Sweet Home Montana Read online

  Colt’s heavily hooded eyes are fixed on me. He runs his tongue along his swollen bottom lip, a soft, animalistic growl coming from the back of his throat as takes the moment to just appreciate me, worshiping me with his gaze, memorizing every square inch of my body. In one swift move he shrugs out of his shirt, tugs his T-shirt up over his head, and his hands are on me once again, guiding me backward toward my bed, his lips slamming against mine, hard and desperate, his kiss full of raw emotion and wanton need.

  Colt takes a seat on the mattress and I climb onto his lap, wrapping my arms around his neck. I moan into our kiss when his hands trail down my sides, stopping at my hips and pulling me flush against him. He groans when I grind against his need, our tongues lashing together, teeth clashing.

  “Fuck, I love you,” he murmurs through a racking sob, his emotion tumbling into our heated kiss. Abruptly, he pulls away from my mouth, his lips finding my neck and kissing my skin, suckling and licking, skating down over my throat. “You’re mine, and I will forever be yours.” His breath is hot against me as he whispers over and over again how in love with me he is, how much he loves me. “I’ve always loved you. I always will.”

  I’ve waited so long to hear him say these words, but now the sentiment behind them feels slightly tainted, because I keep thinking of Rylie. Did he say these words to her? Did he tell her he loved her? They have a child together; theirs is a love I’ll never be able to compete with. I find myself squeezing my eyes shut tight, trying so hard to block out his voice.

  “Always and forever,” Colt whispers, his teeth gently grazing against the sensitive skin at the base of my neck. “You and me. Always.”

  “Stop!” I yell, pushing him away before I even know what I’m doing.

  He rears back, the look in his eyes one of horror, as if I’ve just slapped him.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t do this.” I slap a hand over my mouth in an attempt to stifle my sob. “You should be with Rylie!” I say against my palm.

  “Rylie?” He pulls my hands down from where I’m covering my face. He steadies me with a hard look. “What are you talking about?”

  I bite down on my trembling lip, remembering the look in her eyes earlier. The look of sadness, and the painful heartbreak that she tries so obviously to hide behind her confident facade. Her heart is broken over this man because she’s so clearly in love with him. He’s her one. The one she wants, and the one she knows she’ll never have. But she should have him. They should have each other. For Emmy’s sake.

  Colt’s eyes widen as if he can hear my thoughts. He gauges me. “No, baby, Rylie and me …” He shakes his head, as if he’s searching for the right words. “It was never about … love.” He sighs heavily. “It was just sex, Quinn. And I fucking hate myself for admitting that, but that’s all it was. It was nothing more than—”

  “I can’t hear this.” I cover my mouth again with a shaking hand, moving to get off his lap.

  “Quinn, stop!” he hisses, holding me where I am.

  “Colt, let me go,” I warn him, unable to look in his eyes.

  He pulls his hands away, holding them in the air in surrender, and I move off his legs, wrapping my arms around myself as I take a few steps back, away from him as far as the room will allow, still unable to face looking at him, unable to face the rejection I know I’ll see if I meet his eyes.

  “Quinny?”

  I shake my head. “Don’t.”

  “Quinn!” Colt yells, his voice hard and raw.

  And, at that, at the stark, shrill sound of his pleading, desperate tone, I do meet his eyes, because I owe it to him. “Leaving you was the biggest mistake of my life. I’ll never forgive myself. But it was so stupid of me to think that I could just come back and that everything would be how it always was.” I shake my head at my own stupidity. “It’s been too long. Everything has changed.” I stare at him, allowing my tears to sting my eyes, unable to look away from him. “Colt, look me in my eyes and tell me that Rylie means nothing to you?”

  He says nothing. He just gazes painfully into my eyes, his stare heavy and unwavering as he remains deafeningly silent.

  And that’s all I need.

  “You should leave.” I avert my gaze, looking down.

  A long and stifling silence ensues, but I keep my sights fixed heavily upon the floor.

