Over and over, I wonder whether I made the right decision. It felt right at the time. Rebecca ripped out my heart with expert precision and stabbed the spiked heel of her shoe straight through its center. I was part of her fucking experiment. Of all the blows, that was the lowest. I felt used. Everything we did was to forward her academic career. It disgusts me. What’s more messed up is that the fake relationship was my idea in the first place. And I fell for her. I fell for the last person I ever thought I’d fall for. And now she’s gone.
Abruptly, the front door opens, and in walk Casey and Austin. They’re now aware of my Grey’s Anatomy addiction, since I honestly haven’t moved from the couch in weeks aside from grocery shopping and conditioning. With a muttered, “Pathetic,” Casey drops his gym bag at the door and heads to the kitchen. Austin looks at me with an unreadable expression.
“Hey,” I say.
Subtle nod. “Hey.” He takes in the living room. Empty beer cans, bags of chips, and greasy pizza boxes clutter the coffee table. I’m dressed in just my boxer briefs. A tub of ice cream that’s currently melting drenches the stack of school papers I haven’t gotten around to throwing away. Judging from the disapproval, he probably thinks I’m skirting my training, but that’s not true. I completed my weight lifting earlier before the sun was up. I couldn’t sleep.
It’s as Casey said though. It does look pathetic, even to me.
“How was the gym?” I ask, sitting up to make room on the couch.
“The usual.”
I nod. Just a guy trying to make conversation.
He looks at the credits rolling on the television screen, hands in the pockets of his gym shorts. “So now that you’re all caught up on Grey’s Anatomy, you ready to rejoin the real world?”
A subtle tension worms its way into my neck as pots and pans crash in the kitchen. Casey’s probably making a protein shake. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Austin’s not one for conflict. He usually doesn’t get involved, preferring to watch petty drama from the sidelines, which I can’t really blame him for. So his directness takes me aback when he says, “I mean you’ve been sitting here for four weeks eating your feelings while this stupid issue could be resolved if you just talked to Rebecca.”
My gaze turns flinty. I don’t appreciate his assumptions on the situation, because he has no idea what he’s talking about. “First of all, I haven’t been sitting here for four weeks straight.” Mostly. “Secondly, why the hell would I want to talk to Rebecca?” The girl who single-handedly broke my heart? Austin’s a bright guy, but sometimes—like now—he can be dumb as hell.
“I knew you were an idiot sometimes, but I never thought you were this much of an idiot.”
I heave an internal sigh. I’ve had a lot on my mind this week, especially since I signed on to play for the US Men’s National Team. I ultimately decided Manchester wasn’t for me. The only catch is, their headquarters is located in Chicago, the same city where Rebecca plans to attend grad school.
The universe has a twisted sense of humor.
“If you can break it down for me,” I grit out, trying to rein in my impatience at being insulted for no reason, “I’d really appreciate it.”
“You’re throwing away something great because of a misunderstanding. You don’t even have the entire story.”
All right. The television is off, the remote tossed to the other side of the couch. The blender whirs in the background. “She lied to me. All she cared about was the money and her research. I’m pretty sure that’s all there is to the story.” My voice can’t help but harden at the memory of the gala.
Austin turns partially away and mutters what sounds like, “Moron,” before he sends me a cool gaze that puts my back up. His eyebrow ring glints, blonde curls plastered to his head from his workout. It’s rare that I see Austin angry. Even rarer for that anger to be directed at me. He had a difficult childhood. An alcoholic mother. A father who was out of the picture. I’m amazed that he escaped such a brutal situation with the amount of patience and calm.
“Look,” I tell him. “I get it. I really do. You liked her. Everyone did.” Hell, even Coach once mentioned how clear-headed she was. “But she played us all, Austin. She did.” My throat bobs with the effort of swallowing. “It’s bad enough that I might run into her at some point next year.”
“Rebecca’s not attending the University of Chicago.”
Somewhere deep inside my chest, I feel a large twinge. My response is slow to come. “What?”
