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“I was going back to get my glasses,” Beth states to no one in particular, practically sprinting toward her house. Watching her go, a slight ache takes over my chest for her having heard what my brother had said.
I am too disappointed in my brother to say anything, and I know running after Beth would show something I'm not ready to let my brothers see.
“You're needed back home, Mitch. Think about how much the company can benefit from your expertise.”
“Look,” I tell them. “I came here to start on my own, forge my own path,” I say. “I’m not planning to run back home when things start to get tough.”
“Looks like we wasted our time trying to convince you,” Harrison nods and makes his way back to the car, but Roscoe lingers, giving me a penetrative stare that makes me stand a little straighter.
“Don't become a stranger, little brother. You’ve always been the rebel between the three of us. So you moving back to Latimer would be something only you would do. If you’re gonna do this, don’t fuck it up,” he says and turns away. I watch as the spotless white SUV slowly glides out of my driveway.
I move back to the dining hall to find Aaron hunched over a large spreadsheet; the half-eaten dinner shifted to the side. When he looks up and spots me, he breaks into a grin and beckons me over. “I think I might have just found a better design outlook for All4One.”
“Really?”
Aaron nods.
“Get over here,” he mutters.
CHAPTER15
BETH
It's been a week since the godawful dinner between Mitch, my brother, and me. It has been a long week of struggling not to recall the details of that night, realizing how quickly my happy feelings were trashed by a terrible comment made by men who were supposed to know better. And even though I had not returned to Mitch's place, Aaron had not exactly questioned why. He had been too excited about his grand idea that was going to give the design outlook an entire turnaround.
I sigh, trying to refocus my attention on the numbers in front of me. It's Friday, and Mateo has taken the day off. It's just Cynthia and me crunching numbers. But Cynthia has offhandedly told me she has a date thing, which must be why she is slowly packing up now. I watch her from the corner of my eyes; there's excitement in her eyes and a little smile on those lips. Cynthia and I are a little more than colleagues now, and I'd like to attribute it to the number of times we have had to stay in close quarters.
Times spent on codes and numbers have had us opening up a bit more to each other. For one, I know that Cynthia lost her virginity at the age of twenty-two in a seedy bar downtown and also that her parents are very conservative. There are times our conversations have veered towards kinky, which is how I have also gotten to know that Cynthia's sexual fantasy involves a woman doing her man while she watches. And even though the explicit details are something she had said on a random night we'd jabbed away at our laptops with a shared bottle of wine, it had somewhat brought us closer, and I'd found myself telling her a little more about Mitch, but reserving his identity. Cynthia doesn't need to know that I am, or was, fucking our boss.
When she turns toward me, the tiny smile that curves her lips dims a little.
“Are you alright?” she asks, voice tinged with concern.
I summon a convincing smile, hoping she buys it, but nothing of the sort happens because Cynthia rounds my desk, bringing with her the sweet scent of her fragrance.
What is it? Jasmine?I make a mental note to ask her when I feel a bit less like shit.
“You know you can tell me anything, right?”
I nod because, somehow, I trust Cynthia and have come to regard her as so much more than a colleague. I can confidently say that Cynthia and I have become sort of...light friends.
“Come on,” she urges. “You've been walking around for the past week like this. I cannot bear to see you this way anymore.”
After a slight pause where I am still unable to say a thing, Cynthia says softly, “Is it the fuck buddy whose name cannot be mentioned?”
My heart skips at her words, and I blink.
Cynthia chuckles because she catches my reaction.
“It’s indeed our guy,” she observes and then looks more serious than ever. “Do you want to talk about it?”
I shake my head but say anyway.
“Something awful happened last week.”
I cover my face with my palm at the memory of those words his brothers had uttered. The condescending tone they'd used, and the way they'd both looked at me like I was a piece of meat to be tasted. It was awful, and it still is, even more so now that Mitch has not made any effort to explain, to placate, which is also a clear indication of what he thinks of our encounters; a fun, fleeting affair. Mitch doesn't care about me as I'd stupidly made myself believe he did, which simply hurts more than his brother's atrocious words.
“I think as much as you hate whatever he'd done to you last week, you sort of miss him, don't you?”
