Riven Read online

“Such a waste,” Jess grumbles.

  “Maybe the lingering stench of Jess’s feet made him physically ill and he had to leave before he blew chunks all over your pretty vinyl floor?” This last suggestion is followed by a thud and the sounds of a struggle. “Get them away from me!” Tom yells.

  “You slept in the same bed as these feet all night and I didn’t hear you complaining!” Jess’s retort is loud and clear.

  “The smell probably induced a mild coma!”

  “Take it back!”

  “No!”

  “Then sniff away my boy!”

  “Guys!” I yell into the handset.

  After a brief pause, Jess is back. “It’s nothing I did, Sarah. When we left, Leo was still hot to trot, I could see it in his eyes.”

  “In his eyes?” I ask dubiously.

  “She means he was staring at your ass the whole time we were heading for the door,” Tom quips helpfully. “I saw it too. I hate to say it, sweetheart, but Jess is right. It must have been something you did after we left.”

  “Hmmm…” I pause, thinking about our brief encounter in the kitchen. “I did ask him about the scar above his eye…”

  “Ooh, I noticed that!” Jess loves a good mystery. “What did he say caused it?”

  “He didn’t.”

  “Oh, flashback!” Jess yells suddenly. She must have turned to face Tom because her next words aren’t as clear. “Do you remember the hottie from the bar last night? The one with the goatee and the tattoos? He was so into me!”

  “Oh please,” Tom’s derision is clear, “he was not into you Jess. He was into me.”

  “No way!” Jess insists, and I bite the tip of my thumbnail waiting for them to remember I’m on the line.

  “How can you be best friends with me and still have the worst gaydar in New York?” Tom says.

  “He was not gay!” Jess draws every word out.

  “Girl, the man was staring at my zipper with his teeth!”

  Knowing I’ll get no joy out of either of them before Dylan arrives, I interrupt.

  “I’ve gotta go, you two, Dyl will be here any minute. I’ll call you later when I get back.” They barely miss a beat and I’m still chuckling as I hang up.

  “You look pale, sweetheart. Are you eating properly?” These are my mother’s first words as I step over the threshold.

  “She’s hung-over,” Dylan corrects, coming in after me. He dips his head to kiss her cheek, ever the perfect son.

  “That’s my girl, taking after her old man!” Dad’s voice booms as he makes his way down the stairs and pulls me into a bone-crushing hug. My mother giggles in the way she always does when my father makes any sort of joke, and he lets go of me to sweep her into a hug of her own. Dylan and I wait patiently as he dips her toward the ground, her pale curls trailing along the mahogany floor before he lifts her back up again and plants a kiss on her nose.

  Long gone are the days when my parents’ constant displays of affection made us feel uncomfortable. We’re used to it, although when they really get going in a busy restaurant Dylan usually puts his foot down. Mom and Dad have always been this way. I cannot remember a time that they didn’t feel the need to touch one another, a simple passing of the peas across the dinner table leads to a quick squeeze of the hand, and Dad has a habit of giving Mom an ass-grab every time they pass in the hall. I have spent the past ten years trying to convince myself that this doesn’t mean they have an active sex-life, but sadly, they keep trying to prove otherwise.

  “Something smells good,” I say, as Mom stares adoringly into Dad’s eyes.

  “Oh! My potatoes!” Mom shrieks, bustling off to the kitchen. Dad grabs a handful as she rushes away, but thankfully, it’s mostly skirt.

  I follow Mom into the kitchen, which opens onto the patio outside. The table, as always, is beautifully laid out with Grandma Holt’s best china which Dad inherited after she died and a tall glass beaker of iced water in the centre in which bob a few slices of lemon and a sprig of mint from the herb garden. My mother is one of those people who takes the time to cut sprigs of lavender to adorn the plates and who folds the napkins into swans. Sometimes I wish some of her attention to detail had rubbed off on me, but then I remember that Jess and Tom would hardly appreciate it. The only thing they want handy when they come for dinner is the bottle-opener and an unending supply of ice.

  Dylan and Dad take a seat on the antique wicker chairs on the opposite side of the patio and immediately start discussing current affairs.

