“I don’t know what to say,” she told Talia. “I don’t know how to make this better except to say that I fucked up, and then I made it worse by keeping it from you. But you mean the world to me, Talia. I’d do anything to set this right.”
She just wanted her best friend to stop crying and to not be mad at her anymore. This couldn’t turn out the way it did before, with friendships ruined and everyone hurt.
That must have been was why she said the next words that popped into her mind, the words she didn’t mean and wished she could take back as soon as they were out of her mouth.
“I won’t go out with him anymore,” she said, even as her heart was shredded by the thought. “I won’t keep getting wrapped up in this, and I won’t drag you into it, either. I’m sorry I did anything in the first place.”
She was afraid Talia was still going to be upset, that she’d run head-first into the one problem that couldn’t be solved.
But Talia nodded, looking relieved. “If it were anyone else, you know I’d never say anything.”
“I know.”
“It’s just that it’s Shawn. He only does short-term, and then everyone winds up hurt and mad and not speaking to me when it’s over. We always said it would have been better if our friends had stayed away from him.”
Jessie swallowed hard, trying to keep that lump in her throat from turning into more, from letting the tears that were welling up inside her pour out. She didn’t want Talia to see her cry, to know that she’d fallen for the Shawn Effect when she wasn’t supposed to…and that, even worse, Shawn hadn’t fallen for her.
She’d lost herself this summer, putting everything she’d worked for on hold like all that mattered was how much sex she could have with some guy who was smoking hot and totally wrong for her. Take this weekend. She’d landed the biggest break of her career, getting the first pass at editing Tabitha Harris’s manuscripts, and she’d thought it was a good idea to not make sure every note was perfect?
Jessie didn’t need a man who would convince her to leave her phone at home and all her work behind and run around the city for hours as though nothing in the world mattered but her own desires. Or someone who’d shrug and say, “We’ll see what happens,” when shit hit the fan.
She needed to be with someone who was like her. Focused. Responsible. Someone who would stay home on a Saturday and work alongside her, and then go grocery shopping and do the laundry and clean the apartment and lead a quiet, normal, adult existence. The kind of steadiness her parents wanted her to have. The kind of steadiness she needed if she was going to make it in publishing, in New York, in her life.
Look at what happened when she deviated from the role that was set out for her. Look at who she hurt, without even trying.
Talia wiped her eyes and said that she was going to go up to Amanda’s and get some sleep. Jessie nodded. She wanted Talia to come home, to show that they were okay. But she knew they’d have to wait to sort out where Shawn should stay. And Talia had done so much traveling, it was clear that she just wanted to collapse.
She gave her friend a hug good night, trying to remind herself that this was a good thing. Talia wasn’t so hurt anymore. She’d done what she set out to do.
Even if she wasn’t sure she could bear the cost.
Chapter Twenty
Shawn paced around the empty apartment, clutching his phone, hoping it would ring. Anything that would give him a sign of what was going on—and what he was supposed to do now.
Jessie was coming home, right? She was going to calm down Talia, make sure she wasn’t still too upset, and then she was going to come back, and he’d apologize for the things he’d said, and she’d apologize, too, and they’d stay up all night cuddling and talking, and he’d still have her in his arms.
Only he knew his little fantasy was just that. Some game in his head that had nothing to do with the real life he was living. This wasn’t like when he’d ended things with any ex before, already thinking about what fun things he was going to next, where he might go, how it didn’t really matter because he’d have a good time wherever. Everything in him felt panicked, frozen, like he couldn’t move unless he had Jessie there to unlock him.
But the way she’d looked at him before she walked out, the mix of anger and hurt and that strange, bewildered stare like she didn’t even know him at all—it stabbed him more than any words in any fight he’d ever had. How could she say he was just “some guy”? How could she turn her back on him like that?
It felt like another lifetime ago that he’d sat on that sunny park bench in Washington Square Park and been that open, wanting her to see the real him, the one under his skin, the one inside that no one else got close enough to touch.
It had seemed so safe, like he and Jessie were the only two people in the world. Like she was his and his alone.
But that wasn’t true. If it were, they wouldn’t have been so uncertain around each other, they wouldn’t have fought, and Jessie wouldn’t have made what to her must have been such an obvious choice.
Not to stay with Shawn, but to go after Talia. Talia was her best friend, whereas she’d been clear that he was just a hookup who wasn’t worth upsetting her life over, the way she’d seen happen before. He wasn’t her boyfriend, and he definitely wasn’t someone she wanted to wake up next to every day and have by her side.
How could he have ever imagined anything else?
His heart pounded, his palms clammy as he clutched his phone, waiting desperately for one of them to call. To remember that he existed. To make this stop feeling so fucked up.
But she didn’t call, and he couldn’t be the one to bother her when she’d made her feelings clear. So he did the only thing he could think of, the only thing he’d ever done when times got tough.
He walked into Jessie’s room and picked up his clothes off the floor. He put her clothes in the laundry hamper, made her bed, and threw away the condom wrappers. In his room, which really was Talia’s room now, he dumped his clothes into his duffel bag, not bothering to fold anything. But he was careful to leave the room looking neat, so Talia couldn’t accuse him of fucking up the place.
