He smirks, then his smile fades. "There was Lena. You know about that, though," he finishes in clipped tones.
I do, and everything I was caught up in after. If I'd been smart, I'd have quit the next day. Walked away from everything. But I was in too far over my head and determined to prove how adult I was. At least now I know what a beautiful kisser Stockton is. No matter what happens, I'll always have that.
As if reading my mind, he drops his voice. "I should have kissed you that night."
"Why didn't you?" I ask barely above a whisper. The question has haunted me. Colored our interactions for over two years and fueled the constant ache in my breastbone.
His eyes are hooded as he stares at me, as if he's deciding how much of himself to reveal. His answer both surprises and disappoints me. "Because by kissing you I would have given into the worst part of my nature, and I'm never going to do that."
Anger flashes through me. "You've kissed me twice and lightning didn't strike."
He lifts a shoulder. "That was different. That was part of the act."
I pull my fingers from his, chest squeezing tight. "That's a total cop-out and you know it. But you know what? If you want to play it that way, fine. I've got what I wanted," I snap as I reach for my purse. "I'll play the part of the perfect fiancée for as long as you need, and then sayonara." I scoot around to the edge of the banquette. "Good night, Stockton. I'll see you on Monday."
"Penny, wait," he calls after me.
I march out the door without a backward glance and start up the street. Edward, who's standing by the car a few doors down, stamps out his cigarette as soon as he sees me. "Everything okay, miss?"
Always miss, never ma'am. I fight a heavy sigh. I should know better than to be stupidly hopeful where Stockton is concerned. I plaster a smile on my face that's anything but genuine. "Everything's fine Edward. I'm going to walk home. Stockton will be out shortly."
By the time I pull open the door to Ruben's tattoo parlor, I've wrestled my feelings back into their compartment and locked them back up. Sort of.
Ruben looks up from his stool and lifts his chin. "Have a seat Mahal," he says, calling me by the term of endearment he's used since we were lovers. It's the same name his Filipino father called his mother when I was a little girl, and it's the kind of reassuring sweetness I need right now. "We're just about done here."
He's working on the wrist of a girl about my age while her friend sits on a stool opposite, ogling Ruben. I don't blame her, Ruben's six feet of lean muscles, an easy smile and chocolate eyes you can lose yourself in. I should know. But what keeps the ladies flocking to Ruben, myself included, is that he's the best listener. His tattoo bench is like a confessional. I pass the time staring at the artwork and tchotchkes that decorate the walls. He wraps up with the girls and walks them to the door, then turns to me with a whistle. "What's the occasion? I don't think I've ever seen you look this good." He kisses my cheek and motions me back to the bench. He takes my right forearm and admires his handiwork. "Looking good. I think this will heal fast. Then we can add some color."
I sit on the bench, watching him clean his tools. "Stockton asked me to pretend to be his fiancée," I say with a defeated sigh.
Ruben whips around and scoots his stool over to me. "What are you talking about, Squirt?" he says, reverting to my old childhood nickname. "I thought you were quitting today?"
I flip over my left hand and show him the ring. He lets out another long, low whistle. "Is that the real deal?"
I nod.
"Holy shit, that could buy my building."
"Probably. I don't know. I just asked for something gaudy and expensive."
"That doesn't look gaudy. It looks like you." His observation arrows right to the sensitive place in my chest. "Talk to me, Mahal. What happened? I thought you were quitting today?"
"So did I. Honore came in as usual, and I think he just snapped. He told her we were engaged." Ruben's eyebrows disappear into this thick, black hair, but he lets me keep talking. "He begged me not to quit. I named an insane amount of money to stay, and he didn't even bat an eyelash, Ruben. I thought for sure he'd choke on the amount."
"What did you ask for?"
"Ten percent of his bank account."
Ruben makes a noise of utter disbelief. "He's either stupid or in love with you."
"I wish," I scoff. "I think he just wants what he wants." The ache in my chest intensifies. "He told me tonight that kissing me would be giving in to the worst part of his nature."
"Ah, Squirt." He takes my hand, running a thumb over the very first tattoo he ever gave me. "He's older, and... you're young."
"I'm not that young," I say, rolling my eyes.
"Your mind runs circles around everyone, Mahal. But your heart... is tender." He squeezes my wrist as I start to object. "It's why you protect it so fiercely. If he's a decent man, then he sees that."
I shrug, eyes downcast. Stockton is decent.
"So what now, Mahal?"
I shrug. "We act like we're engaged and then I quit." The thought leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. "What have I gotten myself into?" I say with a half-hysterical laugh.
"Squirt, love never made anyone think straight."
"I think I need to go home and knit. My brain's too loud."
Ruben pulls me into a hug. The steady beat of his chest beneath my cheek acts like a calming force, but I know it's only temporary. As soon as I walk out the door, my thoughts will jump right back onto the gerbil wheel that has a permanent spot in my brain. "Do what you need to do, Squirt. You know where to find me." He kisses my head. "Maybe this is the start of something good," he says gruffly.
I doubt it.
I wish.
Tonight, the elevator ride to the eighteenth floor is oppressively quiet. The walk down the hall and around to the door of my corner apartment even more so. The heavy silence that greets me when I cross the threshold, while normally a welcome relief from the stress of my day, weighs me down. Tonight, it only serves as an amplifier for the riot of thoughts screaming through my head. I pull off my boots and leaving them on the shoe rack in the foyer, pad down the hall to my bedroom, pulling out my donut buns as I go. I quickly change into my favorite brushed cotton lounge pants and a soft tee, pull my hair into a low ponytail, then return to the kitchen to make myself a pot of chamomile-mint tea, my solution for life's woes.
While my electric kettle heats, I turn on my pink and gold lava lamp and plug in the paper lanterns that wreath my window. My latest knitting project, a frothy pale pink dress with a complicated lace pattern made with a fine-gauge cashmere wool blend, lies draped over the arm of my sofa. I can't remember exactly how I stumbled on knitting blogs during one of my sleepless three a.m. rambles through the world wide web, but I was captivated. And after devouring every blog I could for a week, on one of my rare Saturdays off, I ventured into a yarn store in Westport and the rest was history. I discovered that nothing calms the monkeys who rule my head late at night like the focus of a knitting project.