Awkward silence.
Sure, there was the soft rock station hanging in the air, but I have no idea what the hell I was thinking. I must have suffered an aneurysm, or a stroke, asking my BOSS to have a drink with me. Stupid, impulsive, and ridiculous behavior. It's obvious he's only here out of pity due to the fact my husband literally abandoned me at my freaking Christmas party.
Currently, I am situated at a table with Darien in the smaller of the two hotel bars, staring around the venue aimlessly, desperate to try to think of something to start off a conversation. The bar, decorated in mahogany details and leather seating, is definitely the quieter of the two establishments. The other one, located on the other side of the hotel, is more of your club-like atmosphere, complete with a DJ, dance floor, and glowing bartop. It's typically where the company's unofficial "afterparty" commences, and ultimately, where gossip-laced shenanigans partake. For me, it's fun to people watch.
"Can I get you two something to drink?" I look over to the waiter, dressed nicely in a white button-up and black slacks, and nod.
"Hi; yes, please. Which single malts do you have?'
"We have Oban, Bowmore, Laphroaig, and Macallan," he lists from memory, and I am in appreciation of the variety of quality of their whiskey.
"Okay, I'll have the Bowmore. Neat, please," I add, deciding to go big, since I'm not certainly not going home tonight. Upon finishing my order, however, I can't help but giggle at the surprise that crosses Darien's features.
"Make that two," he says with his eyes trained on me. As the waiter nods and disappears, Darien leans back in his chair and bows in appreciation. "Okay, noted; definitely not a mixed cocktail person."
I shake my head, the trained curls grazing against my collarbone gently. "Nope."
"I have to say, I am impressed. I don't believe I've ever seen a woman order whiskey at a bar, unless it's to take shots, I suppose," Darien says as he cups his chin, as if he's pondering his past. It's fun to see him in thought over something that's not work-related.
I can't help but laugh again. "You know, studies show drinking whiskey is actually good for you."
Darien tosses me a crooked smile that makes my heart pound slightly. "Really?"
"Yes," I continue, despite the risk of sounding dumb, "it can help prevent cancer. There is more ellagic acid in single-malt than red wine."
"Interesting."
"Yeah, and ellagic acid is an antibiotic that absorbs cancer cells, so, yep," I conclude as our drinks are placed in front of us. As soon as the waiter walks off, Darien picks up his glass and swirls the bronze liquid slowly, as if he were inspecting it. I half expect him to sniff it, or look displeased, but I am quite surprised when he adds his own commentary on my ridiculous attempt to make conversation.
"It also lowers your risk of dementia," he adds.
I can't stop the stupid grin that spreads across my face.
#
We're each two drinks in, and we've moved on from polite conversation to being a lot more comfortable with each other. At least, I am finding I'm more comfortable. Tipsy, but more at ease than I was earlier.
"Okay, okay," I start as our third round arrives. "Twenty questions."
Darien raises an eyebrow at me. I continue on.
"We don't really know much about each other. So, twenty questions. You ask, I ask, and by the end, we'll know each other better. Which, should be a good thing, because, we're gonna be working together for a long time," I reason.
"Okay," Darien agrees as he sips his drink again. He opens his mouth like he's about to ask a question, but I put up my hand to stop him.
"Rules," I add.
"Rules?"
"Yes. No inappropriate questions. No overly personal questions. Just, fun questions."
He nods in agreement.
"Okay, so, I'll start. Did you always want to be a lawyer?"
"Nope," Darien chuckles as he takes a sip of his drink. "I actually wanted to be a chef."
"Really?" I say with admiration, knowing my skills are limited to meals made out of a box. "So, I'll assume you're a good cook?"
"I'm not terrible," he concedes, "but I do make a pretty mean cheesecake." I must have wrinkled my face in disbelief, because he calls me out on it. "I really do!"
"Okay, okay," I say with a shake of my head. "But, I'm sure it's not as good as Lita's cake."
"Lita?"
"Brown hair? In Personal Liability?"
"Oh. Right, right. Psh, my cake is much better than hers," he states with confidence.
"Sure it is," I muse with a sip of my drink.
"Okay, you know what? I'll prove it to you."
"Oh, really?" I respond with a cheeky smile as he nods his head vigorously.
"Oh, it's on," he concludes with a curt nod. A moment of silence fills the void between us before we break into a fit of laughter from the response to the question. Once it subsides, he turns the tables on me.
"So, law school. You went. Did you always want to be in this field?" he asks me without diving too deep into my failed attempt at my dream career, which I appreciate immensely.
"Nope," I reply, thinking back to my childhood dream. "I wanted to be a Dallas Cowboy's Cheerleader."
Darien must have been mid-sip when I announced that, because when I publicized my preteen dream, his cheeks blew up with air from trying to contain what I imagine was a intense 'what' or fit of laughter. From the dramatic swallow and the "seriously?!" he tossed me, I wasn't too far off.
