Page 12 of Forked (Frenched 2)
“Ha!” I poked him in the chest. “You cheated on me every summer we were apart. You think you’d have been faithful with an ocean between us?”
Nick’s chin jutted. “I didn’t cheat every summer.”
I rolled my eyes. “Two out of three. And I bet there was a spring break I don’t know about, and maybe a Christmas vacation, and probably even a Martin Luther King Day too.” I turned to Lou and sniffed, feeling superior. “He can’t keep his hands to himself, he never could.”
As if to prove my point, Nick’s hand clutched my thigh. “Coco, come on. Two times I kissed other girls, that was all. And you broke up with me so often, I never even knew when we were together and when we weren’t.”
I removed his hand. “That’s because you were such a flirt.”
“That last year, I was totally faithful to you. I swear it.”
“Uh huh, right up until Mia told you about Paris. Then you ran out and screwed someone else.”
Nick looked away without denying anything or defending himself, and the night of his confession came back to me like a knife to the gut. I’d screamed myself hoarse, slapped his face, and shoved him out of my apartment. Then I threw every gift he’d ever given me out the window into the parking lot. I remembered how he’d watched, silently huddled on the hood of his truck in the dark.
Lou drained his beer. “Wow, this is really sad, you guys. So then what happened?”
“We broke up,” I said, teeth gritted. “But the next night he showed up at my apartment with a bottle of whiskey.” And I didn’t say no, like I should have. Like I never could where he was concerned.
Nick’s eyes met mine. “We got back together.”
I lifted my chin. “We got drunk is what we got.”
“We caught the red-eye to Vegas.”
“We got tattooed, and we got married. Two idiot decisions.”
Lou watched us, his head moving from side to side like a spectator’s at the French Open. “And then?”
We stared at each other a moment longer, each of us reliving the pain and pleasure of that insane weekend. What could we say? No matter what, Nick couldn’t deny that he was the one who’d been unfaithful that spring—the act of betrayal that started the whole chain of crazy events. And in a whiskey- tears-and-sex-filled craze, I’d forgiven him, even married him—but then he’d abandoned me in that hotel room. No apology could make up for the hurt, and I sure as hell hadn’t wanted to listen to any explanation.
For God’s sake, why should I listen to him say that he didn’t love me enough to stay?
With my parents’ help, I’d quietly taken the necessary steps to divorce him quickly and left for
Paris. The three of us agreed it to keep it quiet; I wasn’t even sure my grandmother knew.
Later that year I’d had the small tattoo of his name and our wedding date on my left shoulder blade made into a swallow taking flight. Briefly I wondered what he’d done with the large tattoo of my name he’d had inked on his chest.
It doesn’t matter now.
“And then he left,” I said. Deep breath. “But I forgive him now.” The lie rolled off my tongue with surprising ease, especially for me. I’d never forgive him, of course. Did it show on my face?
Nick cocked his head, and I could tell he didn’t believe me. “Why?”
“Wh-what do you mean, why?” I blustered. “You asked my forgiveness and I’m giving it.”
“I asked for it then. You didn’t want to give it, and now you do. There must be a reason you’re here after all this time.” The mischief was back in his cocky Elvis half-grin, and I felt like punching him. But instead I saw the opening and took it.
“If you must know, there is.”
“I must know.”
“Me too,” said Lou, raising his hand for the bartender to bring him another beer.
“Fine.” I glared at both of them before focusing my full attention on Nick. “I need a favor.”
His grin widened. “Sexual, I hope.”
