by Lila Monroe
“Gemma?” Eve says as Duke presses his face into my lap. “What did I do? I’m so sorry!”
“Ugh,” I say, wiping at my face with my sleeve. “It’s not you. It’s the movie. It makes me think of Zach.”
“Because he’s rich and afraid of heights?”
“Because he’s rich and hot,” Zoey offers. “Oh, and you did him on a piano?”
“Don’t be silly,” Eve says, sweeping her arms around. “Do you see a piano in here?”
“No,” I sniffle,. “It’s none of that. It’s because I know about cars and we joked about it at IKEA and … he …” … called me pretty woman, I want to add, but by this time, I’ve dissolved into the ugly cry.
Eve leads me back to the couch. She takes the spot beside me and pulls me to her so I can let my eyes (and, if I’m being honest, my nose) leak all over her shoulder. Not one to be left out, Duke sits on my feet.
I wish it was enough to make me feel better, but it’s not, and I cry and cry until I hiccup and have no more tears.
When I come up for air, Zoey is there with a tray of my favorite things: mac and cheese, bacon, chocolate cupcakes, and wrapped CandyShack truffles.
“You really do love me,” I sniffle.
“Of course we do,” Zoey says, swiping away the junk food wrappers and setting it down on the coffee table. “Now. Do you want to tell us what happened?”
I swallow again. “He found out about the bet.”
“Oh,” Eve says.
“From Arielle,” I clarify. “I don’t know what she said, but it really hurt him, I can tell. And I know I deserve it,” I add, “But maybe if he’d hear me out ... I could explain …”
I trail off pathetically. Zoey gives me a hug. “I’m sorry. Have you tried to tell him how you feel?”
“He won’t answer my calls. Or my texts. Or the door.”
“He cares about you,” Eve insists. “It’s obvious—we saw it at the cookout, didn’t we, Zo?”
“We did.” Zoey nods. “He’ll come around.”
I shake my head. “I don’t think so. You should have seen the way he looked at me …” the memory hits me all over again. “It was awful. I really hurt him.”
“So, it wasn’t meant to be,” Zoey decides. “There are a lot of fish in the Bay Area.”
“Not like Zach,” I tell them sadly. “He’s special. I thought … I thought this could be it.”
Eve squeezes my hand loyally. “If it is, he’ll come around.”
“But what if he doesn’t?” I ask, swallowing hard. “What if this is it, and he never wants to speak to me again?”
“Then it’s his loss,” Zoey says firmly.
But even though they’re being good friends, and trying to cheer me up, I know it isn’t true.
It’s my loss.
And I’ve lost Zach for good.
* * *
Zoey starts the movie, and we settle in to watch, but even my old favorite can’t distract me from the ache in my chest.
I miss Zach.
I miss him bad.
Joking around … Hanging out … and yes, the amazing sex. I’ve never opened up like that with a guy before, felt so at ease, to just have fun and be myself. I wish I could tell him that, make him understand that he was never a hopeless case to me, but it’s too late.
Duke suddenly gets up, and starts sniffing around the door.
I look up. “Did you hear that?” I ask, my pulse leaping. “Is someone in the hall?”
I race over to the door and yank it open before he can get away. “Zach!”
But it’s not him.
“Oh.” My heart falls into my stomach. “Hi, Martin.”
“Happy to see you, too, Gemma,” he says with a smile. But the head tilt and sad eyes tell me he knows what happened. Well, he knows Zach’s side of things.
Which is the worst possible side.
“I’m sorry,” I say, trying not to let my disappointment show. “I thought you were Zach.”
He holds up a handful of envelopes. “Just grabbing some of his things,” he says.
I nod. “Where is he?” I ask casually. Hopefully casually.
Martin looks reluctant. “Out of town.” He says vaguely.
“Hiding from me.”
He doesn’t deny it, “He needs some time away.”
I fight tears and have to clear my throat before I can speak. “He won’t talk to me, but I need to explain things. It wasn’t how he thinks. Can … can you please tell him that?”
Martin gives me an unreadable look. “Fine.”
I try to see his side of it—I hurt his best friend. Of course, he’d be aloof. “I screwed up, but maybe someday he’ll be able to forgive me and we can at least be friends?”
It sounds pathetic coming out of my mouth like that, but I don’t know what else to say.
Martin gives another nod, and I slowly retreat back into my apartment.
I drop onto the couch between my friends. New tears roll down my cheeks as I think of how badly I fucked this all up—a relationship that could have been really amazing if only I’d been honest.
If only I hadn’t let my ambition get in the way of treating Zach like a person, and not a project.
“It’ll be OK,” Eve puts her arm around me.
“At least there are two guys who’ll never let you down,” Zoey adds, handing me a carton of ice cream.
I look down. Ben and Jerry.
I stifle another sob.
“I’m sorry, you guys,” I sniff through the tears. “I just don’t know what to do.”
Somewhere, Zach is out there hating me.
And that’s the thing that hurts most of all.
