Page 20 of Reckless Desires
“We can ask for clarification, and that’s what I’m doing,” he says, tapping a beat on his steering wheel.
“Are you making up rules, now?”
“Yes. What impresses you?” he asks again, pressuring me for an answer.
I’m not sure how to even answer that. Someone who doesn’t cheat on me and break my heart? That sounds about right.
“People who don’t lie. People who don’t go back on shit they promise. Seems pretty simple, doesn’t it? You’d be amazed.” I run my fingers through my wild, wind-blown hair and inch the window up a bit to calm my locks, sounding more jaded than I want to. I look over at him and see his eyebrows drawn together.
“So, the whole woman scorned thing is the card you’re going to play with me?” he asks. “I kind of assumed that would be it, but I wasn’t totally sure.” He smirks as I turn away from him, shifting my gaze out the window.
“You assumed I’d be a woman scorned?” I ask, my skin crawling at the question. Warmth rises in my cheeks as I shift in my seat.
“I’m kidding, Isla. But in all honesty, we could have skipped this shit if you wanted to. He’s clearly hurt you. I could tell just by few moments you interacted with him in the shop. Why are we going to this thing if he’s cut you so deeply?”
Although his question seems genuine, I’m uncomfortable and I don’t like thinking about this. In fact, I fucking hate thinking about this.
“Cut me so deeply? He didn’t cut me so deeply,” I lie, refusing to be his perfect picture of a woman scorned. “I walked in on him fucking another woman,” I tell him, looking forward, focusing on the road outstretched in front of us. “I thought I was going to be marrying him. We were engaged, and I walked into our apartment and heard him making another woman moan in our bed.” I close my eyes, shaking my head, wanting that noise and those images that have been burned into my mind to fade. “We’re going to prove to him that I don’t give a shit that he’s moved on and marrying someone only months after we broke up.”
“But you do give a shit.” Bordeaux’s voice is deep, slow, and perfectly to the point. He isn’t wrong, but that doesn’t mean I have to admit that.
“I don’t!” I yell and quickly throw a hand up to cover my mouth, surprised that I just yelled at him. He laughs when he sees how shocked I am. I may be feisty, but I’m not typically someone who lashes out or yells at people. “Fine, Bordeaux. I do care. Is that what you wanted to hear? I care so much that I tried to think of every excuse to not come here this weekend. Manuel broke my heart, I hate men, and I’m over this game.” I cross my arms over my chest and kick back in my seat, signaling that I’m done talking to him about Manuel and all the things that have brought us to this moment.
“So what you’re saying is, every other man who comes after Manuel is fucked from the start? You’re saying you will never trust another man again? That you hate men, what... forever?” Bordeaux shifts the car, speeding up and switching lanes to get around a Sunday driver. “Don’t let him have that kind of power over the rest of your life. There are plenty of men out in this world who wouldn’t hurt you the way he did. You can’t lump us all together just because one asshole cheated on you. That isn’t fair to anyone in your future.”
When I don’t say anything in return, he sighs and reaches toward the volume knob on the radio.
“That’s a damn shame, Isla,” he mumbles before turning up the volume. “Damn shame.”
Fourteen
Bordeaux
Tacenda (n.) things better left unsaid
___________
We spend the rest of the car ride in comfortable silence. Isla’s working on a paper for school, and I’m enjoying the quiet with her. As we get into the tiny town of Janesville, Illinois, where Emilia is apparently from, with a population of 3,500 according to the tiny green rectangular sign, she rolls her window all the way down as I bring the car to a slower speed. The wind catches her chocolate waves, blowing the strands from her face to reveal her high cheekbones and angular jawline.
Isla asks me to drop her off at the lobby door so she can go in without alerting the presses that I’m in town. The less attention I draw, the better for everyone involved.
I watch as she bounds out of my car, ignoring my attempts to slip her my credit card to pay for our rooms. She had taken the liberty of booking them, probably assuming I’d fuck it up or that I had a manager who typically books rooms for me. She wouldn’t have been wrong, but I think I could have handled booking my own room.
At first, I wasn’t sure why Isla was so unapproachable. After getting a glimpse of how her entire body tensed around her ex, I knew he had wronged her in an irreparable way. However, now, it seems like she’s still holding on to some fucked-up last strand of hope. I’ve never been able to figure out why women love running back to men who fuck them over. And I hope that isn’t the case.
You’re better than that, Isla.
I’m lost in thoughts of the mysterious Isla Robles when she huffs her way back into my car and slams the door.
“Easy, lady!” I say, patting my car. “What did Black Betty do to you?”
“All of your wildest dreams have come true,” she says, refusing to look at me. “We’re rooming together.” She crosses her arms over her chest and her shoulders visibly rise and fall with a sharp exhale.
I instantly light up and take a bit of pleasure in her discomfort because seriously, rooming with me isn’t that terrible. “No way.”
“Yep. Wanna hear the best news of all? It’s one bed. The hotel messed up the accommodations and thought your alias was a fake name and, therefore, a fake reservation, so they cancelled to make room for last-minute people who wanted to book in the wedding hotel block.”
I had instructed her to use an alias because somehow, the media always finds me. I didn’t want them following us down here and causing trouble for these people on their wedding day. It doesn’t matter how pissed off I am that he hurt Isla, I still wouldn’t want to fuck up someone’s big day because reporters and the paps won’t leave me alone.