  “Sarah,” Mom throws over her shoulder as she turns the roast potatoes in the pan, “fetch the boys a beer, will you?”

  “Dylan’s driving,” I point out happily.

  “It’s only one beer,” my mother gives a little giggle, “and besides, you can always drive him.”

  I roll my eyes behind her back, but I do as she’s asked, fighting the urge to remind her that she was born in the era of Women’s Liberation and should start acting like it. This is exactly why Dylan is like he is, why he has such archaic expectations of women, but my mom has always doted on the men in our family and she’s not about to change her ways now. Dad, at least, is grateful and he gives me a fond look as I set down his Bud Light. Dylan, on the other hand, loves to rub it in.

  “You’re going to make someone a very good wife one day, little sis,” he teases. I hurl one of mom’s many scatter cushions at him, but he catches it easily, much to my chagrin.

  “You shouldn’t speak of wives as if you know anything about them,” I say, flipping him the bird as I walk back inside.

  “Your sister makes a good point, son,” I hear Dad say and I grin, knowing that for the next few minutes Dylan will have to deal with yet another talk about how he should find a wife and settle down.

  Revenge, however, is a dish best served cold. We are not five minutes into Mom’s homemade lasagne when Dylan pipes up, “So, Sarah, who was that man who left your place so late last night?” His voice is casual, but the devilry in his eyes gives him away. Dylan has been trying to get me into trouble with Mom since we were kids and he usually succeeds. Our mother has high moral standards about unmarried women being alone with a man, unless that man is her son, of course, because he’s the epitome of moral responsibility.

  “Sarah?” Mom rounds on me, her green eyes wide.

  “It was Game Night, Mom,” I reassure her. “Jess and Tom were there too. And what are you doing spying on my place anyway?” I ask, lobbing a bread roll at Dylan’s head. It lands innocently on his plate next to a mountain of chicken. “Don’t you have anything better to do with your life? Like finding a wife?” I arch my brow at him suggestively.

  “I thought Game Night was a limited invite event,” Dylan says. “Only you, Jess and Tom allowed. So when I heard a new voice, I was concerned for your safety.”

  Oh he didn’t! He drew the safety card, ensuring that Mom would now go into a thirty-minute long sermon lamenting how I was living all on my own in the dangerous cesspit of the city.

  “Dad!” I say brightly, turning to my father before Mom can begin. “What do you think of Trump running for office?”

  Distracted by the light of her life’s precious opinion, Mom turns to listen and I’m spared, but I spend the rest of lunch shooting dagger eyes at Dylan for good measure.

  CHAPTER 9

  Conscious of Mom’s high opinion of him, Dylan only has two beers and then moves on to coffee for the rest of the afternoon. By the time he pulls his Mustang into the underground lot, two spaces down from my little Fiat, I’m feeling the effects of last night’s wine and the restless lack of sleep.

  “I’m going straight to bed,” I announce as Dylan locks the car and follows me to the elevators. We part ways on the fourth floor and I let myself into my apartment with a yawn. A lightning shower later and I’m tucked up in bed, checking my Facebook notifications, when I hear a rapping in my front door. The sound is amplified by the complete silence in the apartment and I hasten to answer, the vinyl flooring warm
beneath my bare feet.

  Assuming its Dylan, no doubt needing to borrow milk or a roll of toilet-paper, I yank the door open and Noah practically falls into the apartment, his arm raised heroically over his head. He was obviously lounging against the door in what he thought would be a sexy pose, as I eyed him through the peephole. Recovering quickly, he drops his arm and rights himself, smoothing down the pale yellow, woollen sweater I bought him for his birthday. It fits his lithe frame beautifully and I know from experience that it feels like cotton candy on my cheek when we watch TV and I lay my head on his shoulder. Looking at it now I can’t help but think how much better it would look on Leo.

  “Noah, what are you doing here?” I ask pointedly. I had banned him from the building after a series of late-night, unannounced visits and he hadn’t been back in a while.

  “I was in the area,” he replies easily, “and I thought I’d pop in to see you.”

