyes when they move up to take in the crowded open deck on the second floor of the restaurant.

  "Come on," I taunt, waving her over. "Those shoes can carry you another few feet. You can make it."

  I pull open the front door and noise pours out onto the sidewalk. Inside, televisions blare a boxing match and patrons jeer at the screens, their drinks spilling onto the bar. Mila isn't a fan of crowded places or loud bars, but she should've known better than to think I'd reserve a table at some quiet little spot to talk about my feelings.

  She marches past me and into the bar without argument. When the hostess greets us, Mila asks to be seated near the back of the restaurant, where the sounds from the bar aren't as intrusive. As we walk in, one of the boxers on screen brings around a monster of a right hook that connects with his opponent's temple and sends the poor guy toppling over. The screams of excitement from the bar reach an earsplitting level.

  "This is everything I hate about the world," Mila yells up at me.

  "You'll be fine," I shout back.

  We are led to a small table in the very back, set in front of a wall of exposed bricks with fake vines growing in the pattern of an arch.

  "How quaint," Mila says, taking the seat that brings her back to the wall. "From this spot you can barely tell everyone's here to cheer on two men as they beat each other's faces to a pulp."

  I move my chair from the spot across from her and slide down to sit beside her.

  "You're crowding me," she says.

  "Get over it."

  Our server is an older woman with strawberry blonde hair. She takes our drink orders then hovers as Mila and I argue over appetizers.

  "Are you sure I should only order one?" I ask.

  "Yes, I'm fine."

  "Don't say you're fine and then pick at my appetizers because you're too hungry to wait for your food."

  "Quit telling me how to live my life." Mila looks up to the server and the woman smiles. "Can you believe this guy?"

  She takes the rest of our order, then with a knowing gleam in her eyes, asks, "How long have you two been together?"

  My mouth snaps open to correct her assumption, but Mila beats me to an answer.

  "Eight long years with this grouch."

  The woman gives us a small laugh, but when she reaches for our menus, she notices our bare ring fingers and blurts out, "Oh, I thought you were married."

  "Sometimes I think so, too," Mila says.

  The server's brows pull together, but she holds the menus to her chest and asks one last time if there's anything else we need. Her words fade away as I notice the spinner ring on her pinky finger. It's a ring with a second plate on top that spins over the first. She uses the ring finger of the opposite hand to twirl it as she speaks. A nervous habit. She turns to go and I'm left staring at the spot where she stood for several long seconds, remembering a similar ring I gave to someone once. A long time ago.

  When I bring my attention back around to Mila, she's watching me in silence. Her cunning eyes trace every nuance of my face, catching every micro expression.

  "Stop," I say, leaning back in my chair.

  "What?"

  "Stop trying to get in my head."

  "I thought I was being subtle," she says.

  "Then you should work on the way your eyes move like little gears across every inch of me. No wonder people are scared of you. It's fucking unnerving."

  "Fuck off. I didn't mean to. But just so you know, you do it to me all the time."

  We promised each other to leave work in the office. The analysis of body language, the leading of conversation. These are all tactics we use on our clients, to predict the blind spots and gauge our strategy to give them what they need from us.

  "I'm going to save you the trouble," I say. "We're not going to talk about my ex's engagement."

  "But I've been looking forward to seeing inside your soul all day."

  "And here I thought you just wanted to enjoy a nice dinner with me. Did you think we'd braid each other's hair and talk about our feelings? It's not my style."

  "Bonding makes friendships stronger."

  "Let it go already," I warn.

  Our eyes lock for several seconds as she seems to debate how final my words are. Her lips pull inward and she looks past me toward the bar, where the boxing match now yields sounds of pained anticipation from the drunken spectators.

  "I'll just have to carry my dreams of finally witnessing your feelings to my grave," she says. "An unsatisfied death. For the record, you were an open book the night we met. Do you remember?"

  That night, I talked to distract her from her own pain. She'd fallen asleep in my arms as I told her things I'd never told anyone before. We went from being complete strangers to knowing way too much about each other, all in one night.

  "God, are you kidding?" I laugh. "It was the most confusing night of my life. I was ready to list out my social security number, whatever I could say just to keep you from soaking my sheets—and not in a good way. There I was, thinking I was about to get laid…"

  "Okay, no," she says, shaking her head. "Time to abort this conversation."