He needed a piece of paper—hell, he needed a whole notebook if he was going to tell Jessie everything he wanted to say. But all he could find was a Post-it note. It would have to do. He just hoped she’d know that he was sorry—for what he was doing, and for putting her in this position in the first place.
He’d gotten carried away, and he’d let her get swept up along with him. But if Jessie thought he was just some guy, if she didn’t really want this, then he might as well cut his losses and go. He wasn’t just doing it for Talia, and for her friendships, but for Jessie as well. He’d tried to be the best he could for her, but they couldn’t pretend he was someone he wasn’t. Somebody worth sticking around for, sticking up for, standing beside.
He left the note on her pillow, then turned out the lights. He allowed himself one last look at her bedroom, at the apartment where he’d been happier than he ever thought possible, for endless summer weeks that had suddenly gone by in a flash.
Then he closed the front door behind him and bounded down the stairs. He’d left the spare key on the kitchen table. As soon as the door locked behind him, he knew there was no going back.
It’s better off this way, he reminded himself. No matter how much it hurt, at least now, things couldn’t get even worse.
…
Jessie pushed open the door to the apartment. Everything was dark. She was tired, and her heart hurt. She wanted to curl up with Shawn in bed and feel his strong, protective arms around her, reassuring her that everything was going to be fine.
Until she remembered that she couldn’t have that anymore, because he wasn’t right for her. And because she’d made a promise to her friend. No matter how angry she’d been when she stormed off after Talia, she had to steel her resolve not to melt into a puddle of tears on the floor at the thought of what she now had to do.
“Sha
wn?” she called. But there was no answer. He must have been already asleep.
She walked down the hallway. She looked in her bedroom. His clothes were picked up off her floor, her underwear piled on her hamper.
The door to his room—to Talia’s room—was closed. She knocked softly. “Shawn?” she called again. When there was no answer, she gently pushed it open. She expected to see him in bed, with that perfect, untroubled look he always had when he was sleeping. So unlike Jessie, who could feel herself worrying even in her dreams.
It was going to take every ounce of willpower not to crawl into bed with him, bury her face in his chest, and feel that blissful calm wash over her just from being in his arms.
But she knew she couldn’t. She had to stay strong. She’d let him sleep, and in the morning, they’d come up with a plan for him to move out and Talia to take her room back.
A plan—that was what they needed. It was what she should have had all along.
But Shawn wasn’t in his room.
His bed was made. Everything was neatly put away.
Too neat. Shawn wasn’t like that. Neither of the Lassiters were.
Jessie fought down a hard lump rising in her throat. Where was he? Why wasn’t he here when she needed him?
No. She didn’t need him. She had to stop thinking like that. He’d probably gone out for a beer or something. Why not? This wasn’t a big deal to him. Nothing was a big deal to him. That was why it was better for her to let it go.
She walked back into her room, trying to make herself shrug and not care, the way he did. But it was impossible. He was right about her—she cared too much. It sucked sometimes, but it wasn’t like she could change. It wasn’t something she wanted to change. If Shawn wanted her to care only about herself, then maybe they really were better off apart.
She went to lie down on her bed, and that was when she saw it. There was a pink sticky note on her pillow, with his distinct slanted handwriting in one of her red pens.
She could feel the tears smarting her eyes even before she began to read.
Jessie—
Looks like it’s better if we give things a clean break. Sorry for everything I started. I’ll work out the rent with T.
Stop by Thunder for free drinks any time.
—S
Once, as a kid, Jessie broke her arm climbing with Talia on a playground. Talia was going higher, faster, telling Jessie there was nothing to be afraid of, when Jessie’s hands slipped, and she fell. She landed hard with a thud that rattled her rib cage, the breath knocked clean from her chest. For a second, she lay there not moving, and what she remembered most was the strangest feeling of nothingness before the pain set in.
It was like that now, the jolt to her body, the unnatural calm. She crumpled the note in her fist. Then she sat carefully at the foot of her bed. Her heart was pounding. It all felt so unreal.
The only thing she could think through the rush of blood in her ears was how dare he.
She stood up and threw the note in the trash.
When that wasn’t enough, she took the trash down four flights of stairs and dumped it in the bins for her building, which was more what he deserved.
She moved as if a marionette, someone else pulling her strings. Pajamas. Teeth. Glass of water on her nightstand where it always went. If she did what she was supposed to, if she followed her routine, she would stay in control. And if she stayed in control, everything would be fine.
But she did all those things. She did everything she was supposed to, everything someone who was good and strong would do. And it still didn’t work. It didn’t stop the pain from coming.
It didn’t stop her from crying as she put on her pajamas, crying as she brushed her teeth, crying as she got into bed.
She sat in bed, hiccupping, so alone it felt as though her chest was splitting open, all the loneliness and sorrow and worry and fear forcing its way out.
How was it just that afternoon that she’d been happier than ever before? She was living in her dream city, kicking ass at her dream job, and she had a man by her side who himself was a dream, looking at her as though no one else existed in the world.
