Bad Cruz

“You lose,” I drawled. “Again. You should be getting used to it by now, shouldn’t you, Mrs. Weiner?”

The jest was peppered with a wink, designed to give her a chance to throw another verbal curveball my way. I was even fully prepared to let her have the last word. But she didn’t take the bait. Instead, she squared her shoulders, stepped back, congratulated me on my win, her voice quivering around the words, and ran away.

She wasn’t in the stateroom when I got back from nursing two whiskeys and a headache at the bar. It was eleven-thirty, and even though going to bed early and letting her prowl the ship and sulk like the crazy woman she obviously was was tempting, I couldn’t do it.

I groaned as I traipsed out of my room, stumbling upon Mr. and Mrs. Warren, who’d just returned from the casino, looking lush and unfairly lucky.

“Where’s your little wife?” Mrs. Warren sneered with derision, seconds away from blowing a raspberry at me. I swear if she had a heart attack right here, right now, I’d piss all over my Hippocratic Oath and let her kick the bucket.

“Admiring her flawless face and knockout figure in front of the mirror in our room,” I bit back, still holding a Cyprus-sized grudge against her for what she’d done to Tennessee. “Being with a woman of such beauty is a blessing and a curse.”

“Well, I don’t see no ring on either of y’all’s fingers.”

“That’s right. We’re updating the diamonds in her ring, so we had to send it to South Africa. Best 500k I’ve ever spent.”

“And what about your ring?” She parked her hands on her waist, while Fred waited for her inside the room, holding the door open.

“Mine was lost while we were playing a very grown-up game at the buffet today. Let me know if you find it in your dessert tomorrow morning, will you?”

With that, I proceeded to the elevators.

I looked for Tennessee (almost) everywhere. To be honest, I didn’t know what to make of that woman. One second she was the ball-busting, mouthy little thing I’d grown to admire, fear, and want to bed the past decade-and-a-half, and the next, she was sensitive, withdrawn, and shy. Almost like the girl who’d dated Rob.

I knew a better man—or maybe just a man who hadn’t spent his entire life with an imaginary golden crown on his head—would’ve simply owned up to what’d happened in the past and cleared the air.

Growing up, I’d always had something for Nessy Turner. How could I not? In my mind, she was supposed to have been my high school sweetheart. Beautiful, kind, and dignified, with straight A’s and a spot on the debate team (no surprises there).

Even when I’d found out that Rob had a boner for her, I didn’t do the usual Cruz thing and step back. We’d rock-paper-scissored it, three times, in fact, and I ended up winning.

But then Rob went ahead and asked her out anyway, beating me to the punch and revealing the first sign that he was a horse-crap friend in the process.

After that, there was nothing I could do about it because Tennessee told him yes.

She. Told. Him. Yes.

She didn’t like me, and that was a big enough blow to wreck my teenage ego and make me dislike her for the rest of high school.

Of course, in retrospect, I’d wondered.

Wondered what would have happened if I’d been the one to ask her out first.

Would she have said yes?

I suspected I knew the answer to that.

She didn’t like Rob all that much, yet she still gave him a shot. He’d taken her for an ice cream downtown and secretly laughed in the locker room about how he hoped to hell she didn’t order more than two scoops because his ass had been broke that week.

I knew I never would have let us end up in the position she and Rob were in. I’d have never taken her virginity the way he had, unprotected, publicly, with people watching.

And if I had, for whatever reason—if we’d been drunk or high or just completely witless one unfortunate night—I would have owned up to it and married her.

I would have.

But I wasn’t the one she chose.

So, this was my truth.

My two-whiskeys-and-a-beer truth.