  Colt sighs, and I hear the rustle of the bedcovers as he stands up. I see him in my periphery as he goes about collecting his shirt and T-shirt from the floor. All the while, I can’t look at him. If he’s even half as broken as I feel right now, I don’t know what looking at him will do to my already fragile self-control. I want him, but I shouldn’t want him. I need him, but I know I can’t need him. I love him, but I can’t love him. He’s no longer mine to love.

  His footsteps are slow as they sound upon the wooden floorboards, moving closer to the door. But he stops, and I listen as he releases another heavy sigh of defeat, and I just know he has his hands in his hair, his fingers tearing at the lengths in frustration.

  “I won’t ever tell you that Rylie means nothing to me,” he says, his voice so steely and gruff. “I can’t say that. She’s the mother of my fucking kid.”

  His words hurt me because they’re the heartbreaking truth, and I rake my teeth hard over my bottom lip in an attempt to take my mind off the crippling pain this truth is inflicting upon me, staring down at nothing as tears blind me.

  “But what I will tell you, Quinn, is that … it’s always been you. It always has been and it always will be. If that’s not enough for you, then– then I’m not enough, and for that I truly am sorry, because all I ever wanted was to be enough for you.”

  I listen as his footsteps start again. The door opens, and then it closes. And another heavy silence follows. But this silence is sad, and empty, and cold, and lonely. I wipe my cheeks with the palms of my hands, looking around the room, taking it all in, from the mess of the bedsheets where we sat only moments ago, entangled with passion and need, to the door, which the love of my life, my heart, just walked out of.

  Reluctantly, I collect my sweater from the floor, pulling it on over my head. And despite my best efforts, my tears continue, and all I can depend on is the only thing I know for sure right now; I was wrong. This is no longer my home. It’s been too long. Too much has changed. I don’t belong here anymore.

  Chapter 25

  I can’t tell you how long I’ve been staring at the brick wall in my bedroom. Hours probably.

  I should be getting up. I should be almost ready for work by now. Hurrying out the door with my phone in one hand, my purse in the other, half a toasted bagel clamped precariously between my teeth. I should be facing the morning with gusto. Seize the day, and all that shit. But I just can’t bring myself to care enough to bother with any of that. I don’t have it in me. I’d like to think it’s just a moment of weakness, that “time” of the month, something I’ll get over sooner rather than later. But it’s been like this for the entire five weeks I’ve been back in the city. I’m scared this is just how it’s going to be forever.

  Every morning at precisely six-forty-four, my eyes open of their own accord, and I just lie here, counting sixty excruciating seconds in my head until the shrill sound of my alarm pierces my soul. I don’t press snooze. I don’t pull the sheets higher. I don’t roll over. I don’t compromise with myself to take a shorter shower for an extra five minutes more in bed. I just lie here, not moving, barely breathing, listening to the sound of New York City’s morning chaos carry up into the air and through the double glaze of my windows three stories above street level as I stare at the red-brick wall across from my bed, trying so hard to convince myself that this, this is the life I was meant to live.

  But eventually I do get up, forcing myself out of bed like I always do. If I don’t, my phone will ring, and it will be Oliver asking me where I am. If I don’t answer his call, he’ll show up at my door and ring the buzzer for three minutes straight until I give up and let him in. He’ll pr
oceed to sit around, watching me while I go about my business of getting ready. He’ll sip his iced frappe or iced latte, or something equally as laden with whipped cream and chocolate powder through a straw, despite the late November chill hanging frigid in the air, eyeing me dubiously when I choose a pair of last season heels to wear. He’ll make some smart-ass comment about needing to get my jiggly thighs back to spin class, and I’ll throw him the occasional middle finger.

  But it’s Oliver who makes me get up in the morning. If he wasn’t his annoying, relentless, and downright infuriating self, I would spend all of my days in bed, nights too, just wasting away while staring at that same wall as if it alone has done me some kind of unforgivable injustice. And, despite my objections, my eye-rolling, my dramatic sighs and muttered curses, I’m eternally grateful that Oliver cares enough to harass me the way he does. He doesn’t know what happened while I was away. He doesn’t know why I came back. He has no idea why I am the way I am. But he still won’t give up on me. He’s a true friend. The only one I’ve got.

