by Staci Hart
18
SO MUCH NOPE.
Rose
I WOKE SLOWLY TO THE sound of those goddamn cats as my dreams slipped away. I hit snooze and buried myself for nine more minutes, chasing the dreams, trying to hang on to them, which was about as effective as trying to fish with my bare hands. I remembered something about a wheelbarrow full of saltwater taffy, then Patrick was there, undressing. Oh, I smiled to myself thinking about that part where he was holding me, his arms around me like a cage of warm, safe, awesome.
My eyes flew open.
That wasn’t a dream.
Everything came back to me, dreams disappearing in a poof as what actually happened crystalized in my mind.
I’d agreed to let him sleep in my bed again.
I rubbed my face. Way to fucking go, Rose. Grade-A fuck up.
It was the mother of bad ideas. A terrible mistake. My tired brain scrambled for a way out, to call it off because there was no way that would end well. Him being in my apartment was bad enough, never mind him being nearly naked in my bed. Nightly.
I groaned.
“Idiot. You dumb, stupid idiot.”
I remembered how much scotch I had, and the thought made me feel a little better. I’d been drunk. That was all. I was just drunk, and it was his birthday. And this morning when I agreed he could stay, I was probably still drunk. That was the only reasonable explanation.
But I didn’t have to keep letting him sleep there, even if I’d agreed. It was my bed, after all, and I didn’t think he’d push back if I put my foot down.
And so, it was settled. I’d get my ass up, get through my mid-shift, and then tell Patrick to shove off. Or at least shove out of my room.
It was then that I remembered Greg.
I picked up my phone and checked my texts, but I’d gotten nothing, which sparked a lot of weird feelings — anxiety as to why, relief that he wasn’t bugging me, hurt at the radio silence, shame because my ex had slept in my bed, even if we did nothing other than some apparently epic subconscious cuddling. My solution was to text him, try to be charming, and hope I got the chance to talk to him soon.
I lay in bed in the dark, staring at my messages, touching the screen again every minute or so to keep it from falling asleep as I tried to come up with clever. It was maybe the fourth or fifth time before I’d figured out something decent to say.
So, was it just me, or was it way too crowded last night?
I read it over again, chewing my lip before I hit send. I really hope he picked up on the sarcasm and didn’t just think I was being weird. Then I spent a few minutes regretting sending the text, wishing I’d gone with something normal, like Hey, or What’s up, or Sorry I dragged you to my ex boyfriend’s birthday party.
I blew out a breath that made my lips flap, feeling flat as a pancake. But when I sat up, pain shot through my brain, just behind my eyes. I pressed my hand into my eye socket, and two things dawned on me.
1) I had definitely still been drunk this morning when I’d agreed to let Patrick stay, and
2) I’d had far more scotch than I’d realized.
Fortunately, I’d reached Drinking Level: Expert years ago. I’d survive.
As I peeled myself out of bed, I took a body assessment. Stomach was okay, a little rumbly, but nothing a little Pepto couldn’t fix. Head was definitely a problem, but an Excedrin would put that to bed. Mostly, I just felt thick and grumpy, which wasn’t entirely new, and likely also fueled by my PMS.
I grumbled my way into the bathroom to wash my face, then back into my room to get dressed for work. I checked my phone to see if Greg had messaged back, but he hadn’t. I couldn’t even blame him, not after the weird-shit message I’d sent him.
I grumbled a little more.
A little bit later, the five-minute makeup was applied, hair was brushed and dry shampooed, still fluffy from last night, and Greg still hadn’t texted me. So I stuffed my phone in my back pocket and tried not to worry about it as I grabbed my bag and headed into the too-bright day.
Everything felt sideways as I walked the block to Habits. My sunglasses weren’t dark enough. People were smiling a little too much. People named Greg weren’t texting me back. I stopped by the small coffee shop on the corner to grab coffee and immediately burned my tongue so bad, it fried my tastebuds and scalded the roof of my mouth. My scone was stale, who knew if it even tasted good, after what the coffee had done. And the coup de grace — when I reached into my bag for my favorite lipstick, I realized there was a hole in the lining and that expensive tube was lost somewhere in between. I didn’t even have the heart to fish it out.