"Yup. Come on, back in the 90's the Dallas Cheerleaders were THE 'it girls.' They were HOT and were known around the world for being beautiful! And those outfits? Come on, those boots and uniforms were sick. And, so, I wanted to be one. Even did gymnastics and pop warner cheer too."
"Really?" he acknowledges as he props his head on his knuckles, leaning in with interest. "How did that turn out?"
"I couldn't do it to save my life. I sucked, man," I admit as he fails at containing his laughter. "It took three failed JV tryouts and a faceplant from botching a cartwheel to realize that was just not going to happen."
"That's funny," he states as he raises his drink to me. "I can see it. You did run in to me, after all."
"I did not! You ran into me!" I defend myself with my jaw open wide, even though the corners of my mouth are curled in a smile. He begins to laugh, and I pick up on the teasing. "Oh, you jerk!" I say as I shove his arm, taking a second to revel in the taught muscles I feel underneath his tuxedo shirt. God those biceps must be huge!
The laughter subsides a bit when I pick a new question.
"Favorite sports car?" Satisfaction drips across Darien's features from that question, and I feel a tingle in response that I educed such a passionate look on his face. Okay, Serena, stop thinking that way. Inappropriate. In-a-fucking-ppropriate.
"Lamborghini. Hands down, the sexiest car out there. One day," he says with a pointed finger, "one day I'll own one. Cherry red with black accents."
"Urus, Aventador, or Centenario?"
"Aventador. SVJ coupe model. The 2019 model is just," he pauses as he curls his fingers into the air, like he's trying to find the correct word to describe his passion, "breathtaking." He looks to me with a couple of blinks before he speaks. "How do you know so much about sports cars?"
"I have a brother," I inform him with a shrug. "He was big into sports cars growing up, so I picked up on some of the makes and models. It was one of those weird things that bonded us in our teens, especially when I got a Pontiac Firebird my senior year in high school."
"Nice!" Darien comments with appreciation. "Year?"
"1979," I begin, but I can't help but continue when I see his eyes light up, fishing for more. "Jet black, 220 horsepower v8 engine, 4 speed manual with a T-top."
"Ho-lee shit," he whistles as he finishes off his third drink.
I nod. "Oh, yeah."
"So, do you still have it?" he asks with eager interest, as if it's parked in my garage underneath a white sheet. I pout.
"I had to give it up when I had Elsie. It was a two-seater."
"Bummer," he says with a puckered frown.
"Yeah," I agree wistfully, thinking back to the days of cruising the coast, blasting the custom stereo I had installed into the dash. "I do, however, want an Audi R8 Spyder next. V10, white, convertible."
Darien nods in approval. "Those are nice."
"Yeah they are," I agree. "Zero to sixty in 3.5 seconds, 602 horsepower with 413 foot-pound of torque? God, I'd sell my soul to own one."
"Sounds like you've done your homework," Darien affirms.
"Well, when your life is all about soccer games, dance competitions, and desperately trying to find balance somewhere in between, you need to hold on to some sort of dream," I sigh. "Even as silly as a sports car I'll never own, let alone get a chance to ride in, it's nice having something that's just mine to hold on to," I finish philosophically as I stare into the ending contents of my drink.
"I get it." I glance up from my glass to Darien, who is currently looking out into the overhead lighting. "What's the point of working as hard as we do if we can't indulge in things every once in a while?"
"Exactly."
"I mean, I put in 80 hours a week, and that's on a short week. So what if I wanted to get a nice car instead of start a family just yet? I made sacrifices, make sacrifices, and want to enjoy my life," Darien suddenly says as he works on his fourth glass of whiskey, and I realize that he's confessing his own deep-rooted issues.
"You do work a lot," I agree, not quite sure what to say.
"Exactly. I wasn't ready to start diaper duty, or worry about schools, or all that shit. I wanted to live a little first. But no, that wasn't allowed, apparently, because for whatever dumb reason, the first year of marriage means you need to get pregnant or some shit," he rambles on. "Or am I wrong?"
"So, you're married?" I ask, attempting to contain my shock. I desperately try to recall a token in his office I might have missed, but as far as I know, I have never seen a wedding photo, or ring, or any hint of information that Darien Shields was a spouse to some lucky freaking woman out there.
"No; oh, God, no," he states venomously. "Not anymore. When I wouldn't give her a baby, she found someone else who would."
"Yikes," I cringe.
"Yup. So, she went off and married the new guy and had his baby, and I got my Maserati. I think I got the better end of the deal," Darien concludes with an affirmative nod.
I can't help but smile and nod with him. "Absolutely. Fuck that shit!" I boldly conclude as we clank glasses, officially moving over from the land of tipsy to flirting with the border of intoxication. We tip our glasses back, sipping at the smooth liquor.