  ***

  “Hey, Quinny, it’s Tripp. I called you yesterday but you didn’t answer. Can you please call me back? I’m trying to help Cash with the December forecast, but he’s fucking clueless and he keeps screwing up the formula cells!”

  Lies. I created that spreadsheet for my brothers to use without fail. Dad had been running the business on paper since he took over the reins and the outdated books from Grandpa in the Nineties, and when Cash emailed them to me, it was a disaster, so I designed a new accounting register for them. Easy to follow. Impossible to break. It’s an Excel spreadsheet, for God’s sake. There’s no way Cash is messing up the figures. This is just Tripp being Tripp. Every time he calls me, he creates some new excuse for me to call him back. I know I should call, but every time I do, we get into the same old argument, and I end up feeling worse after we race to see who can hang up on the other first.

  I roll my eyes while brushing my teeth, skipping to the next voicemail on my cell.

  “Hey, Quinny, it’s Cash. Just checking to see if you’re gonna come home for Christmas. Shelby’s planning a big traditional dinner and she wants numbers soon. I don’t know why she needs the numbers so soon, but she’s always gotta be prepared … Anyway, give me a call when you can. I miss ya. Oh, and if Tripp calls, the spreadsheet is fine. I deleted one column by mistake. But I figured it out. He’s so dramatic.”

  I can’t help but laugh, my heart clenching in my chest at the sound of Cash’s gruff, monotone voice. I miss him. I miss them all. This time the distance feels almost too far.

  I walk through to my bedroom, tossing my cell on my bed as I continue through to my closet.

  I trail my fingers over the myriad clothes hanging in my closet, trying to decide between a navy suit and a gray dress when the next voicemail comes through, but when I hear the unexpected voice playback from the bedroom, I freeze on the spot, clutching at my chest.

  “Hey … Quinn. It’s m-me … umm, R-Rylie.”

  I walk back out into the bedroom in some kind of a daze, my brows knitting together as I stare at my phone lying on the mess of my tangled bedsheets. And I sit down. I contemplate ending the message. Deleting it. But, I don’t. Instead, I wait for her to continue.

  “I know, you’re probably thinking what the hell? What does she want?” Rylie laughs lightly into the phone, and it’s a nervous laugh, void of any humor. “Well, the thing is, I … I don’t really know why I’m calling. I don’t know if it’s my place to call you, but I needed to tell you that Colt is miserable. I’m really worried about him, as a friend and as the father of my daughter, nothing more, I swear. I’ve never seen him like this before. But people are starting to tell me that he’s going back to the way he was when you first left. Before the accident. And … I’m scared. Even Emmy is worried about him, and she’s not even seven years old.”

  I drag my teeth over my bottom lip, staring out through the big windows, to the gray morning outside, deftly toying with the fluffy collar of my robe.

  “Colt told me what you said to him that night. You think he and I should be together. But, Quinn, Colt and I are never going to be together like that. Was I in love with him? Yeah. Did he break my heart? Yes. Is there a tiny part deep down that wishes things had turned out different? Of course. I know you’re hurt, Quinn. You have every right to be. But Colt really loves you. More than anything. He always has. And right now he needs you. I know it’s difficult, but I really do hope you can at least consider giving him another chance. You two are meant for one another. You always have been …

  “I remember the way he used to talk about you, about the girl who broke his heart. He tried so hard to act as if he hated that girl. As if she was nothing to him. But even through the hate he tried so hard to hold on to, his love was always there. I wanted him to love me the way he loved that girl. But he didn’t. And that’s okay. Please just don’t give up on him. Like I said, a love like the one you and Colt share, it’s rare. Don’t let it get away … Well, look, you have my number. You know you can call me anytime.” Another nervous laugh rings through the phone, followed by silence. “I-I miss talking to you, Quinn.”

  The voicemail ends and Siri comes on to tell me there are no more new messages. But I don’t move. I can’t move. I can’t even think straight. I just sit here, staring down at the blank screen on my phone, my mind left reeling from Rylie’s call.

  Suddenly, all I can think about is Colt.

  Rylie sounded genuinely concerned about him.