But all of that was make-believe, a fantasy just like the flying purple horses in Tabitha Harris’s book—the one she should have been working on all weekend instead of leaving her laptop closed on her desk, useful as an overpriced paperweight.
She’d hurt her best friend. She’d gotten dumped by a so-what note that didn’t even merit two stickies. She hadn’t touched the manuscript she was supposed to transform into something magical in order to show the world that, yes, she was right for this job, and yes, she could do it.
Only now it felt like she’d never be able to read a single word again.
No matter that she’d come home to end things with Shawn. She hadn’t meant it. She hadn’t wanted to. She’d already been trying to figure out how she could get out of it, take it all back, tell him she was sorry for fighting and sorry for leaving and sorry for not putting him first.
But Shawn wasn’t sorry about their fight, or about ending things. The only thing he regretted was that he’d touched her in the first place.
She knew she’d told Talia it wasn’t serious, but that was because Talia would have laughed her head off if she knew what Jessie had really been thinking. That for a few seconds that summer, she’d actually believed she had something real with Shawn Lassiter. Something that might last.
Only now, it looked like the Shawn Effect had seriously addled her brain. She’d been kidding herself to think that things with him were anything but casual fun. Look at the breezy note he’d left her. At least he hadn’t stuck it on the fridge.
Nice knowing you, the juice would taunt her.
You were an easy fuck, but now it’s done, taped to a container of soup.
She was an idiot. A total fucking idiot. Talia had tried to warn her. She’d known all along that anything with Shawn ended in disaster. Jessie was supposed to have known it, too. She’d gotten sucked into something she shouldn’t have, but there was no questioning it now.
She wasn’t special. Shawn wasn’t different.
And whatever had—or hadn’t—been between them was officially done.
Chapter Twenty-One
Shawn lay on Brandon’s couch, listening to bass pounding from inside Brandon’s room, whiny sex noises from one of the roommates, a video game from the second roommate, and weird thumping from the third. He had no idea what was going on in there, but he didn’t want to know.
He’d long ago given up on sleep. All he could do was stare at the ceiling and count the seconds until daylight.
Not that it made much difference. He was still lying on the couch when the guys staggered out, one by one, off to breakfast and work and whatever they were doing. He didn’t talk to them. He didn’t care. He just grunted, “Hey,” and stayed on the couch. That fucking couch with the fucking loose spring that jammed into his fucking back. That spot of peeling paint on the ceiling that he could have sworn had grown in the night.
Sun crept across the window, which probably meant he was supposed to be at work. Boiling the wort, skimming the yeast. Sitting down with Jean to pitch his ideas for a new brew. Ideas he was supposed to have worked out. A brew he was supposed to be capable of making on his own.
But he didn’t move. Jessie didn’t call, but he didn’t expect her to—not after the bullshit note he’d left her. What could she possibly say to him after he dropped her like that?
Still, it stung to know that she agreed with him that they were better off apart. He wasn’t even worth a phone call, whether to tell him off or to fight for him. She was probably relieved to come home and discover her problems with Talia had been so easily solved.
Not that his phone was silent. He had a million calls from Jean throughout the day, and night, and into the next morning. Her messages told him everything Jessie never would—even if he was sure she was thinking it, too. He was a fuck-up, a failure, a disappointment
. He could hear it in Jean’s voice, her worry, then her frustration. There were other people who could cover the basics of his job, sure. But he was supposed to be doing more than just the basics. He was supposed to show that he could do it all—and do it well.
He wanted to delete them immediately—who the fuck cared anymore? But he made himself listen to each one. It felt like a fitting punishment to face what he’d done.
“Shawn, it’s Jean here. You coming in today? Just checking to see where you are. It could be the trains are delayed. I’ll look for you soon.”
“Shawn, it’s Jean again. What happened? Call the brewery.”
“Shawn, you know who it is. I’m hoping you’re okay and there hasn’t been an accident.”
“Shawn, where are you? Alex is covering your shift but come on, this is getting ridiculous. I’m finalizing the fall lineup, and I can’t include a beer of yours if I don’t know what it is, or where you are.”
“Shawn, if you don’t want to do this anymore, at least have the decency to call me.”
Then another voice: “Shawn, it’s Kevin. What the fuck is your deal? We talked about this, man. It’s called work for a reason. This isn’t playtime. You wanted the job, and now you’re over it? Whatever’s going on, suck it the fuck up, get your ass over there, and grovel like you’ve never groveled before.”
His last message from Jean said it all. “Alex has come up with some ideas for our fall special. If you don’t want the spot, then I’m going to go ahead and give it to him. Honestly, Shawn, if you don’t show up to work tomorrow, there’s no need to come in, period.”
See? Everyone was right about him. He couldn’t even hold on to this promotion for a whole summer. Jean didn’t need him to get the job done. And Jessie didn’t, either.
It wasn’t like he and Jessie were some perfect, storybook couple and Talia was getting in the way. Talia was just protecting her friend from what she knew would be a disaster, just like it always was. The Shawn Disaster, they could call it. A fucking tornado that destroyed everything in his wake.
Wrong Bed, Right Roommate (Accidental Love) Page 16