“I said,” he repeats, more slowly, “Rebecca’s not attending the University of Chicago.”
It feels like I’m having an out-of-body experience. I hear what my friend is saying, but it’s not processing. Or maybe it is, because the bottom suddenly drops out of my stomach. Even when I want to hate her, all I remember is how free it felt to be with her. How she felt like the home I never had. “What are you talking about? That was her top choice for schools.”
“Was her top choice. It’s not anymore.”
Is it ridiculous that I feel jealous over the fact that my best friend found out something about Rebecca before I did? “How do you know this?”
“Because I talked to her.”
“When?”
“Three weeks ago.”
There are so many things I want to ask him. How does she look? What’s she doing with her life? Does she miss me?
Does she love me?
The blender stops, and Casey stomps down the hall and slams his bedroom door. I swear, he gets broodier every week. “And you didn’t think to tell me this?”
He shrugs. “What was there to say? You didn’t want to talk about her. I didn’t see the point in bringing it up.”
My teeth grind together. Austin isn’t wrong. Any mention of Rebecca made me want to punch a hole in the nearest wall. However, I’ve calmed down these past weeks. Distance has been good to me. “So you were just going to keep it to yourself?”
My friend’s silent on the matter. Let me tell you a secret. If you want to speak to someone who won’t shut up about something? That person’s not Austin.
“Austin. Come on, man. Throw me a bone. Why isn’t she attending UC?” My heart races, each beat touching the next as it flees ahead.
Maybe he takes pity on me—I mean, I’ll admit I look pretty pitiful these days—because he runs a hand through his hair and answers, “Financial troubles. That money you paid her for the fake relationship? She was going to use it to pay off the debt she owed to Duke.”
This is news to me. “What debt?”
“Tuition. Since she didn’t pay off the debt on time, she wasn’t able to receive her diploma. She won’t be accepted into graduate school until the debt is paid. UC wouldn’t take her.”
I can’t believe it. Rebecca wanted to attend UC more than anything. The times when we spoke about her future career, she had a look of such wonder and hope. “If she didn’t use the money to pay the school, what did she use it for?”
“She didn’t use it. She ripped it up.”
I want to say he’s lying, but the oily feeling in my gut tells me maybe he’s not, that maybe I overlooked some important characteristic in Rebecca. “But she cashed the check. I gave it to her.”
By now, I’ve lost count how many glares Austin’s given me. Enough to last me for a while, at least. “Just because you gave it to her doesn’t mean she used it. Have you looked at your bank account lately?”
Well, no. I’m too chicken-shit. I assumed it had been cashed as a worst-case scenario.
My voice grows quiet as this new information sinks in. “Is that the only reason why the school wouldn’t take her?”
“She was accepted into the program on the promise that she graduate with high honors,” he says, leaning forward to swipe a bunch of beer cans into an empty cardboard box at my feet. “But she dropped her thesis.”
“What?” I bolt upright, dizzy from one too many beers. “Why would she do that?” That program was everything
to her. To think she threw it all away. It can’t be true.
“So, what then?” I begin to pace, footsteps soundless on the rug. The silence allows my doubts to poke through the soil from where I’d buried them. “She’s not going to graduate school?”
Austin passes me the cardboard box full of beer cans, which I take to the kitchen and dump in the recycling bin. When I return, he says, “She had to defer her acceptance until next year.”
I can’t believe it. She didn’t use the money. Didn’t cash the check. Didn’t go through with the research. I feel ill and exhilarated all at the same time. When she came clean at the gala, I didn’t believe her. Wanted to believe the worst of her for hurting me this way. And now her dreams are crushed. Because of me.
I’m already halfway to the door, unaware that I’m only wearing my boxer briefs. “I have to talk to her.”
“You won’t find her.”
I stop with my hand on the door handle. “What?”
“Rebecca left three weeks ago. She went back home to live with her parents.”
Shit. Shit.