When I walked into Habits, the owner, Sheila, smiled at me apologetically from a table in the back where she sat across from a girl I’d never seen before, a small girl with gigantic brown eyes and long, pretty blond hair. I’m sure she was perfectly nice, a lovely girl, but my patience level at that point was somewhere around rabid dog, and when Sheila told me she was a new trainee, it took literally every ounce of willpower I had not to absolutely lose my shit.
Instead, I tried to smile, though it was about as tight as a nun’s asshole. I introduced myself to Bayleigh — she made it a point to spell it out for me — and walked back to the office, doing my very best to calm the fuck down and failing pretty epically.
I was in the process of shoving my bag in one of the small lockers when Sheila came in, looking apologetic. “Hey, Rosie. I’m sorry to spring this on you, but Brent hired Bayleigh yesterday and told her she’d start today.”
“Your brother’s not a bad-looking guy, can’t he get laid without hiring the girl he wants to nail?”
Sheila chuckled. “She seems nice enough. Maybe it won’t be so bad.”
I gave her a look. “Like Farrah, or whatever her name was?”
“Phaedra. Or Gina?”
“Ugh, Gina. Day two and she came in hungover and puked in the fucking ice well. I had to burn it right in the middle of the rush.”
Sheila laughed as a shudder rolled through her.
“I mean, most of them don’t even last three days.”
“I know,” she said with an understanding nod. “Just humor me today.”
“Sheila, I don’t know if I’ve got any humor left in me today, and it’s only noon.”
She smiled reassuringly. “Well, I’ll be here all day with you until Shelby gets here at five. Then it’s all her, okay?”
It was a fair deal in which I got to leave several hours earlier than usual, so I sighed again and tried to smile. “Okay.”
She smiled back. “Thanks. So, what’s got you sour?”
I raised a brow. “Aside from being up too early?”
“Hey,” she joked, “it’s only like twice a month that you have to work a mid, and it’s the only time we get to work together.”
“True. Last night was Tricky’s birthday.”
Her eyes widened — she knew all about, well, all of it. “Oh, yeah. That’s what Shelby said.”
“Yeah, and it was a mess because I brought a date like an idiot.”
“Oh, God.”
“And then I let Tricky sleep in my bed.”
Her eyes bugged. “Oh, God.”
“Yup. Dumbassery all around. And now I’m hungover and tired and not really in the mood to teach Bayleigh how to make Harvey Wallbangers.”
“Well, I’ll get you out of here as soon as I can, and I’ll owe you one. Cool?”
I waved a hand. “Yeah, it’s fine. Let’s just do this.”
And thus started the longest day ever.
Sheila was right — Bayleigh was nice enough and enthusiastic, but she’d never even waited tables before, which ultimately meant me telling her to just watch for the day so I could power through. But then, we got busy, and not with the easy beer drinkers. Oh, no.
First was a group of nine chicks about my age who filed in for happy hour at two in expensive clothes and humorless lips. I walked up to the table knowing full well what to expect, and they didn
’t disappoint.
I heard them refer to themselves as ‘young professionals’ as I took their drink order which consisted strictly of bullshit like cosmos and martinis — one of them specifically and pointedly requested I chill her martini glass. Like there was another way to make a martini. Every single one of them ordered a drink in a martini glass that required a shaker to make, except for one. She ordered a frozen margarita.
So I put on my fake ass smile and walk behind the bar, planning out the order in which I’d need to make the drinks to get it done as quickly as possible — first the martinis, then the cosmos. The margarita could just fucking hold its horses. — just as three more people walked in and sat at the bar. I sent Bayleigh to get their drink orders, and she came back to bear the bad news that they’d ordered an Old Fashioned, a Tequila Sunrise, and a Kentucky Mule.