  What if he’s sinking back into that same dark place he was in years ago, the place that almost killed him?

  He wouldn’t. Surely he isn’t that selfish. He has Emmy to think of. He told me himself—he’s never loved anyone the way he loves that little girl. He lives every day for her. But what if it all becomes too much? What if …

  I jump when my cell begins vibrating once again. I glance down, my heart racing at the thought of yet another call from home. But then I see Oliver’s face, the selfie he took with my phone when we were day-drinking at a party in Montauk last Labor Day, flashing upon the screen, and I clutch my chest, sagging in relief. I catch my breath as I reach for the device, pressing the accept button.

  “Hey, Ols.”

  “Hey, girl,” he chimes through from the other end, far too cheerful for this time on a Tuesday morning. “I’m almost at your building. You have approximately seven minutes, depending on the traffic on Broadway. We have to be uptown by nine o’clock, so you better be dressed, preened to perfection and waiting on that damn curb in six and a half minutes.”

  “Shit!”

  “You forgot?” Oliver panics.

  “No, of course I didn’t forget!” I lie.

  I totally forgot. I’m the worst. Today, Oliver and I are pitching for an eight-million-dollar brownstone on the Upper West Side. Oliver’s first potential listing over ten million. A huge feat for any agent. And, since I’m back on the sales floor, I suppose it’s my first, too. Mr. Hawkins was kind enough to reluctantly take me back. I can’t screw this up, for myself or for Oliver.

  I spring up from my bed, hurrying back through to my closet, grabbing the first thing I can. “I’ll be ready and waiting outside in four minutes, I promise!” I yell back in the direction of my phone, and thankfully the call ends in time for me to race breathlessly around my room while I scramble to get dressed in record time.

  ***

  When we arrive at the office after our meeting uptown, Oliver parades through the sales floor as if he’s just won an Academy Award. He points his fingers at people, popping off shots of victory. He does a spin every few feet. He even slides his Gucci sunglasses down over his eyes as if he’s a celebrity faced with a swarm of paparazzi.

  I trail behind, rolling my eyes. We didn’t even get the listing. Yet. We will. The seller is the ex-sister-in-law of one of my most loyal clients—a businessman from Japan who once took me out with his associates and got me so drunk on saki I was unable to
get out of bed for two days straight. We’ve remained friends ever since. Oliver was recommended to this woman because of me. But, he’s excited, so I let the kid have his fun, and I just smile and nod before sneaking away and hiding out in my cubicle to waste the rest of the day away.

  I have six messages waiting on my desk phone. Three barely legible Post-it Notes stuck to my monitor. A whole heap of unanswered emails. But all I keep thinking about is that voicemail from Rylie saved on my cell, and I find myself staring at the device for what feels like an eternity, which is precisely when Colt’s name appears on the screen, flashing wildly, in sync with each vibration.

  Shit.

  I fumble with the device, in the process juggling it from one hand to the other like a hot potato, but then I drop it, and it falls to the floor with a thud, the call coming to an abrupt end when the whole damn thing shuts down.

  “Dammit,” I hiss, reaching down and picking it up.

  I look at it closely, from the crack still shattering the screen from when I dropped it to the pavement after Cash originally called me to tell me about Dad, to the various chips and dents on the corners and the sides. I really should have invested in a new phone, by now. But it’s been the last thing on my mind.

  I press the power button and wait while it loads. After a few excruciating seconds, the Apple logo appears, and a few moments later it’s asking for my passcode, which I quickly enter while holding my breath. After another couple of beats, the iPhone vibrates in my hand, a new voicemail notification illuminating the screen, and my heart suddenly rears its way up into the back of my throat. I can almost taste it.

  I cast a glance around the office. Everyone looks busy, or makes themselves appear busy. A few brokers are crowding around Oliver as he tells some elaborate story about our pitch meeting. The place is as it should be, and almost everyone is none the wiser of the emotional battle currently occurring in my cubicle as I nervously dial the number for my messages. I hold the phone against my ear with a trembling hand, chewing nervously on my bottom lip as I stare at the screensaver on my computer monitor while Siri tells me I have one new voice message.