Heartbreaker (Rascals Book 3)

by Katie McCoy

  I’d dated before—dated beautiful, talented, smart women. And after each breakup, I had been able to move on. It had never taken long—even after my longest relationship ended, I was still able to continue on. It hadn’t affected me. Hadn’t bothered me.

  But this breakup lingered like a dark cloud. Not just the ache of missing her, but the feelings of guilt and uncertainty, too. Like maybe I’d made a mistake.

  My usual methods of distraction—work, working out, drinking—were failing me, so I called Sawyer. I hadn’t spoken much to my friends since the move, and I missed them: being able to grab a quick drink together and unwind, walking into a bar that was like a second home and seeing my best friends.

  “Hey, dude,” Sawyer said as a greeting.

  Even though I knew it was probably just my imagination, Sawyer sounded far away—almost like he was in a tunnel. It made it feel like he was further away than just Chicago.

  “How’s New York?” he wanted to know.

  “It’s great,” I lied. “Beautiful city, beautiful women, what more could I want?”

  “Yeah, but how’s the beer situation?” he joked.

  “Bars are open until four a.m.,” I reminded him. “Beer is plentiful and easily accessible. There’s actually a bar in the lobby of my apartment building.”

  Sawyer let out a low whistle of approval. “Not too bad,” he commented. “But do they have anything on tap that compares to Chase’s concoctions?”

  “Haven’t found anything yet,” I confessed. “Has he had you guys sample his latest?”

  “Not yet,” Sawyer told me. “Apparently the last batch went horribly, unexpectedly wrong.”

  “Really?” I was surprised.

  “Kelsey said she was afraid it was going to grow legs and kill all of us.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “All I know is that they buried it behind the building and Chase refuses to talk about it.”

  It was a dumb story—similar to one I’d heard a billion times before—but this time it felt different. Because it wasn’t a story we were sharing over a beer at Rascals. I was far away, and I was hearing this story after the fact. I wasn’t part of the circle any more. There were probably a dozen more stories like it—just silly, everyday stories—that I was missing. And that made me feel unbearably homesick.

  This phone call had been a bad idea.

  “How is Kelsey?” I asked, trying to be subtle. “And the others?”

  “Kelsey is good,” Sawyer commented. “I’m pretty sure that Emerson is getting pretty close to proposing to Alex. And Hayley is Hayley. Her birthday’s coming up, as you know. Don’t forget to send her a card.”

  “Isn’t she a little old for cards?” I asked.

  “Yep,” Sawyer laughed. “That’s why it’s so fun to send her them. I found one that has a lot of pink glitter on it that says, ‘Happy Sixth Birthday.’ I’m sure she’s going to love it.”

  “Or we’ll all find you buried in a shallow grave covered in pink glitter,” I countered.

  “Worth it,” Sawyer declared.

  “You say that now,” I joked, before pausing for a moment. “How about everyone else?”

  “By everyone else do you mean Jules?” Sawyer asked, clearly seeing through my bullshit. Somehow it hurt just to hear him use her nickname.

  I couldn’t even answer him.

  “She seems fine,” Sawyer told me. “If that’s what you’re asking about.”

  Fine. Was I happy about that or disappointed? Or something else? I really didn’t know.

  “Good,” I finally said. “That’s good.”

  “Is it?” Sawyer wanted to know. “I don’t know if she wants me to tell you this, but she was really broken up after you left. She didn’t say anything to any of us, but it was pretty clear that whatever happened between you guys didn’t end well. But she’s got the girls to talk to—they’ve been looking after her.”

  “I’m glad,” I managed, knowing that I had handled that whole thing like a real asshole.

  “I’ll deny I ever offered,” Sawyer said, “but do you want to talk about it?”