I asked the universe where the fuck the gin and tonics were.
I took a deep breath and buckled down, placing the first four drinks for the bitch brigade on a beverage tray for Bayleigh. She smiled at me sweetly as she picked it up, swearing she had it, and I watched the alcohol in those glasses splash and sway as she walked away.
The second she took her eyes off the tray to look at the table, it tipped over, and four martinis hit the floor with a crash. The entire table glared at me. One of them looked at her watch with an eyebrow raised.
Bayleigh turned to me with sheer panic on her face. Mine I’m sure was as flat and cold as a marble wall.
“Go get Sheila,” I ordered, and got back to work.
And so my day continued as such. At least Sheila stayed on the floor to help me, keeping me behind the bar making drinks and away from people, which was wise. Very wise.
The rush finally ebbed right about when Shelby came in, and Sheila released me from perdition with a hug and a shot of tequila. My head hadn’t stopped throbbing, that low, dull ache behind my eyes and nape of my neck, and if I thought I’d felt flat as a pancake before, I was now somewhere closer to a crepe.
I slammed that shot of tequila like it was medicine, and Bayleigh watched me before extending a lime. I waved her off.
“That was badass.”
A short, quiet laugh huffed out of me. “No, that was desperate. Nice to meet you, Bayleigh. Sorry I was a horrible bitch today. I’d like to tell you this isn’t usual, but that could prove to be a lie.”
She laughed. “You’re fine, I get it. I’ll see you later.”
I smiled, though it was tired and sagging, then headed to the back to grab my things. I’d been so busy, I realized on my way out that I’d forgotten about Greg again. I grabbed my phone and checked it for messages.
Nothing.
I frowned. And then I decided, probably unwisely, to go to his coffee shop to talk to him. Because putting people on the spot always works out. I rolled my eyes at myself.
The truth of it was that I needed a resolution, and I wanted to apologize to him again. I needed to.
I was nervous and not optimistic as I pulled open the door of the coffee shop where he worked. He stood behind the counter, and I smiled at the sight of him, feeling better for a split second until he smiled back. Something was definitely off, but I approached him anyway, because what else could I do at that point?
I did my best to keep it breezy and cool, which was legitimately the opposite of how I felt. I leaned on the counter. “So, I was in the neighborhood and wanted to swing by. How’s your day been?”
His face told me nothing. “Good,” he answered. “Want a drink?”
“Will you judge me if I get hot chocolate again?”
He smiled. “Never. Nervous?”
“A little,” I admitted. “I wanted to talk, if you have a second?”
“Sure. Have a seat, I’ll bring it over.”
I pulled a ten out of my pocket and tried to hand it over, but he wouldn’t take it, so I stuffed it in the tip jar and took a seat at a small table near the back.
Greg sat down across from me a few minutes later and slid the paper cup across the table.
“Thanks,” I said and wrapped my hands around it.
He watched me for a second. “I’m sorry for bailing last night. But I have to say I felt a little out of place.”
I nodded, feeling like a jerk. “I’m sorry too. I can’t say it enough.”
“I mean, between you getting hauled all over the bar and the vibe between you and your ex, it was a little much for a second date. I really like you, Rose. I had a great time the other day. But it seems like you might have some …” he rubbed the back of his neck, “… baggage to deal with. I mean, don’t get me wrong. Everybody’s got baggage. But yours hangs out at your house and stares at you from across the room in a way that makes me uncomfortable.”
I let out a breath. “I really am sorry, Greg. My situation is more complicated than I guess I realized. I hate that I made you feel like that.”
But he smiled. “Don’t feel bad. I get it. I just don’t want to be caught up in the middle of whatever’s going on between you two.”
I nodded, my mouth so dry that my lips stuck together. I took a hopeful sip of the hot chocolate, but it coated my mouth like paste. I didn’t know what to even say. “I feel like a real asshole. I wanted to come talk to you because I really like you too.”
