Page 93 of One Week Hating You
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WE ENJOY A FEAST; Momma’s tender roast beef, mashed potatoes and gravy, a carrot stir-fry, Yorkshire pudding, and a garden salad. The wine flows, and so does the conversation. The focus has shifted from Blake and I, to Marilyn and Brian and their family and business. Every now and then, Blake smiles at me from across the table. I easily get lost in his dark eyes. I could live until I’m a hundred years old, and I’ll never see eyes like his again; dark as coal, almond shaped, lashes to die for. There’s something very exotic about them. They’re his father’s eyes, eyes I remember from a long time ago.
John Taylor was part Cree, and it was easy to see his heritage in his dark eyes and hair. Blake looks the most like his father, although he’s inherited his mother’s light complexion. Mandy and Brian both resemble their late mother. My gaze is pulled away from Blake, caught in the laughter surrounding the table. Momma is at it again. She’s telling a story about her friend Annabeth. Apparently, Annabeth’s granddaughter found some rather incriminating toys in her bedside table.
“What kind of toys?” Jake asks.
Marilyn slaps a hand to her face again. I laugh out loud.
The doorbell rings. You can’t miss it, even over the laughter. It might possibly be the loudest doorbell in North America.
Momma’s laughter fades, and she cocks a brow in confusion. She checks her watch. “I wonder who that could be… at this time.” She’s quick to stand. “Better not be that annoying furnace salesman again.”
We all sit silently, curious, forks in hand, half-eaten slices of blueberry pie. We hear chatter, but it’s not quite loud enough for me to clue in. About a minute later, she walks in with a tight smile, Peter just behind her.
My stomach drops. I set my fork down. My pulse races at the sight of him. We haven’t seen each other since the morning of the wedding. He never saw my wedding gown. I was convinced it would be bad luck. It all comes back again, it sweeps over me; the confusion, the disappointment, and the heartbreak. I know he’s explained himself, but I still don’t quite understand what happened.
I catch Blake’s reaction – it’s unreadable. They’ve actually never met before, but I’m sure Blake knows who he is.
Peter’s gaze darts across the table and he’s met with serious quiet faces. Everyone pretty much hates him now and I don’t think that fact is lost on him. His gaze settles on Blake and he studies him curiously, and then he stares at me for a swift second, and I see the realization cross his features. He knows we’re fucking. Or at least he suspects it.
My knees feel wobbly when I stand. “Let’s go talk,” I say and walk around the table to greet him.
I lead him back outside to the front porch where we can have the most privacy. It’s a mess out here; dirty boots line one side of the railing, a myriad of plants hang from the covered porch, and more pots line the stairs. The antique swing waits for us, but we don’t sit on it.
“You didn’t reply to any of my messages,” he says simply. There is no other explanation needed. I’ve been ignoring him, so he’s resorted to coming here to see me. We were together for seven years – it’s not that crazy.
“I miss you so much,” he tells me. He’s still handsome; his wavy sandy blond hair falls perfectly over his forehead, and his blue eyes are just as I remember. He’s wearing my favorite shirt, the one I bought him for his birthday, with the blue pattern that make his eyes pop.
“I’m so sorry,” he goes on and closes the distance between us. He’s so close, I can smell his cologne – Acqua Di Gio by Giorgio Armani. “I should have never done that to you. I’ve regretted it every single day ever since. I freaked, Maeve.”
I don’t know what to say.
“Give me another chance,” he begs. “I’ll make it up to you. We can go back to where we started.”
“You mean… get married?”
“Uh… I mean, to where we started. We could start over.”
He still doesn’t want to marry me. Or maybe he does. I’m so confused.
I look away and study the old swing, deteriorated and threatening to break apart any minute. “I don’t think—”
“Is it Blake?” he scoffs. “Are you going to throw away a seven year relationship over some high school crush? I saw all your pics on Instagram. You two’ve been having a great old time, haven’t you?”
I draw a breath. No, despite the fact that Blake is hotter than sin, and the sex is mind-blowing, this isn’t about him. It’s about being left at the altar, surrounded by all my friends and family, mortified and feeling like shit on the sole of a shoe. “This isn’t about him.”
He shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I just…” he falters. “I just got really worked up when I saw those photos of you. That’s because I still care about you, Maeve. So much.”
He grabs my hand and draws me in closer. “It’s okay if you and him… I deserve it. But now, I want you to come back with me.”
My heart skips a beat. His touch still affects me. It feels familiar, comforting, and reminds me of all the moments we’ve shared, all those other times he’s held my hand.
Could we make this work again? I just don’t know. I’m excited about returning to my other life. About the job I might get, about seeing my friends again. “Well, I am coming back home tomorrow, but not with you. I… I can’t promise anything, Peter, but…” I can’t quite seem to get the words out. “We can go out for dinner, maybe, and see how things go.”
His face lights up – I’ve made his day. He’s right. I can’t just throw away seven years over one day. He got spooked, that’s all. No one is perfect.
I’m looking at his wide smile when I see, just past his shoulder, Momma in the window, snooping. Maddie and Jake too. And Mandy.
