Beautiful Oblivion (Maddox Brothers #1)(40)
Author: Jamie McGuire

I covered my face, and cussed the hot tears as they ran down my temples and into my ears. I wanted to be here. But I wanted to be there. Raegan had asked me if I’d ever been in love with two men. I didn’t know at the time that I already was. Two men who couldn’t be more different, and yet were so alike. Both lovable, and insufferable, but for completely different reasons.

Dragging the sheet along with me, I climbed from the bed and walked around T.J.’s tidy town house. It looked staged, as if no one really lived there. I suppose for the most part, no one did. A few silver square frames sat atop a narrow table that stood against the living room wall. They contained black-and-white photos of T.J. as a child, with his siblings, his parents, and one of him and me on the pier during my first visit.

The television was black, the remote control sat perfectly straight on an end table. I wondered if he even had cable. He’d rarely have enough downtime to watch it. Men’s Health magazine and Rolling Stone sat on top of the glass coffee table, spread apart like a hand of cards. I picked one up and flipped through it, suddenly feeling restless and bored. Why had I come? To prove to myself that I loved T.J.? Or that I didn’t?

The couch barely gave when I sat down. It was light gray, tweed, with brown leather piping. The fabric felt itchy against my back. The space had a completely different feel to it compared to the last time I was there. The musky yet clean smell wasn’t as appealing. The view from the large windows, with a glimpse of the bay, wasn’t as magical; T.J.’s brand of perfection wasn’t as mesmerizing anymore. Just a few weeks with Trenton had changed all of that. Suddenly it was okay to want messy, and flaws, and uncertainty, so much of what Trenton embodied . . . everything I saw in myself that I thought I didn’t like. Because even if we were struggling, we had goals. It didn’t matter that we weren’t there yet. What mattered is that we both experienced setbacks, and full-blown failures, but we got up, brushed ourselves off, and kept going—and were making the best of it. Trenton didn’t just make all of those things acceptable; he made getting there fun. Instead of feeling ashamed of where we weren’t, we could be proud of where we were going, and what we would overcome to get there.

I stood and walked over to the long windows, looking down at the street below. Trenton had found out what I was up to, raced to the airport, and begged me to stay. If I was the one on the other side of the security ropes, would I forgive him? Thinking about him feeling rejected and alone on his drive home made tears sting my eyes. As I stood in the perfect place owned by the perfect man, I wrapped his sheets tighter around me and let the tears fall, wishing for the struggling tattoo artist I’d left behind.

I had spent my childhood craving my first day of freedom. Almost every day for the better part of eighteen years, wishes were spent on tomorrow. But for the first time in my life, I wished that I could go back in time.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I SAID I WAS SORRY,” T. J. SAID, STARING AT ME FROM UNDER his brow.

“I’m not upset.”

“You’re a little upset.”

“No. I’m really not,” I said, rolling a piece of my Marinated Steak Salad around on my plate.

“You don’t like the salad?”

“No, I do,” I said, acutely aware of my facial expressions and every movement I made. It was exhausting trying to prove I wasn’t pouting. T.J. didn’t get home until after eight thirty, and he didn’t text or call the entire time. Not even when he was on his way home.

“Want to try some of my fish?” He was within two bites of finishing his Alaskan Sea Bass, but pushed his plate forward. I shook my head. Everything smelled wonderful, but I just didn’t feel like eating, and it had nothing to do with T.J.

We were at a corner table, against the far wall of T.J.’s favorite neighborhood restaurant, Brooklyn Girl. The gray walls and simple but modern décor looked a lot like his apartment. Clean, everything in its place, and yet inviting.

T.J. sighed and sat back against his chair. “This isn’t going how I wanted at all.” He leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table. “I work fifty hours a week, Camille. I just don’t have time for . . .”

“Me,” I said finishing the cringeworthy sentence for him.

“Anything. I barely see my family. I talk to you more than I do them.”

“Thanksgiving?”

“It’s looking more likely as this assignment moves forward.”

I offered a small smile. “I don’t mind that you were late. I know you work long hours. I knew I wouldn’t see you much when I got here.”

“But you came,” he said, reaching across the table for my hand.

I sat back, putting my hands in my lap. “But I can’t drop everything every time you decide you want to see me.”

His shoulders fell, but he was still smiling. For whatever reason, he was amused. “I know. And that’s fair.”

I leaned forward again to poke at my salad with the fork. “He came to the airport.”

“Trenton?”

I nodded.

T.J. was quiet for a long time, and then he finally spoke. “What’s going on with you two?”

I squirmed in my seat. “I told you. We’ve been spending a lot of time together.”

“What kind of time together?”

I frowned. “We watch TV. We sit around and talk. We go out to eat. We work together.”

“Work together?”

“At Skin Deep.”

“You quit the Red? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t quit. Coby had some trouble paying bills. I took a second job until he got back on his feet.”

“I’m sorry. About Coby.”

I nodded, not really wanting to get too far into that subject.

“Did Trenton do that?” he asked, lowering his chin and looking at my fingers.

I nodded.

He took in a deep breath, just as he was taking in the reality of the situation. “So you mean you spend a lot of time together.”

I winced. “Yes.”

“Has he spent the night?”

I shook my head. “No. But we . . . he . . .”

T.J. nodded. “Kissed you. You mentioned that. Is he seeing anyone?”

“Just me, mostly.”

T.J. raised an eyebrow. “Has he been to the Red?”

“Yes. But no more than usual. Maybe even less.”

“Still taking girls home?” he said, half joking.

“No.”