  “That’s really sweet of you but I was actually just about to go to bed.” I gesture at my Snoopy pyjamas as if I need to prove it.

  “To bed? It’s a Saturday night and the sun’s barely down?”

  “I know, but I had a late night last night and Dylan and I drove down to Arcadia today.”

  The tightness that settled on his lips when I mentioned my late night softens ever so slightly at the mention of my parents’ home town.

  “How are Robert and Eleanor doing?” The names drip familiarly from his lips, smug in the knowledge that my parents adore him.

  “They’re fine…”

  He doesn’t even wait for me to finish. “I hope you sent them my regards?”

  My anger spikes. His assumption that he would even be worth a mention is so typically Noah.

  “Funnily enough, you weren’t mentioned,” I say.

  He barely hears me. He is already moving into the living room, his blue eyes sweeping the apartment. I always thought Noah had the nicest eyes, but they pale in comparison to Leo’s. Stop it! I mentally chide myself. You have Leo on the brain. I turn my attention back to Noah. I’m sure he’s looking for evidence of another man; a coat draped over the sofa, a pair of shoes on the floor or a secret lover stashed in the hall closet. Not that he’s going to find anything remotely interesting – I haven’t been with anyone since our split.

  “You look tired.” Noah is staring at me and for the first time in forever, he actually looks like he used to back when we were together. His eyes are soft and the concern in his voice is genuine. The sweet effect is slightly dampened by the fact that I just told him I was about to go to bed and yet he refuses to leave and let me sleep, but I force that thought from my mind. I try to remember why I fell for him in the first place. Noah is not all bad. He can be funny and caring, but, in hindsight, I believe that the real reason I stayed with him as long as I did is because of the way he made me feel about myself when we were together: Like I was important, like I mattered. I didn’t realise at the time that the only reason he made me feel this way was because I was an extension of him. I was only important because I was dating him, I only mattered because of my status as his girlfriend. It was never really about me and only ever about him. Still, we had good times and it was never my intention to make an enemy of him, so I resign myself to being polite and making small talk.

  “How about I make us a cup of tea?” I offer.

  “Sounds good.” He shrugs out of his coat and lays it across the back of the sofa. “Maybe we could catch a film?”

  “Sure.” I gesture at the set and leave him to flip through the channels while I put the water on. I glance down at my cotton pyjama top. Snoopy stares balefully up at me between the curve of my breasts, the thin fabric doing nothing to conceal them. Oh well, it’s not as if there’s anything here that Noah hasn’t seen before.

  The kettle takes forever to boil and I stifle a yawn as I carry the steaming mugs back to the living room. I sit on the other side of the sofa, curling my feet beneath me to ward off the chill.

  “So, how was Game Night?” Noah, of course, knows all about our Friday ritual, having taken part more times than Jess or Tom could bear – which was once. Noah had whined so badly at being excluded when we were dating that I had finally coerced Jess and Tom to make an exception for him. Unfortunately, even though logistically, Game Night works better with four people, after having to endure a couple of hours of Noah’s participation, both Jess and Tom had decided we would make do. Until last night, that is. Leo is the first person who has been invited to join us since Noah’s exit. Thinking of Leo brings a smile to my lips.

  “That fun, huh?” Noah probes, noticing my expression. He doesn’t look pleased. I don’t answer and he turns his attention back to the television. “It doesn’t look like there’s anything good on.” He switches the set off and swivels to face me, his left arm draped casually along the head-rest. His lean fingers are close enough to brush my hair and I shift uncomfortably.

  “What are you really doing here, Noah?”

  “What, now I can’t even come and visit?” he replies.

  “It’s just a little unorthodox. We broke up. Normally when people break up they don’t get together much.”

  “I don’t see why we can’t still be friends.”

  I can’t think of a valid argument so I settle for taking a sip of my tea.

  “We always got along so well,” Noah reminisces, “that’s why I still don’t understand exactly why we broke up.”

  Not this again. “You know why. It just wasn’t working. I didn’t feel the same way you did.”