  I almost laughed. Sawyer was about as open with his feelings as I was, but as far as being close, the two of us shared more with each other than we did with our other friends. I trusted Sawyer. I had trusted him with the details of my relationship with my mother, and he had trusted me with other personal issues that he didn’t divulge to others. If I could share these confusing feelings I was having with anyone, it was Sawyer. He’d understand, and he wouldn’t judge me. He wouldn’t handle me with kid gloves, and he’d call me on my bullshit, but he wouldn’t judge.

  “I don’t know what to do,” I finally confessed to him.

  “About what?” he wanted to know.

  “About everything,” I said, realizing it as I said it. “New York isn’t what I thought it would be.”

  “What about the job?” he asked.

  “The job is great—it’s what I wanted. Or what I thought I wanted.” I paused. “But I’m not happy. And I don’t know why.”

  It was a weird, nebulous conversation—not like one we’d ever really had before. Because what guys talked about their sense of happiness? To each other? We talked about beer and babes and work. We didn’t have conversations like this.

  But maybe we needed to. Because I clearly didn’t know what the fuck I was doing with my life. Not that Sawyer had all his shit together, but he wasn’t moping around a new city after getting his dream job like a goddamn baby.

  “What happened between you and Jules?”

  I didn’t want to tell him. Because time and distance had revealed that I had really, really fucked up when it came to breaking it off with Juliet.

  “I didn’t tell her about the job offer,” I confessed to Sawyer, feeling the shame all over again. “She found out when she saw us celebrating.”

  Sawyer let out a low, slow whistle. “Dude,” he said. “That is fucked up.”

  “I know,” I sighed. “I was going to tell her, but I didn’t know how.”

  “That was definitely not the way to do it,” Sawyer informed me.

  “Yeah, I can see that now,” I responded dryly. “Thanks for that.”

  I could practically hear Sawyer shrug.

  “Well, had you guys ever talked about the future?” he asked. “I know she’s wasn’t really your usual type, but you guys seemed to be getting along well.”

  “We had just talked about it,” I said, knowing that I was sounding more and more like the villain in this story. “I asked her to be exclusive.”

  Which I totally was.

  “You’re a jerk,” Sawyer informed me.

  “I know,” I agreed. “I was a real dick.”

  “She knew, you know,” Sawyer said.

  “She knew what?”

  “She knew that she wasn’t your type,” Sawyer continued. “We talked about it, actually.”

  Shame washed over me. I had been so fixated on the type of woman that I thought I wanted, that I hadn’t even stopped to think about what a judgmental, elitist prick I was to think I could know something about someone through specific qualities that I had decided were important.

  “What did you tell her?” I wanted to know.

  “That you were a good guy,” Sawyer said. “Because you are.”

  “I think you might be mistaken about that,” I sighed. “I’m pretty sure I’m a real asshole.”

  “Yeah, you’re that too,” Sawyer agreed—a little too quickly. “But only because you’re being stubborn and stupid.”

  “Thanks?”

  “Look,” Sawyer sighed. “I told her that you were a control freak and had all these dumbass rules and guidelines, but you were a great guy and someone worth the time and effort it takes to get you to open up. Jules seemed good for you.”

  “Yes, but what was I supposed to do?” I asked, feeling defensive. “Turn down an amazing opportunity for a girl I’d been dating less than a month?”

 
; Yes, a voice inside told me.

  “It was still so new,” I continued, trying to convince him—or myself, I wasn’t sure anymore. “Even though I should have told her, I couldn’t have turned down my dream job for a girl. Especially one I had just started dating.”

  “You could have turned down the job for a girl,” Sawyer informed me. “If she was the right girl. Was she?”

  His question hit me right in the chest. Because that’s what it was really all about.

  My head said one thing, but my heart said another. Because for all my claims of control and my long list of requirements for the right girl, the truth was I had no fucking idea what I was doing. I thought it would be simple, finding a partner who was right for me, but Juliet had shown I knew nothing about real relationships or what it meant to actually connect to someone on a deeper level. Not just ticking boxes of compatible likes and dislikes, but the stuff you couldn’t quantify. How I couldn’t wait to see her again. The way she lit the whole damn bar up, just walking in the room. The sense of peace and contentment I felt, holding her at night.

