Page 60 of Nothing Less than Magic
Knox is back and rummaging through the fridge. He holds up a bottle of prosecco. “Best I can do.”
“It’ll work,” I say, finding two flutes in one of the cupboards and pouring us each a glass. “Prost!” I clink mine to his.
“Prost.”
For the next sixty minutes, we drink prosecco and coffee and talk about his rough draft and all the ways he intends to massage it to make it his final draft. I don’t know anything about plant-based biofuels, but Knox is apparently one of the foremost authorities on it in the country.
I get up to pour him another cup of coffee. “I saw your ex last night.” I debate on how much to tell him and decide that in the short time I’ve known him, there have been no secrets between us. Why start now? “According to Sadie, Ginger, and Amanda, Sienna’s marriage is on the rocks. Of course, that could just be idle gossip. No one knows the truth about a marriage except the two people in it.”
“It’s not just idle gossip,” Knox says. “Sienna’s miserable. And Brody is a son of a bitch.”
“How do you know? I mean that Sienna is miserable. I assume Brody is just a son of a bitch in general.”
Knox’s lips hitch up. “Yeah, he is. I used to love that about him. Not so much in this context, though. Sienna told me herself.”
“That she’s miserable, or that Brody is a son of a bitch?”
“Both. But the latter went without saying.”
“She just came over and told you that her marriage was in crisis and that she was miserable?” In my business, I don’t find too many people willing to admit that they made a terrible mistake, that they chose the wrong partner. If anything, they fill Facebook and Instagram with false pictures of their so-called happy lives.
“We talk.”
It’s all I can do to stop myself from saying, “When?” But I’m afraid that it’s overstepping. Or worse, that I sound jealous, even territorial. Instead, I ask, “Are you feeling a sense of schadenfreude?”
“Not really. I’m sorry she’s unhappy. Does it change the fact that I’m still angry at her? No.”
“No?” I hitch my brows.
He laughs. “Like I told you before, she and I were done even before we were done.”
“So, you’d never take her back? You’d never try to make a go of it, even though you once loved her. And I’m assuming, judging by the fact that you listened to one of my TED Talks, that you loved her very much.”
“I did, but I wouldn’t,” he says emphatically. “Sometimes it takes distance to see all the things you weren’t getting from a person, all the things she wasn’t giving. Sometimes it takes distance to even know you need those things to be happy. Healthy. And then it hits you. It wasn’t her I wanted, it was the picture of the life I thought she represented.”
“Do you still want that life?”
He nods. “The picture of that life never went away. Who I’m destined to share it with is the murky part.” He looks at me, really looks. “If only we all had a crystal ball, right?”
“If only.”
And then he does the last thing I expect him to.
He pulls me up from the kitchen chair, takes me in his arms, and kisses me, his lips moving over mine heatedly, desperately, more passionately than I’ve ever been kissed before. And as I stand there, wrapped in his arms, I can feel that the kiss is a prelude to something else. Something more meaningful than just sex and even more significant than his heart. It’s a prelude to that picture, the picture of the life he wants.
Chapter 16
The next morning—strong coffee running through my veins—I do what I said I’d never do again. I drive up the mountain to Misty’s bungalow, holding my breath the whole way. I swear that by the time I reach her driveway, I’ll either asphyxiate or pee my pants.
Possibly both.
As per her instructions, I’ve tried her exercises, a bizarre series of puzzles that are supposed to unblock me. I have no idea whether they’re working.
I went so far as to Google them on my now-fixed computer to see if they’re even legit. But I couldn’t find anything about them on the Internet. Not surprising. And while it should make me even more skeptical—and I’m already pretty damned skeptical—it only adds to Misty’s mystique. And my deep-rooted desire to get to the truth, even if it means driving straight up a mountain for some Kabuki theater.
As I pull into Misty’s driveway, my cotton shirt is sticking to my back, and my sweat has turned cold. But I’m here now; the worst is over. I gather up my purse and put on my coat, struggling with getting it on in the tight confines of my car. When I left the cabin, it was forty-two degrees.
I’m just about to exit the car when I get a text from Austin. My initial instinct is to ignore it. It’s probably another plea for me to give up Christmas at the cabin. Why give myself something to get worked up over? Something more to “block me.” But despite myself, I take a peek anyway.