24
Zach
It’s been exactly seven days since Gemma’s work gala, where everything fell apart. Seven days of drowning my sorrows in cheap beer and expensive whiskey, holed up out in the woods in the damn Airstream where all this started. I figured getting away from the city—and her—would help me wipe the slate clean, but no amount of booze or bad wood-chopping can get her off my mind.
I miss her.
I hate that I miss her, but goddamn, I do.
I can tell myself we were only together a matter of days, but it doesn’t lessen the blow. I let her in. Opened up.
And it turned out, she’d never cared at all.
“Put the axe down.”
I look up. Martin is here—with Brody and Julie in tow.
At least they’re carrying bags of supplies.
“I hope there’s beer in there,” I call out in greeting. “Otherwise you can just turn around.”
Martin laughs but Julie’s smile fades a little.
“We brought takeout,” Martin says.
“And we wanted to see how you’re doing,” Julie adds.
“You can save the lecture,” I say, grabbing my beer and knocking the rest of it back. “I’m doing great. Chopping wood, building campfires, loving the outdoorsy life.”
“Zach,” Julie starts. “We’re not here to lecture you.”
I lift an eyebrow at her.
“We’re not,” she insists. “I’m not going to mention that you look like shit. Or how you need a shave and a haircut. And I’m definitely not going to tell you how those clothes should be burned.”
“I’m so glad you’re not here to tell me all those things,” I say wryly. “But seriously, I’m fine.”
Brody snorts. “Sure. Because this is the trailer of a totally fine person.”
I ignore him, in favor of the man with the takeout. “Tell me that’s what I think it is,” I say, already drooling at the smell.
“Baby back ribs and, mac and cheese from The Dancing Pig.” He puts it on the picnic table and starts unpacking paper plates and cutlery.
“This is why we’re friends.”
“We brought marshmallows, too,” Julie adds.
I bet they’re not artisanal ones, I think as I start arranging wood in the fire pit.
Damn. So much fo
r not thinking about Gemma. I focus on the fire instead—blocking memories of the time I built that fire for us at the beach, and roasted those transcendent marshmallows together.
“Are you going to come back to town?” Brody asks, kicking back in one of the lawn chairs. Dusk is falling now, and the woods are thick with the sound of crickets. “I was hoping you’d help me with my new studio—I could use a tech nerd to wire up the sound system.”
“Marty can do it,” I reply, grabbing a plate. “I like it out here. Might stay a while.”
I can feel my friends looking at each other. I know what they’re doing, but I don’t care. Anyway, they brought ribs.
“Zach,” Julie says. “We love you. Tell us what’s going on.”
I shrug. “I’m sure Marty filled you in on what Gemma did.”
“I know what she did,” Julie replies. “She helped you buy some clothes and furniture.”
“Heartless bitch.” Brody quips.
I glare at them. “It’s not that simple, and you know it.”
‘But didn’t you agree to get made over?” Marty tries a new tactic. “You knew what you were getting into.”
“I agreed to some new clothes to help her with her portfolio,” I argue. “I never agreed to be the sucker for her bet.”
“Noooo,” Julie says slowly. “That’s true and it was a lapse in judgement on her part … did she ever try to make you into something you aren’t? I mean, think about it. If you weren’t still moping after your divorce, wouldn’t you be clean-shaven? Wouldn’t you be wearing nicer clothes? Would you seriously be a total video-game playing couch potato man-whore?”
I scowl at her choice of words. Because maybe, they’re true.
“ It’s not just that,” I mutter. “She lied to me.”
“By omission.” She holds up her palms toward me. “Not excusing it. I already said she messed up there, but I think she knows it.” She looks at Martin who nods.
“How do you know?” I ask.
“I saw her when I got your stuff.” He replies.
“You saw her?”
I hate that it matters. That I even want to know what she said. “How was she?”
“A fucking mess.” Marty cracks a smile. “I mean, you’re no picture right now, but she was giving you a run for your money. At least when I saw her.”
“Oh. Good.” I scowl harder. “She deserves to be miserable.”
Except, I don’t mean that. And it doesn’t look like my friends are buying my ‘fuck her’ attitude either.
“Go home and talk to her,” Martin urges me. “Let her explain, then decide how you feel.”
I shake my head. “Drop it, guys. I’m not going anywhere. I like it out here.”
Brody does that snorting thing again.
“I do,” I insist. “It’s good to clear my head.”
And avoid running into Gemma in the hallway.
“Whatever you say.” Brody sighs. “Just promise me, no drunk wood-chopping, OK? I don’t want to come out here next week and find raccoons feasting on your body.”
“Gee, that’s supportive of you,” I quip, and he smiles.
“What are friends for?”
* * *
They stay long enough to eat BBQ and shoot the shit a while, then head back into the city before it gets too late. But I meant what I said about staying here a while longer. I’m not ready to deal with Gemma yet.
Because fuck, that girl did a number on me.
I thought we were really connecting, like this could be something great, and all the while, she was stringing me along, manipulating me for that damn bet of hers.
Except …
She wasn't manipulating me, not really. No, Gemma was upfront from the start about wanting to make me over for work. I’m the one who happily signed up to all the buffing and puffing and wax. And sure, she didn’t tell me about the contest, but would that have really changed anything?
