Megan Hart - Tear You Apart

His sincerity is evident in every syllable. I want to pull away, but I don’t. “So what are you going to do? Leave Puja and the kids?”

I can’t imagine it. Naveen has too much tied up in his family. Pride and money and, despite his philandering, I’m willing to bet a lot of love.

“Francesca ended it.” His misery is as bold as his sincerity. “She said she wants to stay with her husband. She said we could be friends—” Laughter barks out of him. He gives his head an incredulous shake. “Friends? Like we’re in the tenth grade?”

“If you love her, you should already have been friends.” I sound sanctimonious.

Naveen gives me a look. “I’m not sure I know how to be just friends with a woman I want to fuck, Betts.”

His words are a slap that rocks my head back, just a little. I’m off the desk again, several steps away, before I realize I’ve moved. My arms cross over my stomach for a second until I realize I’m looking defensive, and I refuse to give him that.

Naveen and I have been just friends for a long, long time.

“Shit,” he says. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“So what are you doing?” I ask.

He has the grace to look a little sheepish. “I’m being an asshole to her.”

Flashback. A memory of my hand, rapping on his dorm room door. I’ve brought a pizza and some movies to watch in his VCR, and my heart’s pounding, pounding, because it’s been a week since we last talked and that conversation hadn’t ended well. The food and films are an excuse; I’ve really come to fuck.

The door opens, and he’s there of course, chest and feet bare. And behind him, the girl. I don’t know her name, but does it matter?

“Hey,” Naveen says, as though he was expecting me. He probably was. “I’m sort of busy now. Can you come back later?”

But I didn’t, and it took months for us to talk again. I know very well just what kind of asshole Naveen can be. “Of course you are.”

He frowns, but doesn’t look angry. Only resigned. He shrugs. “I love her. She rejected me. It’s what I do, Betts.”

“I know what you do.” My voice is clipped and sharp and diamond-edged. “Maybe you shouldn’t fuck around with married women then. Maybe you shouldn’t fuck around at all, you think?”

He looks at first surprised, then wary. For all the years I’ve shared his secrets, I’ve never once judged him for any. I can’t even look him in the eyes now, though, because for once I have my own secret.

“Will,” Naveen says, looking past me, and I think that he knows.

But it’s actually Will, standing awkwardly in the doorway, not looking at either of us. One shoulder presses the door frame, one hand cups the back of his neck as he studies the floor. When he does look up, his gaze skims my face before settling on Naveen’s.

“Hey,” he says.

Naveen pulls away from me. Straightens. His warning look annoys me—as if I’d say anything more, now that we have an audience? My pride might be stung, but it’s an old wound. I stand and straighten, too, putting distance between me and Naveen that’s meant to look casual but probably doesn’t.

When I look at Will, the world stops for the time it takes him to blink and move forward to shake Naveen’s hand. They clap each other on the back. Will catches my gaze over Naveen’s shoulder, but I can’t read it. Then they’re out of my office and into the hall outside, talking about some photographs Will’s going to be showing next month.

And I’m alone.

Somehow, I find the concentration to finish paying bills and filing invoices, following up on emails and phone calls and chasing down bank statements to prove to artists that, yes, someone really did cash our checks and if it wasn’t them, they’d better take it up with whoever had learned to forge their signatures. An hour passes, then another. There’s other work to be done, but it’s on the desktop in my Philadelphia office, and while I usually bring my laptop and flash drives with everything I need, this morning I was so distracted I forgot. So now I sit and stare out the window at the city and pretend I’m not straining my ears for any sound of Will’s voice.

I fucked him.

There is no way around this, no way to make it pretty or anything other than what it is. I went to his apartment, and I let him put his hands and mouth on me, his prick inside me, and it was not by accident or coercion or because I was drunk and didn’t know what I was doing. I fucked Will Roberts because I wanted him.

That’s when the shudder hits me, a tremor in my fingers, a twisting in my guts that bends me in half. My heart pounds so hard I press my fingers to it as if I can keep it from beating right out of my chest. I shake and shake and shake. My breath whistles in my throat until I press my lips together and force myself not to breathe for the count of one, two, three.

Calmer, steadier, I open my eyes.

Will stands in the doorway as if it’s a line he’s not allowed to cross. “Hey. Coffee?”

I should tell him I can’t go. I shouldn’t want to go. But I’m already standing, ready to follow him anywhere he takes me.

Chapter Seven

Because I still haven’t learned the neighborhood, we walk around the block until we find a place. Any other street in New York would have a dozen coffee/bagel/pastry shops, but not this one. We settle for a small diner that shows off what looks like decent pastries and questionable sandwiches in the case by the hostess stand. The coffee, as it turns out, is terrible. Will orders a slice of German chocolate cake. I ask for a muffin.

“Sugar?” Will asks, fingers hovering over the small ceramic container in which the sweetener packets have been shoved haphazardly, a rainbow of pastels.

“Two. Please,” I add quickly. So polite. So distant. Three days ago I had him naked and inside me, and now I can barely let my fingers touch his when he hands me the packets. I taste the coffee with a grimace and ask apologetically, “Can I have another, please?”

We warm our hands on the mugs and stare at anything except each other. The waitress brings the cake, but tells me they’re out of muffins. My disappointment is out of proportion to my need for a shitty diner muffin, and I can’t stop the frown. She offers cake, but I don’t want cake. Or pie. Really, I think as I watch her rattling off the list of desserts, all I want is for her to shut up and go away. I order lemon meringue and expect to hate it when it comes.

“So,” Will says after a second, when she’s finally gone and we have no excuse to keep ignoring each other. “How are you?”

“Fine. You?” I sip bad coffee and burn my tongue.

At first, he says nothing. Then he gives me a slow smile, sweeter than the extra sugar I added to my coffee. His smile is the kiss of ocean spray and the keening cry of gulls.

“I wasn’t sure you’d be at the gallery today.” A pause as perhaps he considers what to say next. “But I was hoping you would be. That’s why I stopped by.”

Tension eases inside me, and I find my own smile. “I’m glad you did.”

Again, he says nothing.

“Will...” I begin, stuttering on the flavor of his name. I can’t decide exactly what it is, but it feels gritty. Like sugar. No, like sand. “About what happened...”

An emotion I can’t decipher flashes across his face, and everything about him goes very still. His fingers turn the coffee mug. Turn and turn and turn. He leans forward, shoulders hunching, and rests his elbows on the table.

“Yeah. About that.”

Before he can say more, my phone trills. I didn’t program that ring tone, Jacqueline did, to set her apart from her sister and, I suppose, from everyone else. I’d ignore the call, but the look on his face says he’s expecting me to take it. And the truth is, I’m glad for an excuse to stall this conversation, because I’m not at all sure where it’s going.