  It's too late. She brought it up and I love to see the way she flushes at the memory of our almost hookup. Not much gets to Mila, I have to take what I can get. She adjusts her dress, pulling down the hem that has somehow inched even farther up her toned thighs.

  Just as I open my mouth to continue, the server shows up with our drinks, and I spare Mila the embarrassment because she'd make me pay for it at work.

  "I thought telling a chick she looked hot in her underwear was a compliment not—"

  "A trigger for hysterical crying?"

  I pick up my beer and take a long sip, shaking my head. "You were a mess."

  "I was a mess," she agrees.

  The sounds of the bar sweep in to fill the lull. Mila stares at her drink, a cocktail, and tilts her head a fraction in realization. Her fingers curl around the glass, lifting it from the table, but she hesitates before taking a drink.

  She sets the glass down and says, "I don't think I actually ever thanked you for that night."

  "Thank me? Thank me for what? I didn't do anything. I just sat there trying to hide my boner while patting your head from an awkward angle."

  "You didn't judge me."

  "Oh, I judged you."

  Ignoring me, she continues, "I don't know, I think meeting you was just what I needed at that exact time in my life. I thought you'd be a one-night stand but…eight years later and we've fucked everyone in Manhattan but each other."

  I lift my glass. "To irony."

  "To irony."

  Our glasses clink together and we both take a drink. I chuckle and she joins me for a few seconds. We fall silent at the same time, gazes locked.

  There's a flicker of something in her eyes and I wonder if she's thinking what I'm thinking. This is the first time in a long time we've both been unattached. I was single when we first met, but she'd been all messed up over her ex. Then I met Amber and thought I'd found The One. Mila's never been concerned about finding The One, darting in and out of relationships for years. I've done my share of dating around since my breakup with Amber. All the while, Mila and I have gravitated around each other. I can't deny I'm drawn to her. She can't deny we've been spending more and more time together since she hired me.

  Mila breaks contact first. She drops her attention to the napkin she places on her lap for something to do with her hands.

  "Drew?"

  "Yeah?"

  She lifts her gaze and her expression dings me before her lips part with the words.

  "Can we be serious for a minute?"

  "Absolutely not."

  "I'm worried about you," she says anyway. "I'm worried that you just bottle everything up. I'm…I'm worried that you don't talk to anyone."

  "I don't know if you've noticed, but you're good about forcing me to talk to you." I duck my head to bring our eyes level. "I promise yo
u, Mila. I'm fine."

  My answer doesn't satisfy her, it's clear by the frown tugging at her lips. Mila thinks she knows things about me I don't.

  "You can't blame me for being worried. Your reaction on Monday…was extreme."

  "I know."

  My jaw ticks before I can stop it and she reads the answer on my face. Mila knows the reason behind my reaction. There's no way for me to spin it. One second I got an email with the link to the article. The next second the desk was cracked in half and my steel chair lay in the center of it. It's never happened to me before, for so much to come out at once. After all these years, Amber can still bring out the worst in me.

  "Are you over her?"

  "Are you over him?"

  Mila freezes, mouth half-open. She wasn't expecting me to volley the question right back and it hits her hard. The noises around us, the screaming and laughing, chairs scraping and glasses clinking, all of it highlights the cruelty of our discussion.

  Why? Why are we talking about this in the first place?

  "Okay." She sits back, her nostrils flaring on a sharp intake of breath. "You want to know the truth?"

  "Mila, we don't have to go there. I was only trying to make a point—"

  "I still think about him."

  That shuts me up.

  She swallows hard and goes on, "I do all the time. Eight years later. And the truth, Drew? It's not because I'm not over him, it's because I'm not over what happened. It still hurts I could be so stupid. It hurts I didn't see a single red flag. I grew up with everyone telling me how bright I was and how far I'd go, but when it came to Cole, everyone looked at me like I was the biggest idiot on the planet. I thought I could see things no one else could, I thought I knew him better…I…" She shuts her eyes then lets out a hollow laugh. "I was just a stupid little girl caught up in a cliché with the tattooed bad boy."

  At the mention of tattoos, I eye the sleeves of her dress. I was there when she got her ink, but she's been careful to keep her arms covered in public since. It's not that she's ashamed of her tattoos, she's just protective of their meaning. The words on her arm are the equivalent of her heart on her sleeve and she couldn't bear to let anyone see.