Page 7 of Mating Theory
“You came,” he says.
This close I can see the fine lines fanning from Christopher’s eyes, early for a man so young. He’ll look distinguished before he turns thirty. That comes from working late hours, always with something to prove. “Of course I came.”
“Of course? I figured Hugo would have to drag you here.”
Which is exactly what happened. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
That earns me a snort. “You don’t have to stay long. I’d leave early if I could.”
My mind flashes on a girl with honey-brown hair and endless Bambi eyes. I do want to leave early, but it’s not to go home. Not to drown myself in a bottle. I want to leave early and find her. “Is Harper having a bachelorette party?”
“Don’t worry. I made her promise not to paint tonight.”
Harper St. Claire has a penchant for using art as a medium for protest and society change. Which means there’s a decent chance she could end up arrested the night before her wedding. “Maybe she’s somewhere making a statement about the shackles of marriage, painting a life-sized Mary Tyler Moore across your brand-new building.”
“Don’t give her ideas,” he says darkly.
A rueful smile. “That’s about all I can do now.”
We stare at each other, marking the moment in time, from one second to two, passing over the space where we were best friends. It won’t ever be the same. Harper changed that. Even knowing that, I can’t resent her. Want her, love her. Go mad with goddamn jealousy. I can’t wish that she never showed up though. It would be as insincere as wishing away the sun.
“You nervous?” I hope not. It would be a hell of a conversation if I have to convince him to man up. Still, most grooms experience jitters, don’t they?
“No.” The word is soft and sure.
“You always did know what you wanted.” There. I don’t even sound bitter about it.
“When it came to business, yes. When it came to Harper, I spent a long time in denial.” He cuts himself off with a quiet curse. “I know I have to apologize.”
My eyebrows rise. “For winning her?”
“God, no. I won her fair and square. I won’t apologize for that.” It’s so Christopher that I can’t help but smile. That’s what I love about him. Love. My smile fades. He meets my gaze. “I’m sorry for not seeing what you felt… about me. I was—am—your friend. I should have known.”
“I didn’t want you to know.”
A wry twist of his lips. “I didn’t even know you were—”
“Bi?”
“That.”
I got my ass kicked by my dad until I was old enough to punch back. I got my ass kicked at school for being my father’s son, before I learned to throw a right hook so hard the person had to go to the hospital. When I realized I was turned on by both men and women, it wasn’t something I was going to share with the world. “It’s not something I talk about much.”
A glint of amusement. “No. Hell, I would have been afraid to tell you if I were gay. You always seemed like such a Southern boy. Hunting and fishing and fighting.”
“I’m a pacifist mostly. Except I do like fishing. The fish have it coming.”
He looks away, toward the throngs of men who fill the space, the drinking and the gambling. The pretense that we aren’t being watched. “Who the hell are all these people?”
“Friends. They’re friends, Christopher.”
“No. They’re business. Whether we worked with them in the past or they’re hoping we work with them in the future, they’re here to make a buck. You were my friend. Maybe the only one.”
“I’m still your friend.”
“Are you?”
Unfortunately. Unfortunately, I’ll always be his friend. Unfortunately, there are knives carving the inside of me, writing patterns of loss on the slick side of my skin. “Yes.”
A roar goes up through the crowd, and I turn my head to see a group of women. They’re wearing colorful, sequined dresses—a night on the town. Harper’s in the lead, wearing a white sheath dress and a tiara that probably has real diamonds. She’s also holding a giant inflatable penis, which she’s augmented with a Sharpie, drawing a smiley face on the plastic and the outline of a tuxedo.
The bachelorette party has descended on the Den.
The men are more than happy to welcome the girls, ordering rounds of shots and breathing in their lush, sweaty scents. Christopher only has eyes for his bride. His dark blue eyes deepen as she approaches. He grasps her waist and pulls her the rest of the way. Their kiss is so intimate, so raw, so loving, I have to look away. When Harper pulls back, her eyes are dazed.
She sees me, and she grows wary. “Hey, Sutton.”
“Hey.” And the Oscar goes to… Sutton Mayfair, who sounds like a human being instead of a seething mass of envy and stupid self-pity. “Having a good time?”
