by K. Bromberg
Slade
I stare at the ceiling of my bedroom.
My body and mind tired but thoughts running wild with the one thing I can’t stop thinking about even through the exhaustion.
Blakely.
My goddamn heart jumps out of my chest every time I so much as think her name.
It all begins and ends with the heart.
The irony.
She’ll come around. She’ll pick up the phone. She’ll . . . I don’t know what.
She has to.
This broken heart shit is for the birds.
Blakely
“You’re shitting me,” Kelsie says as she looks into my living room where I’m sitting on my newly plumped and fluffed pillows.
“What?”
“This is what he texts you?”
I jolt in awareness, and then shove the misery I’m trying to hide back down. “It’s no big deal.”
“C’mon, Blakely. I’m not going to give up until you talk to me. How long are you going to stay mad?” she says, reading his text aloud to me. “I mean, that sounds all kinds of sweet to me.”
“You call it sweet, I call it stalkerish,” I lie and give her a tight smile before taking a sip of my wine. The texts are getting harder and harder to resist, but his sweet-hearted nature only proves why I don’t deserve him. “Isn’t there some kind of rule somewhere that says don’t fall in love with your rebound?” I shrug. “And I didn’t, so sue me.”
She walks around the island and leans her butt against it as she studies me, the expression on her face one I know from years of friendship. It says she’s not buying it, and I’m not in the mood for a Kelsie lecture. Not when I’ve been miserable for the past seven days with a heartache that I keep trying to convince myself is because I’m doing the right thing for once.
And not for myself, but for him.
I can be unselfish.
That’s what I’m being.
And if I keep telling myself that, then maybe I’ll start to believe it.
Maybe.
“So sue you?” She chuckles. “What are you, ten years old?”
I lean my head on the back of the couch and look to the ceiling. It’s way easier to study the drywall than it is to meet her eyes and let her see how miserable I am.
“You don’t understand.”
“Huh.” She remains silent until I look at her. “What I don’t understand is why you won’t just save face, tell him your imagination went a little wild, that you overreacted, and apologize. You know, the truth.”
“The truth is I read too much into everything. I mistook the fun, no-strings-attached retreat, and made it more in my mind because he was the first man who made me feel good again since Paul . . . so, of course, it was easy to mistake feeling good for having feelings.”
“It is, and that was a whole mouthful of words where you mentioned the word ‘feel’ three times just to prove you don’t have feelings. If we’re going to talk like ten-year-olds, then here’s mine: ‘I spy a lie.’”
“Whatever.”
“Oh, there’s another juvenile response. We can do this all night, the back and forth, or you can tell me why you’re suddenly running away from one of the best things that’s happened to you like he has the plague.”
“I am not,” I assert.
“You are too.” She takes a sip of her wine as my phone beeps the second alert on the text. “And the only thing I can figure out is that you really, really like him and now that you realize it, you’re scared to death.”
“Aren’t you the one who was applauding me for hitting it and quitting it?”
“I was wrong.”
I do a double take, coughing on my sip of wine. “What was that?”
“I was wrong,” she says it so matter-of-factly that all I can do is laugh.
Kelsie is never wrong. Ever. Just ask her. She’ll tell you.
“Have some more wine. It’ll make you realize the error in your ways and comment.”
“No error.” She shrugs. “It’s the truth. I was wrong Blake. You really do like him, don’t you?”
Her stare is unrelenting, and tears well in my eyes under its intensity. All I can do is nod. “I just need time to think.”
“About what? About how you’re going to call him up, apologize for being irrational, and set a time to go have that date where you’re going to confess to him that the few nights in the middle of the woods wasn’t enough? That you want more? Him and his kit and caboodle?”
She offers me a half-assed smile with a waggle of her eyebrows, but it doesn’t help with the sudden panic clawing its way up my throat.
“Any man who makes me this kind of crazy, jealous bitch . . . I mean, do I want that? Do I want to be that person?”
“Maybe that means he’s worth it.”
“You’re just arguing to fit your narrative,” I say while secretly clinging to her words.
“Think what you will.”
But there’s a nonchalance to Kelsie’s words and demeanor that almost makes me want to fight to prove her wrong. If anything, my best friend is never blasé. She’s passionate and in-your-face and this change of demeanor has me digging my heels in strictly to make a point.
Or make myself believe my own lies.
“So, what?” I set my glass down and cross my arms over my chest. “You’re telling me I should boil bunnies and go crazy over him, and you wouldn’t be worried?”
Her sigh is slow and frustrated. “That isn’t what I’m saying Ms. Dramatic. What I’m saying is with everything that’s happened, cut yourself some slack. Being scared is normal.”
“Look, I was married to a man who always put work first . . . do I really want to go that route again? I mean—”
“That’s the lamest excuse I’ve ever heard. What’s your next one because I have all night to debunk every excuse you’re going to throw my way.” She plops down on the couch across from me. “You like the guy. You want to explore what else there could be. It’s okay to admit it, to want it, while also being a bit overwhelmed by it.”