I’m such a fool. Yeah, what she did was shitty, but it was never intentional. She was doing what needed to be done to reach her goals. It’s what I would have done too.
“Where does she live?”
“How should I know?”
“Maybe because you always know?” I ask, trying to remain steady. It doesn’t quite work as well as Austin manages it. I need to tell her I forgive her, that I made a mistake. But mostly, I need to tell her that I love her.
I yank open the door when Austin says, “Mitchell?” And I didn’t think Austin could get any more serious, but when I face him again, he says, “Don’t make the same mistake I did. Don’t push someone you love away out of fear. When it’s right, you’ll know.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about. This is a piece of Austin’s past he’s never told me about. I know one thing though. Rebecca hasn’t seen the last of me. I will find her.
But first, I need to speak with my father.
Chapter 28
rebecca
“How are we all doing tonight?”
The couple seated in the corner booth glance up from their menus. The man is dressed in a tuxedo, the woman in a stunning blue sequined dress that drapes across her shoulders and flows to the floor. Dragonfly is located in the more affluent part of town, so poise and elegance are the norm here. But sometimes there’s just another level of wealth. That old, old money where diamonds are as common as table salt.
The woman nods at me coolly. The man returns to perusing the menu without bothering to acknowledge me. Unsurprising.
Do it for the money. Do it for the money!
I force my smile wider. I’ll kill them with kindness.
“My name’s Rebecca and I’ll be your server for the evening.” Not that they’ll use my name. If they do, it’s generally a butchered version of it. I wonder what it will be tonight. Rachel, maybe? Once I even got a Raymond. “Is this the first time you’ve dined with us?”
“What are the specials?” the woman demands.
Yeesh. I was getting to that. It’s not like they aren’t listed on the menu the hostess handed to them when they sat down. “Well,” I say cheerfully, clasping my hands together, “for our appetizer we have clams baked in a most divine coconut milk spiced with jalapeño for a little kick. For our main course, it’s a seared halibut with truffle oil couscous and broccoli rabe with warmed pecans. Lastly, for dessert—”
“What about drink specials?” It’s the man this time. He still hasn’t looked at me.
I force my grin in place. “It is happy hour, so we have one dollar off house wines and beers. All specialty cocktails are ten dollars,” I add, pointing to the happy hour menu. “We have a new Merlot imported from Tuscany that has quite the bold pallet. I highly recommend it.” Lies. I’ve never even tried it.
The man purses his lips in thought. “The quality is going downhill,” he murmurs. Like I can’t hear him.
Instead of saying something snippy, I wait. Even if their service is hell, I’ll deal with it in exchange for a nice tip.
My dad, who’s friends with one of the owners of Dragonfly, was able to pull some strings to get me a serving position here. I’m in the fifth week, and while the clientele is snootier than what you’d find in your typical college town, the pay is ten times better. I’ve been working around the clock, picking up every extra shift available. At this rate, I might even be able to pay off the debt in as little as three months.
Once the patrons choose the most expensive bottle of wine on the menu, I head to the back to put in their orders. The restaurant is small but open. The walls are a pale gray. White linen tablecloths. Empty picture frames painted pale yellow and robin’s egg blue adorn the walls, with old black and white photos. Aside from the low murmur of conversation and the classical music playing in the background, it’s mostly quiet.
“Becca.” One of the hostesses waves me over. “I sat someone at table ten.”
I’m on it.
The man is tapping away on his phone when I approach. “Good evening, sir. Welcome to Dragonfly. My name’s Rebecca and I’ll be your server for—”
He lifts his head, and the words shrivel up in my mouth.
Mitchell. I can’t believe I didn’t recognize him.
After over a month of no contact, I convinced myself it was over. But he’s smiling at me, and it takes every ounce of will in my body not to collapse as he says, in that voice that’s both familiar and warm, “Rebecca.”
My pulse surges. It seems I am, in fact, still breathing. Good to know. The way he says my name, a tad low, makes the blood pound between my legs.