  I didn’t know how to measure that stuff. Where it should fall on my list of priorities and plans. It wouldn’t be fair to blame it on my mother—I knew that she loved me, and that she tried, in her way, to be a good mother. But getting let down by her over and over again, the chaos and instability . . . I had reacted by making my life as careful and predictable as possible. I built myself a wall, and I didn’t let anyone get through.

  And that had worked for me for years. I had been able to achieve success in my field—I had been able to create the life I wanted. But now, all of a sudden, that life seemed painfully empty. And I hadn’t realized it until I moved to New York and left behind everything I thought I didn’t need. Everything I thought I could live without.

  But maybe I had been wrong. About what I could live without. About who I could live without.

  Juliet.

  I slowly exhaled. “Fuck.”

  “Yup,” Sawyer agreed.

  “Did I just make the worst mistake of my life?”

  “The real question is, what are you going to do about it?” Sawyer wanted to know.

  And I didn’t have an answer for him.

  I didn’t stop thinking about it, though. It tore me up inside thinking that Juliet was hurting. I’d told myself she’d get over it, just like I would. But if I was still missing her like a missing limb, then she was probably hurting, too. And that was even worse than my own pain.

  I didn’t deserve her. She was better off without a guy like me.

  But I knew that telling myself that was the easy way out. The easy way to absolve myself of my crimes. Which I didn’t want to do.

  Instead, I sat with that knowledge, that information, all day. Sat with a constant, steady ache in my chest while I tried—unsuccessfully—to work. At the end of the day, still desperate for some momentary distraction, I agreed to go out with some of my team to a new bar they were all excited about it.

  The bar was nice. Really nice. It had just opened the past week and had a fun, vintage, speakeasy feel to it. The drinks were good, though overpriced, and even the beer selection seemed to rival Rascals’. But it wasn’t home. No one greeted me when I walked in. The pretty brunette bartender wasn’t the pretty brunette bartender I wanted to see. And she didn’t get sticky hands when she made my mojito.

  “Great place, isn’t it?” one of my co-workers, a guy named Ross, asked me.

  “It’s pretty great,” I echoed, lying.

  “Full of beautiful women tonight,” he observed.

  He was the other single guy in the office and had made it his mission to take me out places where we could meet women. Like me, he was looking for someone with particular traits, but it was only when I heard someone else describing his dream woman with a bullet-point list did I realize how fucking stupid it was to think about dating and marriage like that. Where was the room to account for chemistry or attraction that couldn’t be quantified?

  “The bartender is giving you the eye,” Ross pointed out.

  It was true—the brunette bartender was definitely glancing my way. And she was beautiful, but I wasn’t interested. Not in the slightest.

  When I had first arrived in New York, I had thought about looking up my ex, just like I had thought about doing it during my last, brief, New York trip. But even trying to distract myself from missing Juliet, I couldn’t bring myself to call.

  “I’m not in the mood tonight,” I told Ross. “Looking for a chill evening.”

  But Ross was clearly in disagreement, as he barely listened to me—his attention fixated on the bartenders—both of whom were very attractive women.

  “I’m going to go see when they’re on break,” he told me, getting up from the table. “Maybe they’ll come have a drink with us.”

  I watched him go up to the bar. The girls were clearly interested, as indicated by their smiles and welcoming body language. The brunette glanced over at me and grinned. I didn’t want to be rude, so I raised my whiskey glass in acknowledgement. I hadn’t been lying when I told Ross I didn’t want to entertain female company tonight, but maybe it was what I needed. Maybe I needed a beautiful woman to help snap me out of this funk.

  Because in the end, what was I going to do? Leave this dream job behind and go back to Chicago? The thought was way too tempting, which startled me. Was I really willing to give all of this up for a woman I barely knew?