“You aren’t supposed to be encouraging me. You’re supposed to be telling me I hit it, I quit it, and now I need to move on.”
“I’ve never seen you like this before. Defensive when you want to believe what I’m saying.” With a shake of my head, I start to reject her words when she holds up her hand to stop me. “I’ve never seen you so miserable. You’ve been moping around all week. You’re angry and cynical when you’re typically not. You refuse to talk about The Bachelor with me because you say love is stupid and can’t be felt that quickly.”
“It’s true.”
“You’re living proof that’s a lie.”
“For Christ’s sake, Kels—”
“He made you happy. He made you come alive. Why would you throw that chance away because of some stupid notion that you aren’t good enough for him because you had one minor meltdown over him having to break a date with you?”
“He’s supposed to be a rebound,” I whisper, the fight I was putting up now nonexistent with her words.
“Oh, Blakely. Who am I to say he was just a rebound when it seems without him you fall flat?”
“You know more than anything that a man should not make or break the person you are. I let Paul do that to me. Never again.”
“But Slade’s not Paul and you’re fighting against him as if he is. Slade doesn’t have to make or break you as a woman, but he sure as hell can help you shine.” She moves to sit next to me, her smile soft and knowing as she places a hand on my knee and squeezes. “Slade helped you shine. He made you see yourself in the same light I see you in but could never get you to believe was and is real.”
“I’ve made a royal mess of this, haven’t I?”
“Kind of.” She scrunches her nose as I flop back on the cushions.
“Great. I’m supposed to be this strong, new Blakely, and instead I’m the old one: whiny, indecisive, insecure, and lonely.”
“You’re goi
ng to slip sometimes. That’s to be expected.”
“But I slipped with someone I care about.”
“There’s a surefire way to fix it,” she says as she rises from the couch, walks over to where my phone is, and tosses it onto the couch beside me. “I’m gonna get going. I think there’s a call you need to make.”
Slade
“Hello?”
Her voice. That voice. It has relief flickering through me.
“Hey. How are you?”
“Good. Terrible.” She laughs, and I love the nervous edge to it because, for some reason, I can relate to the sound of it.
“Well, those two things shouldn’t be mutually exclusive so should we break each one down?” I ask.
“Why do you do that? Why do you try to make me feel at ease when I’m the one who should be apologizing to you?”
I chuckle. “Come again?”
“There’s something about you, Slade, that immediately makes a bad situation feel so much better. It’s maddening.”
“I’d think it’s a good thing,” I say.
“It’s maddening only because I wish I could do the same. But I’m stalling. I’m focusing on that instead of why I called.”
“It’s good to hear your voice.”
“See?” She laughs, and it’s a little lighter this time. “There you go again, trying to put things at ease when I’m the one who needs to be doing that.”
She’s adorable when she’s flustered. I know I can’t see her through the line, but damn it, she’s adorable.
And I miss her.
“Then by all means, Ms. Foxx, the floor is yours.”
Silence blankets the line followed by an audible inhale. “I screwed up. It’s hard for me to say that, but I screwed up, and I made all kinds of excuses to myself why my screw up was justified, but in the end, they were all stupid. I’m sorry.”
That’s three screwed’s.
I smile. It’s the most honest smile I’ve had in the last ten days because it reminds me of the night we met—her diatribe and what happened afterward.
And I know this—whatever this is—is going to be okay.
“We all screw up.”
“Yes, but I pushed you out. You called to cancel, and I understand why, but in my head, I made it out to be more than it was and then, of course, I felt like an idiot when you told me the real reason. I was too embarrassed to admit I was being selfish and . . . I’ll stop myself now.”
“Please. Continue.” I settle back into my couch. “I like hearing you talk.”
“Slade.”
Christ. Her voice. My name.
“I apologize that I didn’t give you more. I was flustered and left my phone in my locker. You deserved an explanation.”
“You don’t need to apologize for anything. It’s my fault. Totally my fault. I’m supposed to be the new Blakely, but when I heard a woman laugh in the background, I immediately—”
“I’m not Paul. Far fucking from it.” And the truth comes out. How did I not see that before? She thought I was making excuses, which I can understand given her history. Understandably she’s insecure and maybe drew the conclusion that I had moved on. Doesn’t she get I don’t think I could move on? Hell, I’m having a hard enough time just trying to get through an hour without looking at my phone hoping she’ll call.
“I know you aren’t.”
“And the lady who laughed was the florist who I was buying flowers for you from.”
“Oh.” There’s that sound I love that she makes. “I don’t want flowers—I mean, I like them, but I don’t need flowers.”
“Unless they are peonies?”
Her laugh is quiet before she says, “Except peonies.”
Even though she doesn’t say anything else, I can hear her smile over the silence.
“What is it that you do want, Blakely?”
“You.” She makes a strangled sound. “I mean to see you. Like so I can fulfill my end of the deal we made.”
You.
Her first response was the right one.
It’s the same goddamn one I have.