He looks good. His hair has grown out some and brushes his shoulders, but I suspect he’ll get it cut soon. Surprisingly, his skin looks a bit paler. Soccer ended weeks ago, so maybe he isn’t spending as much time outdoors.
“What are you doing here?” I stammer. Now that some of the initial shock wears off, I remember all the things I tried to forget as I attempted to pick up the pieces of my shattered heart and move on. The gala, the tears, the meeting with Dr. Stevens, and the long nights I spent—still spend—crying myself to sleep because my chest feels like a gaping wound. And yet here Mitchell sits, completely at ease, one arm slung across the back of the booth, watching me.
“I was in the neighborhood, as a matter of fact.” He glances at the menu without appearing to read it and sets it down. Returns his gaze to mine.
“But I work here,” I say, since I can’t speak in complete sentences when he looks at me.
“It seems so.”
“You knew I worked here.” It’s not a question. My hometown is a speck on the map. Most people haven’t even heard of it. There’s no reason for Mitchell to come here.
He shrugs. “Coincidence, I guess.”
It’s no coincidence, but—fine. It doesn’t make one difference to me whether he’s here. He’s a paying customer. I’ll serve him to the best of my abilities, and then he’ll be gone from my life. Forever. I tell myself it’s what I want. My fingers tremble as I smooth out the pad that I write my orders on. “Can I get you something to drink, sir?”
“A Newcastle and a martini, please. Dry.”
My stomach flips, and it’s a struggle not to reveal how those words pain me. Is he meeting someone? Another girl?
Ugh, shut up, Rebecca. Who cares if he is? It’s not like he wants to be with me. I broke his heart, remember? It’s none of my business. I have to say though, he doesn’t look too torn up about seeing me. Maybe he’s already moved on.
At the thought, my throat cinches tighter, and my eyes start to itch with rising tears. If I stand here any longer I’m going to be reduced to a sobbing mess.
“Be back with your drinks shortly,” I croak, before fleeing to the employee restroom, which, thankfully, is a single stall.
My eyes sting, and I press my palms to them, wishing I was anywhere else but here
. The past five weeks have been difficult. To suddenly be back at home after four years feels like a step backward. I have no friends. They’ve all moved away. The people I do know are ones I’m not interested in being friends with, as they’re all drug addicts or drop-outs or alcoholics. So it’s just been me and my parents, once again learning how to cohabitate.
I miss Duke. I miss the togetherness that college brought me. I miss Katie, who I haven’t seen since she helped me move home. Now she’s at Johnson & Wales, studying restaurant management. That’s all the way in the northeast.
But mostly, I miss Mitchell and how he made me feel. Like I was someone worth loving.
It doesn’t make sense to me. Why did Mitchell show up here? To make me feel worse about myself? The world becomes a hot, stinging blur as tears streak down my face. I said I was sorry, and I am. It’s been near impossible for me to forgive myself for hurting him. Maybe I deserve this punishment. God knows I’ve been telling myself this.
If he’s going to pretend that us being together meant nothing, then I suppose I’ll have to pretend too. For my own sake. I don’t want to look weak in front of him, needy. I don’t want him to know just how badly I want him in my life.
Someone bangs on the door, jerking me away from my tumultuous thoughts. “Hello? Can you hurry it up?”
Sighing, I pick myself off the ground, wash my hands, my face, and put in his drink orders at the bar. It’s a Tuesday night, so it’s slower than the weekends. I make my rounds, doing my best to keep my misery at bay, then return to pick up his drinks. A Newcastle and a dry martini, just like he wanted. I almost ask another server to deliver his drinks, because I don’t want to see who he’s having dinner with, but in the end, I decide it’s best to suck it up and face him.
When I return to his table, his phone is gone and he watches me approach. His date isn’t here yet. “Are you ready to order?” I set down the drinks.
His smile fades. “You’ve been crying.” Somber eyes.
I had hoped he wouldn’t notice. Then I realize that’s a stupid thing to hope. Mitchell notices everything.
Playing the Field ebook final draft Page 22
