Page 82 of The Biker and the Baker
“Why you’re here.”
Yeah, Pia, why did you come here? Of all the places you could’ve gone, you camehere. To a man who’s put-a-ring-on-her-finger unavailable. Why, Pia, why?
I take another sip of heat, before answering truthfully, “I don’t know.”
His nostrils flare. Not what he wanted to hear. “You drove out into a thunderstorm at three in the morning to come banging at my door and youdon’t know why?”
When I just gaze at him, tracing every line and angle of his devastatingly handsome face, he jerks up to his feet and stalks off. A few minutes later, he returns with a folded t-shirt, sport shorts and socks and sets them down beside me. “Change out of those wet clothes when you’re done. You can sleep in the other room until the weather eases up. I’m going back to bed.”
“You’re not going to talk to me?”
He turns and walks off again. “We’ve got nothing to talk about.”
“You can’t marry her,” I blurt.
At that, he stops and turns, but not completely, giving me only a partial view of his face. “No?”
“No.”
“Says who?”
“You,” I say. “You said you weremine,remember? You said you wanted to spend your life withme.”
“And then you spat in my face and kicked me to the curb and I moved the fuck on.” He resumes his stride. “You should, too.”
“I can’t. I’m still in love with you.”
My confession has no effect on him. He heads straight to his bedroom and shuts the door.
Shutsmeout.
~
I wake up the next morning with a stuffy nose and a sore throat. Birds chirp outside, repressed sunlight spilling through the tinted windows.
Onyx isn’t around. But at 9:46 AM, he’s no doubt out doing whatIshould’ve been doing since 5:30 AM. Working. The missed calls and messages congesting my phone are conviction enough. I fire off text messages to both Eloise and Cookie with belated notices that I won’t be going in for work.
My joints ache, mildly, but I’m terribly congested. I fill the kettle and put it to boil, then trudge to the bathroom and take a scorching hot shower, hoping the heat will help.
It’s while I’m digging around in Onyx’s drawers for clothes to wear that I realize there isn’t a single trace of “Mary” here. No extra toothbrush or body wash in the bathroom. No scented moisturizers or perfumes left behind. Not even a rogue hair tie.
Whatishere? Traces ofme. My orange wide-tooth comb on his dresser. My watermelon lip balm on his nightstand, my coconut body mist. My satin-lace sleepwear in his boxer drawer.
All things that should’ve been tossed out or at least returned to me in a “break-up box.” Now I’m wondering if “Mary” has ever even been here at all. So many remnants of me and none of her.
Onyx had told me in the beginning that he didn’t take women here. But “Mary” isn’t just any woman, she’s hisfiancé, she should be all over this RV. Unless he spends most of his nights at her place? Maybe she’s a rich princess like Leyana and owns some big mansion over in Greenwood. What do I know?
To keep warm, I get dressed in one of Onyx’s sweaters, sweatpants and socks, then pad out to the kitchen and make some echinacea tea.
By noon, I’m ten times worse. It feels like I’m at the bottom of the ocean with a brick tied to my ankle. There’s no way this is an aftereffect from being in the rain. Someone gave me the cold. I’d misread my fevered mania last night as heartache and desperation for Onyx. Turns out I was just coming down with a bug.
Like a helpless toddler, I’m curled up on the C-couch in the small entertainment area, watchingTangledon the flatscreen and sipping my fifth cup of echinacea tea when a knock comes at the door. I swivel my head in its direction, but my aching joints whine like old, rusty hinges when I attempt to move, so I ignore it. Onyx wouldn’t be knocking. Everyone else is irrelevant.
But the knocking continues.
“Pia?” a deep voice calls. “It’s Scratch.”
With a groan, I reluctantly force myself up and shuffle to the door.