  “The way I do, you mean.” The emphasis on the ‘do’ is yet another way for Noah to remind me that he didn’t want the split. Not that I need reminding. I’m fully aware of the fact that, with the slightest click of my fingers, I could have him back. Unfortunately for Noah, my fingers have absolutely no inclination to do any clicking.

  “I know this has been hard for you,” I say, “but it’s only going to make it more difficult if you keep popping around and staying in contact.”

  “So I should just accept that what we had is over?” There is a challenge in his voice now, and I sense we’re moving into dangerous territory.

  “I don’t want to fight with you, Noah.”

  It’s like he doesn’t even hear me. “How can you just forget everything we had?”

  Quite easily, I think. Our relationship wasn’t exactly the stuff you read about. It was pretty sub-standard, but, conscious of his feelings, I set my cup down on the table and give him the benefit of a nostalgic smile.

  “I didn’t forget. Of course I didn’t forget - we were together for six months. And we had a lot of fun. I just didn’t see the point of continuing when I didn’t see a future for us.”

  “So now you’re single? You’d rather be single than give us the benefit of the doubt?”

  “No,” I answer honestly. “I’d rather be open to new opportunities. I don’t plan on staying single indefinitely.”

  Noah’s face is pure outrage. He stiffens, his hand clenching involuntarily on the head-rest beside me.

  “Are you seeing anyone?” he asks, his mask of composure slipping on a fraction too late.

  “No. But you need to accept that I might meet someone, possibly in the near future.”

  “You’ve got to know how hard that is for me to hear.” His voice is a low reproach, and I find myself feeling guilty even though I shouldn’t.

  “I know and I’m sorry.”

  Noah drains his mug and sets it down beside mine on the table. I sigh inwardly, expecting him to leave, but instead, he fixes me with his blue eyes, which have turned as cold as the arctic winter.

  “How’s your thesis coming along?”

  The abrupt change of topic catches me unaware.

  “Good,” I say, neglecting to add that it’s going a lot better now that he isn’t trying to interfere with it. When we were together Noah was constantly trying to influence my thesis and tell me how it should be done. Given his own mediocrity at colleg
e, I hadn’t been too eager to follow his advice, a fact that he soon discovered. It had caused a fair bit of friction and added strain to our already volatile relationship.

  “I still think your approach is too dangerous,” he says. “An art gallery? I mean, I know you’re influenced by Wright but you can’t compete with the Guggenheim.”

  “I’m not trying to compete with the Guggenheim. It’s a thesis, designed to showcase my vision. It’s not actually going to be built.”

  “I still think it’s a huge risk.”

  “Which is why I’m not asking for your help.”

  That brings him up short. “I only want what’s best for you, Sarah. I know you don’t value my opinion very highly but I’m always here if you’d like me to read it over.” And just like that, he is once again the victim.

  “I’m not doing this now,” I insist. I’m not prepared to get into this vicious old cycle with him especially since I no longer have to. “And seriously, I’m tired.”

  “Okay, I’ll go.” He gets to his feet and holds up his hands in mock surrender. Then, as if considering whether or not he should tell me, he adds lightly, “I just thought you might be interested to know that I spent last night entertaining the Burke & Duke selection panel.”

  He lets the words hover in the space between us, a calculated, ugly implication that is so very beneath him and yet not altogether surprising. This is why he’s really here, I realise. Not to see how I’m doing, not to offer support, but to remind me that he holds a position of professional power over me.

  “Really?” I ask, crossing my arms across my chest. “And why would I be interested to know what you do in your private time?” Of course his comment wasn’t about him, but I refuse to snatch at the bait he is laying out.

  “Oh Sarah, you know what I mean.” Noah smiles down at me, the pretty boy charm almost disguising the cunning look in his eyes. Almost, but not quite. For a second I am actually shocked to my core. Noah has always been needy, but I’ve generally thought of him as harmless. Even Dianna’s warning seemed too removed to be plausible. A huge part of me had wanted to laugh it off - after all, Noah wasn’t like that. He wasn’t that smart, that conniving. Now, looking up at him, I’m not so sure. As quickly as I feel the weight of Noah’s infatuation, I shrug it off. I will not be bullied by this man.