If she’d told me from the start, what would my reaction have been?
Amusement, probably. I would have had a good laugh about it, and then helped her figure out a way to beat that bitch Arielle into the dirt.
So why do I feel so shitty, when all the pieces add up to make sense?
Because of Lisa.
I let out a sigh.
I figured I was over that mess for good, but I guess my wounds are fresher than I thought. Because all it took was a little prodding from Arielle, and I lashed out, jumping to all the worst conclusions.
A hopeless case … A loser …
Did Gemma really think of me like that? She liked to tease me, sure, but I always thought it was good-natured. I gave as good as I got, but she never seemed offended.
And as for fucking me to keep me going along with the plan …
I can’t believe that. She wanted me—and a woman can’t fake that kind of desire. Nothing about our time together was fake. It just doesn’t add up.
Dammit.
I’ve been avoiding it all week, but I can’t any longer. I have too many questions still – and there’s only one way to get an answer.
I need to give her a chance to explain. I owe her that much.
I probably owe it to myself, too.
* * *
After a good night’s sleep, I clean the trailer, pack up my shit, and head back to the city. It’s a long drive, and I find myself getting weirdly nervous, the closer I get to home.
What will Gemma say?
Will she even want to speak to me, after the way I exploded at the gala?
As I get off the elevator, I notice an unmarked box in front of my door. I grab it as I walk inside, throwing down my duffel before I open up the package to see what’s inside.
The rest of the clothes we ordered from Emilio.
I exhale.
Shirts, a couple of pairs of pants, an awesome jacket I fell in love with … looking at this stuff, I can’t pretend that Gemma forced me into changing anything.
I chose it. And it felt good.
Tucked in the box is an envelope that I assume is a bill. But when I open it, it’s a handwritten letter from Gemma.
I take a deep breath and start to read.
Dear Zach,
I’m so sorry about what happened at the gala. I never meant for you to find out about the bet that way. I wanted to tell you, I swear, but that would have meant forfeiting. I know now that I should have done it anyway. No promotion was worth using you like that. I promise, what I feel for you is real. You’re an incredible man – just the way you are. Getting to know you was one of the best things that’s ever happened to me, and whatever you choose to do now, I just want you to know, don’t ever change. For anyone.
I hope you can forgive me.
Gemma.
I suck in a deep breath.
Fuck.
She could still be lying, trying to smooth things over, but I know in my gut, this is all sincere.
I know Gemma.
I fling open my front door, and head across the hall, but before I can knock, I hear a man’s voice coming from inside.
“Come out with me tonight,” he says. “We’ll go dancing, I’ll get you drunk and then I’ll have my way with you.”
“Fine, fine, all right,” Gemma says, laughing. “That is definitely an offer I can’t refuse.”
I clench my fists, wanting to bust the door down. But for what?
She sounds happy. She’s with a guy. She’s moving on.
What did I expect?
I turn away in defeat, before giving myself a reality check. So, she thinks it’s over between us. I just have to prove to her it isn’t. Show her what she means to me, make her see, I’m the man for her.
I haven’t fought for anything in a long time, but I want to fight for her. For us.
It’s time to get back to work.
25
Gemma
After wallowing for too long, I figure the best way to move on is to throw myself into work. After all, I have a ton of new responsibiliti
es now, and between working on the new lifestyle launch, and all the post-break-up nights out with the girls, I should barely have a moment to feel sad Zach.
‘Should’ being the operative word.
Except I can’t stop thinking about him. Or reading—for the zillionth time—all of our texts.
Also for the zillionth time, I start typing him a new message. Delete it. Type it again. Delete it. Type. Delete.
Lather, rinse, repeat.
I sigh. It’s bad enough that I listen for him in the hall of our building. I’m embarrassed at how much time I’ve spent looking out the peephole when I hear a sound—and even when I don’t—hoping to get a glimpse of him.
I need to stop. It’s getting obsessive. Definitely unhealthy.
I hover my thumb over the key to erase all our exchanges. I’m going to do it this time! For real! Here I go …
I hear my name over the phone intercom.
Oh thank God!
I put the phone down and answer the intercom “Hey, Serena!”
“I’m just grabbing a coffee and then I’m ready for you,” my boss says. “I can’t wait to see what you’ve prepared!”
I grab the folder and head into her office and arrange my papers nervously. It’s our first real sit-down since she got back from Europe, and I’m excited to share my plans for the launch. Finally, she comes in and takes a seat across from me.
“All right,” she says with a big smile. “Dazzle me.”
I launch into my spiel, telling her about my plans to offer discounts to students, and service members, and how we can partner with local designers to get donations for good causes. I’ve researched lists of the best affordable services in the area—like personal chefs, and maid services—especially ones run by small-business owners we can support. Plus the ‘decorating on a dime’ workshops we can run, so we can show our clients how to do it all themselves.
“That way, they can use the skills the learn in all aspects of their lives!” I exclaim, excited.
I stop to take a breath and wait for Serena to jump in, but she’s just sitting there with a weird look on her face.