Question is, what does that mean in the scheme of things?
“I think I can manage that,” I say playfully. “In fact, it would be the highlight of my week.”
“Really?”
“Mmm-hmm. Meet me where we first met. Seven o’clock. This Friday night.”
“I’ll be there with bells on.”
I end the call, toss my cell onto the couch beside me, and close my eyes.
I’m fucking exhausted, but hell if that didn’t just make everything all better.
She called.
Thank fuck for that.
Blakely
My breath catches when I see him sitting there. He has on the same black T-shirt and dark jeans that he was wearing the first time we met.
I put a hand to my stomach where butterflies take flight and know it’s now or never.
With my other hand on my purse and the napkin inside, I make my way to the bar and slide onto the barstool beside him, smiling when I notice the whiskey the bartender sets in front of me.
He remembered.
I want to look at him, just drink him in and make up for all the lost time, but instead, I keep looking straight ahead as I take a sip, my heart beating a million miles a minute.
“Now that’s a drink,” Slade says beside me. “I would have pegged you for a red wine type of girl.” His knee bumps against mine. “Or is that whiskey?”
“Mm-hmm,” I murmur.
“Rough day, then.”
“Rough week, actually.”
It’s taking everything I have not to turn to him and see those eyes and that smile of his.
“What happened? Did your boss piss you off?”
“I am the boss now.”
“Impressive,” he murmurs. “Your car break down?”
“Nope.” I take another sip. “I told my ex off the other day. That was a bright spot in the week.”
I feel his body jolt beside me, but I keep looking ahead, keep playing this game because there is so much I need to say to him, but I know the minute I turn to him all that’s going to come out is I’ve fallen in love with him . . . and he deserves to hear it all.
“He probably deserved it.”
“He did, but he isn’t worth wasting my breath on.”
“Smart lady.” He hangs his head and chuckles. I see him in my periphery, and my fingers itch to reach out and touch him. “So, it isn’t the job or the car or the ex . . . may I ask what it is that made your week so rough?”
“You see, I met this guy.” I finally turn to face him, and what I thought would happen, happens. My words slip away—hell, the world slips away—when our eyes meet just like that first night. Back then, my loss of words was because he was strikingly handsome and I wondered why in the hell he was talking to me. Now I know there is so much more to him than his looks, and I don’t want him to stop talking to me.
He offers me a lopsided smile. “Lucky guy.”
“That depends how you look at it,” I murmur, afraid to look away and miss one more second of everything about him.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I met this guy. He was pushy and handsome and so goddamn nice that I couldn’t say no to him when he insisted he spend time with me. He was unexpected and not even on my radar. He brought out sides of me I never knew I had, and . . . and now, I’m not sure what to do about him.”
“What’s there to worry about if you like him?” He angles his head to the side as he braces his hand on the back of my barstool. His thumb rubs up and down over my bare shoulder, sending electric currents through my every nerve.
“There’s everything to worry about.” I chuckle when all I want to do is reach out and touch him in turn.
“Like?”
“Like how I tell him I like him more than I should. Like how I keep thinking about him and how much fun we have and wondering if that’s what it would always be like. Then I worr
y if our connection was so strong simply because we were removed from reality and now that we’re back, it wouldn’t be the same.” I suck in a breath of air and continue before I lose my nerve. “Then there’s the fact that he’s such a genuinely good guy that I wonder every day if I deserve to have someone like him—I mean if he were to want to have me, that is. Add to that he makes me boil-bunny crazy with how much I want him, but I’m afraid to tell him or put my heart on the line because I’ve been told in the past he doesn’t typically stay with one woman for very long—”
And before I can finish the litany of things I want to say, Slade’s lips are on mine. I try to keep talking, to keep explaining, to plead with him, but he just puts his hands on both sides of my face and slips his tongue between my lips to stop me.
I’ve never been told to shut up so perfectly.
I don’t care that we’re in the middle of this trendy bar where people are probably thinking how tacky we are because they don’t matter. Not a single person or any of their opinions do. The only thing that matters is him and this moment and the hope that is surging through me.
He ends the kiss with a brush of his lips and then pulls back ever so slightly with his hands still framing my face. “Boil-bunny crazy?” He quirks an eyebrow. “Something tells me that should concern me.”
“Okay, Ted Bundy.”
His grin is as wide as mine as we stare at each other like teenagers, drinking in the moment.
“Touché.” His thumb runs over my bottom lip. “So, about this guy?”
I laugh. It’s loud and rich and carefree and feels so damn good after the stress of the past week.
“I think maybe my fear was preventing me from accepting how I felt about him and I think he felt about me.” Hope resonates through my voice and the little boy look on his face has me melting.
“Love is sometimes hard to accept,” he says.
“And sometimes it’s so effortless it’s scary.”
“Maybe that’s when you know it’s right.” He brushes his lips against mine again.
“Wait. Love?” I ask trying to pull back, but he holds me in place as his lips smile against mine.
“Yes, love.”