He smiled, but it was sad. “After all the shit dates I’d been on, you were a breath of fresh air. I’m not mad, Rose. It’s just that I’m not trying to get into something complicated.”
“Yeah, me neither, but it just sort of keeps finding me.”
“Well, if you ever shake it, give me a call.”
I tried to smile. “Thanks.”
“Thank you for restoring my faith in the dating game.” He stood, and so did I.
I gripped my paper cup. “I’ll see you around, Greg.”
“Take it easy, Rose.”
I kept my chin up and walked out of the coffee shop, embarrassed and annoyed, trying not to hurry away but wanting to leave my regrets behind me.
I shouldn’t have asked him to come to Habits. It was too soon to subject him to that.
I should have known better.
I spiked the hot chocolate into the first trash bin I came across as my embarrassment simmered and bubbled until it was hot and steamy and ready to blow.
19
DEAL 2.0
Rose
I WALKED TOWARD THE SUBWAY with one word on my mind.
Patrick.
Seven months had passed since we’d broken up, and he was still somehow so present in my life that I couldn’t even date without it blowing up in my face. No, somehow he was living in my apartment. Sleeping in my bed.
I flew down the stairs and through the turnstile, trying to retrace my steps through the choices that led me to where I was as I stepped onto the train.
Except it all started with a choice I hadn’t made — him sneaking in to sleep in my place. Honestly, it had started even before, when he chose to break up with me, and he chose to wave another girl in my face. It was his choices that led us here, which was exactly why he wouldn’t be staying with me anymore.
Deep down, I knew he hadn’t been trying to manipulate me by sneaking in like a thieving bastard. I knew where his intentions lie. I knew it was more complicated than I was making it out, but as I stood on the packed train during rush hour, it didn’t matter.
As far as I was concerned, everything was his fault.
If he would only let me go. If he would just stop looking at me like he did. Why couldn’t he just date? Find someone new? I mean, how many times did I have to say I didn’t want to be with him before he’d leave me alone? Because the once should have been enough.
I told him we were through, and I meant it. But he just wouldn’t listen, couldn’t get the hint. And because of that, because of the position he put me in every goddamn day by making it so painfully clear that he wanted me, I lost a shot with a guy who could have been perfect.
Frustration rolled through me like
a rumbling storm as I blew off the train and up the stairs, walking up Broadway and into our building.
I unlocked my door, scowling deeper when I found Patrick sitting on my couch. Again.
I closed the door a little harder than I should have, and he looked over his shoulder at me with an eyebrow up.
“Hey. How was your day?” he asked innocently. I could have punched him in the larynx.
“Fine.” I clipped and set my bag down on the kitchen table. A bowl was in the sink and a pot on the stove, both with noodles stuck to the edges. “Is this yours?”
“Yeah, sorry. I was going to clean that up.”
I turned around, knowing my eyes were like death rays. They zeroed in on his boots on my coffee table. “Get your feet off my coffee table.”
He moved them slowly, his eyes still on mine. “Sorry. Let me wash those dishes,” he said as he stood.
My cheeks were hot. “You don’t fucking live here, Tricky. I told you from the start that I didn’t want this to happen, you hanging out here all the time, leaving your shit in my sink, putting your dirty boots on my furniture and your toothbrush in my bathroom.”
His eyes narrowed. “Right, but then you told me I could hang out. You understand better than anyone why I don’t want to go home.”
“Yeah, well, I take it back. I can’t deal with this, you being here, you sleeping in my bed. I can’t do this, Tricky.”
“What happened?” he asked, his voice low.
I fumed. “You mean besides you scaring off my date last night? Or bringing Seth around? I think he might have been asking me out, as more than friends, or at least that’s the vibe I got.”
His body tightened.
“Yeah. And Veronica came and talked to me, too. I can’t deal with the drama, Tricky. I just can’t. You’ve got to go home.”
He took a step toward me, shoulders square, eyes burning.
I threw my hands up. “Ugh, stop looking at me like that, Patrick.”
He took another step, his eyes smoldering deeper still. “Like what?”