We smile at each other before we catch each other's stare and I feel my body suspend movement. As much as I want to tear away, as much as I know I should, I can't. Unexpectedly, his fingers move to the side of my face, and I feel him tuck a strand of loose hair that escaped my pins behind my ear. I blush at the gentle contact, dipping my head slightly so he doesn't see the affect he has on me.
"For what it's worth, I'm sorry he left you tonight." I hesitantly look up at him, swirls of emotions I can't place coursing through my body. I don't know if it's the whiskey, or the deep, penetrating stare of his azure eyes, but my heart begins to pound wildly as we hold each other's stare's longer.
"It sucks," he pauses, and I take in a hard swallow to try and still my nerves, "to be unappreciated."
I can only nod, not trusting my words or my lips to move. Instead I try to focus on my breathing, the slow in-and-out mechanics, my chest rising and falling, and not on the fact that his hand hasn't moved from where he grazed my cheek.
Distance between us slowly starts to close in. I don't know if it's him, or if it's me, or, hell, if the whiskey and vulnerability are playing tricks on my mind, but I swear I can feel his hot breath, laced with velvet aromatics of the Bowmore, on my skin. His hand continues to linger, the burn of his touch affecting my senses, my heart pounding so loud that I can't register what my mind is trying to scream at me. My eyelids begin to lower, lips slowly begin to part.
A sudden decibel of commotion erupts, our barstools scraping against the wooden floor as the volume of noise grows louder from the lobby into the bar as we separate in haste. I whip my head around, a flock of well-dressed colleagues migrating into the area and surround themselves around the bar.
I continue to breathe hard, my eyes focused on the crowd rather than the almost-kiss that just happened. I hear the chair next to me scour against the wooden grain further. Looking over, I see Darien on the move and working his way into the crowd, our evening concluded. I nod in appreciation, thankful for the separation, before looking down into the empty contents of drink number four in total embarrassment.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
#
I pull into the driveway, staring out at the linear mountains of snow pressed against the fence and the yard longer than I need to be. Between the lack of sleep and the slight hangover, going inside and having to confront Seiya about our argument last night is the last thing I want to do.
But, I know that if I let those words stay in the air and not do anything about it, we will be stuck in another cycle of misery.
I turn off the car, my eyes trained on the snow, while still shaking off the events of the entire evening. Between the argument, my impulsive invitation, and almost making out with my boss, I want to dig a hole and go into hiding. What a shit evening. What if I never picked a fight with Seiya? What if I just left it alone rather than call him out for looking miserable? At least I'd be able to face Darien on Monday. Now I have to avoid him, or at the bare minimum be around him as scarcely as possible.
I drop my head on the steering wheel. Why? Why do I self-sabotage myself like this? Am I a glutton for misery? I bop my forehead against a few more times for good measure before begrudgingly pulling at the door handle. A blast of cold air interrupts my confines of my pity-party, freezing me out of my car and into the chilly atmosphere I know I'm going to have to face the moment I walk inside.
I grab the handles of my bags and yank them across the center counsel, cursing as they get stuck on the automatic clutch, before slamming the door of Dory. I stare at the chipping blue van, once a vessel of transporting my little ones, now a representation of how much I've settled in my life. My kids are old enough; why can't I get a more practical, let alone a slightly newer car? Why am I stuck with the Mom-mobile?
I'm more than a Mom.
Before I was a Mom I was a girlfriend. Before that, an ambitious law student who was on the Dean's list. A music lover. An artist. A participant in sports. So many different pieces I've stored away; why can't I pull them back out again, even if I do it slowly?
Maybe it's time to start finding my way to being that girl again; the girl who cruised in her T-top Firebird down the streets, Seiya's hand in mine as we blasted Nirvana. The couple who sipped cheap whiskey on the coast as we watched the boaters sail by. Lord knows I've missed being that girl.
Maybe he misses her as well.
With renewed vigor, I open up the garage door and make my way into the house, slightly alerted when I see Seiya at the kitchen table cupping a mug of coffee. His hair unruly, still dressed in his pajamas, he looks whitewashed, defeated as he continues to look downcast. I place my bags lightly on the floor next to me before I pull out the seat across from him, ready to sit down and make this work.
He looks up at me, staring into my eyes with a look carved into his features that shakes me to my core. The fleeting thought of telling him that I'm going to try to be that girl he once fell in love with immediately vacates my mind.
Because I can see it; that he no longer loves me any more.
A/N: Ohhhhh snap on so many levels.
I've had a few comments lately about this story being your run-of-the-mill cheating story and that I'm making Serena out to be some sort of adulterer who doesn't give a damn about her husband. I hope you can see that I am not taking that road. Things are going to be progressing rather quickly now that the foundation has been laid; you've been warned. If you don't like my work, or what I'm aiming to do, please leave your negativity at the door.
Otherwise, I hope that you enjoyed this chapter, and my attempt at beginning a slow burn. After all, relationships don't develop overnight, especially when one's not available... yet!