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Up until tonight, I was borderline conflicted about Manuel. I knew I didn’t want him back, not really. I know my worth. I know what I deserve, and it is so much more than what he gave me in the end. I wanted to see him squirm. I wanted to hurt him the way he hurt me, or at least as close as I could get to that. I just needed him to suffer the way I did. I thought seeing me with Bordeaux would give him a good shock. I hoped it would make him wish he never did what he did. And apparently, it did, but the baggage it carried was definitely not worth it.
What I think I wanted most of all was validation that Manny still wanted me. That the three years we shared were worth more than how he ended things. I wanted to know that in the back of his mind, he still wondered if he made the right choice.
Tonight gave me that validation, but not in the way I had pictured it.
Manny’s hot breath on mine was enough to make me sick. His touch was foreign and harsh. It wasn’t what I asked for or what I had anticipated happening this weekend.
I slip down into the bathtub, allowing the steam and warmth of the water to soothe my thoughts, pushing them back as far as I can, forcing myself to forget.
Forgetting, numbing, pushing. Remedies for pain. My remedies for pain.
* * *
A half hour later, I open the bathroom door, wrapped in a generic hotel robe, and find Bordeaux sitting on the edge of the bed, looking his normal shade of gorgeous.
I shake my head at him, not knowing how a man can look that good all the time.
He’s changed from his earlier attire and is now wearing light gray sweatpants that cuff at the ankles, paired with a black ribbed tank that hugs his body perfectly, like it was made to show off his muscular frame. The sweats sit just below his waistline, showing off the hottest thing about a man. His V-lines.
His hair is always perfect, and tonight is no exception. I wish I had that kind of effortless beauty when it came to my own. My natural waves are frizzy and annoying, and I have to do so much work to tame them.
“I got you a present,” he says, pulling out one of the biggest bottles of champagne I’ve ever seen from behind his back.
Laughing, I ask him, “Where on Earth did you find that? Are you carrying around alcohol in your bag now, too?”
He laughs. “I had room service bring it up. This is apparently their finest champagne.” He motions to the bottle like he’s Vanna White from Wheel of Fortune. I feel slightly more at ease; the bath and the pushing away of tonight has worked wonders for my mood. I want to focus on Bordeaux and get to know him better. I’m intrigued by him, no matter how much I wish I wasn’t.
Plus, it’ll help keep my mind off tonight’s events.
“Dare I ask what we’re celebrating?” I ask him.
“We’re celebrating you coming to terms that Manuel is a douche ass, and the fact that you are never going to be near him again.” He smiles softly, and I feel my heart flutter double-time in my chest. He pours the bubbly, ivory-tinted liquid into two long-stemmed glasses, and we clink them together before sipping.
“You can make even a goddamn hotel robe look good, Isla Robles. Where did you come from?” he asks me. He has quite a way with words, and he certainly has a swoon-worthy vocabulary.
“Well, a Puerto Rican woman and a white surfer dude from California walk into a bar....” I say seriously, but then break out into laughter when his eyes widen.
“You aren’t serious...”
“Oh, I’m very serious,” I tell him. “You asked where I came from, and I’m telling you.”
We take drinks from our flutes simultaneously and I feel the air between us lighten. Bordeaux lounges back onto the bed, resting on one arm. I mimic the way he lays, allowing myself to rest, sipping the champagne slowly. I finally take in the deep breath I’ve been needing for hours, closing my eyes for a second. The bath did me a lot of good—it helped me decompress—but I have a feeling tonight will be permanently etched into my mind. But for now, I want to forget about it. I want to not think about that betrayal.
Twenty
Bordeaux
Vad (n.) wild, untamed, uncontrolled
unregulated.
___________
Isla Robles is laying inches away from me, turned on her side to face me, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen her look more beautiful. Her hair is a heap on the top of her head and her robe reveals a teasing amount of cleavage I’m trying to keep my eyes from focusing on.
“Twenty questions?” she asks, and I physically feel my face light up. For some reason around Isla, my hard exterior has always been different, softer. It’s like when my exterior is matched against hers, mine just melts away.
“How old were you when you had your first kiss?” she asks.