  The problem was, I felt like I knew Juliet. Even though our relationship—or whatever someone might call it—had been brief, there had still been a powerful connection. She was funny, kind, driven. And being with her . . . I’d felt a kind of happiness I don’t think I’d ever experienced before. I felt freer, like the weight was off my shoulders somehow. I could just be me.

  Ross returned, flopping down in the couch across from me with a big smile on his face.

  “They’ve got a break in ten,” he told me. “And would love for us to buy them some drinks.”

  “Great,” I responded, hoping I could muster up some enthusiasm by the time they came over.

  But ten minutes later, I was still feeling as low as the gum on the bottom of someone’s shoe, and even less in the mood for company. Because all I had been thinking about while Ross talked about our upcoming project was Juliet.

  “Hi, boys,” the redheaded bartender said as she came and sat down next to Ross on the couch. “Thanks for the drink.” It seemed like she was quickly, and eagerly, getting cozy with Ross on the couch—to his obvious delight.

  Her friend sat, awkwardly nearby. “I’m Liam.” I offered my hand to the brunette.

  She was dressed in the usual bartending uniform of a tight black shirt and equally tight black jeans. She looked incredible in both, and I wanted to be tempted, but I wasn’t. Not at all.

  “Natalie,” she said, shaking my hand.

  “What are you drinking?” I asked her.

  “A dirty martini,” she said before adding with a wink: “A very, very dirty martini.”

  “I bet you get asked for those all the time,” I commented, not realizing until after I had said it that it definitely sounded like a pick-up line. Which had not been my intention at all. The last thing I wanted to do was to lead her on.

  Natalie grinned at me. “I’ve definitely gotten the request a few times,” she said, her voice low and sultry. “But I only make them really dirty for certain people.” She leaned closer, putting her hand on my knee. “I could make one for you,” she purred.

  She was very beautiful—and it would have been hard not to be tempted. But I felt nothing. No interest, no attraction. My mind—and apparently my heart—was still back in Chicago with a different brunette bartender.

  My disinterest registered with Natalie, who leaned back and gave me a sympathetic smile. She didn’t seem offended, just amused.

  “Something on your mind?” she wanted to know. “Or someone?”

  “You’re pretty observant,” I commented
, surprised that I was so easy to read.

  She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I’m a bartender,” she reminded me. “Being observant comes with the territory. And it makes me really, really good at my job. So . . .” She took a sip of her drink. “Do you want to tell me about her?”

  While Ross and the redheaded bartender flirted and joked across from us, I told Natalie all about the job, about the move, and all about Juliet. The words just flowed out of me. Apparently, I did want to talk about it, because I couldn’t fucking stop once I got started. It was like therapy. With booze. She listened carefully, and when I was done, she finished her martini and gestured to one of her fellow bartenders.

  “Another one for me,” she told them. “And a whiskey—wait, make it a double—for my friend Liam here.”

  “That bad, huh?” I asked when the waiter had gone to get our drinks.

  “Listen, sweetie,” she said, the sultriness gone from her voice. “I’ve been a bartender for a while, so I’ve seen a lot of lovesick people.”

  “Am I the worst?” I wanted to know.

  She laughed. “Not quite.” She patted my knee. “Be grateful about that.”

  “I don’t know.” I rubbed the bridge of my nose. “I feel too shitty to feel grateful.”

  The waiter returned with our drinks, and I took a sip of some very, very good whiskey. Natalie was going to be getting a hell of a tip when this night was over.

  “Let me put it this way,” she said, sipping her own martini. “The worst stories are the ones where the people can’t do anything about a lost love. The good news, honey, is that you still have a chance.”

  I glanced up at her. “Really?” I had a hard time believing that.

  “Yep,” she said definitively. “You just have to decide to take that chance. To take that risk.”

  I let her words sink in.

  It wasn’t all out of my control. I could still make a choice—any time I wanted.

  So did I want to enough?