by Lila Monroe
Right?
* * *
I finish up my meetings and head home. I have a ton of work to do—I want to check over the guest reports for myself and see if there’s anything else we can improve before the next set of guests arrive at the lake—but as I sit down with my computer, I can’t resist texting Poppy. Dinner. My place?
You can cook? comes the reply.
I grin. I can order.
She sends a smiley face in response. Be there in 30.
Luckily, I have a maid service keep this place habitable, so all there is for me to do is jump in the shower and pick out a bottle of wine. The buzzer sounds before I’ve even buttoned my shirt. “That was fast,” I say, opening the door to find—
Jasmine.
“Hi, Dylan,” she says, giving me a brilliant smile.
“Uh . . . hey.” I pause, seriously confused. The last time I saw her, she was giving me the brush-off, ready to drive off into the distance without a backwards glance. Now she’s standing in my doorway in a killer dress with a bright smile on her face like none of that ever happened.
“What’s up?” I ask.
She clears her throat. “May I come in?”
“Oh, sure. Sorry.”
I stand aside to let her in. She takes a few steps, looking around. “You have a beautiful home,” she says, taking in the apartment. “Great light. Amazing vibrations.”
“Mhmm.” I make a noncommittal grunt, still wondering what she’s doing here.
“Have you looked into feng shui at all?” Jasmine asks, moving to the windows to take in the sweeping views of downtown. “It’s fascinating, how physical objects can shift the energy flow of a space.”
“I can’t say that I have,” I reply slowly. “Is, uh, everything OK?”
“Everything’s great.” Jasmine turns back to me. “In fact, they’re better than great. I want to apologize. I think I was wrong about you.”
“You . . . were?” I stare at her, baffled.
“I guess I had you down as some kind of playboy,” she continues, moving closer. “You know, more interested in the conquest than being vulnerable and real. That’s why I kept you at arm’s length. I’ve been hurt by guys like that before, and I wanted to make sure you were different before letting this thing between us grow.”
I clear my throat. “Listen, Jasmine—”
She places a finger to my lips. “You don’t need to say anything. Your letter said it all.”
My what now?
“I can’t tell you how much it meant for you to open up and share your heart with me like that,” she continues. “You were so brave! So vulnerable! I cried.”
Seriously: what the hell?
“I think you’ve got the wrong idea,” I tell her, trying to back away. “I didn’t write you any letter—”
I stop, because of course. Poppy. Was this one of her harebrained romance schemes back when I still thought Jasmine was The One?
“I think there’s been some kind of mix-up.” I try to be tactful.
“I know,” Jasmine says. “I’ve been giving you all kinds of mixed messages, but it’s simple now. I want to be with you. And the only question you need to answer is, don’t you want to be with me too?”
Jasmine stares up at me with those big brown eyes. The eyes I used to dream about in high school, waiting for a day like this to arrive. When I would be someone worth knowing. Someone she would take a second look at.
And maybe it’s fucked up, but I can’t help feeling a flicker of pride. Because I did make it happen. And sure, I don’t want her like that anymore—Jasmine isn’t just some prize I get for winning at life—but for a moment, she’s right there in front of me, saying everything I’ve wanted to hear.
So, yeah, I hesitate, just a moment before replying. Just a couple of seconds before I’m about to turn her down.
Except I don’t get the chance.
Because I hear a noise behind me, and turn. Poppy is standing there in the doorway—and from the look on her face, she’s heard everything we just said.
And what I didn’t say.
Shit.
22
Poppy
I stand there staring in disbelief. Is this really happening right now? Jasmine is cozied up to Dylan, looking like a supermodel, pretty much begging him to be with her.
And Dylan?
He hasn’t said no.
“Poppy.” He turns, looking startled to see me. Because why would he have remembered our dinner date? The man turns to jello the moment Jasmine comes around.
I should have known.
I should have known I could never measure up, that I was only second choice to him.
“Go ahead and answer her,” I say, trying to disguise the pain suddenly ripping through my chest. “Or do you need time to think about it? Write a pro/con list, give you a chance to weigh your options.”
Dylan flinches. “It’s not like that. You’ve got this all wrong.”
“Oh really?” I swallow back a sob. “Because it sounds like you need some time to figure out what you want. Or rather, who you want to be with.”
“No!” he exclaims. “I was just about to tell her—”
“Save it.” I shake my head, backing away. I can’t bear to hear him lie to me—or even worse, let me down gently with pity in his eyes. “I know the routine now, believe me, I’ve seen you do it a hundred times. ‘It’s not you, it’s me.’ ‘We just want different things.’ Well, you’re right,” I add angrily. “It is you, and we do want different things. Like for my relationships to actually be something real, instead of just another one of your placeholder flings.”
I turn on my heel and race down the hall to the elevator. Maybe a part of me is still holding out that he’ll come after me and declare his undying devotion, but instead, the doors slide shut.
I’m alone.
I sink back against the wall, hit with a stab of pain so sharp, it takes my breath away.
How could I have been so stupid to actually think he would choose me?
In a heartbeat, all my insecurities come flooding back. The second-guessing and the fear. Always stuck feeling second best. It’s like I’m replaying the worst relationship of my life all over again . . . only this time, it’s worse. Because Dylan is twice the man Tyler ever was.
At least, I thought he was.
I spiral deeper into the aching déjà vu, and by the time I finally make it back to my apartment and trudge up the stairwell, it’s like a taunting echo in my mind.
You’ll never be his first choice.
“Poppy.”
I stop dead. Dylan is outside my door. Did the man just teleport across the city?
“How did you get here?” I frown.
“My driver is faster than the subway.”
Great. Being a rich playboy even gives him a leg up in the breakup stakes. I shake my head, unlocking the door and pushing past him. “I don’t want to talk about this.”
“Well tough, we need to.” Dylan follows me inside, and I don’t have the heart to stop him.
“So. Talk.” I fold my arms, trying to keep it together. If he’s going to let me down gently, I want to keep my dignity—if not my heart—intact.
“What happened back at the apartment, you got the wrong idea,” Dylan says, looking at me plaintively. “Jasmine showed up out of nowhere, I had no idea she would be there. She said something about a letter changing her mind . . . I’m guessing that was your doing?”
The letter. Oh crap.
“I wrote it as a Hail Mary play, back before . . . Before us,” I admit.
“I figured as much.” Dylan gives me a regretful smile. “You always said you could make anyone fall in love with me.”
I just hadn’t thought that list would include me.
I swallow hard. “It’s not what Jasmine said that’s the problem,” I tell him, aching. “It’s what you didn’t say. You didn’t tell her about us, not one word. She asked if you want to be with her!”
“And
I didn’t tell her yes!” Dylan protests.
“You didn’t tell her no, either,” I point out, feeling hollow. “It would have been easy. Just one word. But you couldn’t say it. Because you still want to be with her.”
“No,” Dylan insists, but it’s too late now.
“Did you even go break things off back at the lake?” I ask, seeing everything differently now. “Or just tell her ‘maybe later’?”
“That’s not fair.” Dylan looks stubborn.
“Isn’t it? Well, this isn’t fair on me!” I cry. “I’m not just some consolation prize you pick up when you have no better options around. I thought you were better than that. I thought this was the start of something real!”
It hurts so much to look at him, I don’t even know what to do right now. I want to throw things at him.
I want him to kiss it all better.
“You were never a consolation prize,” Dylan says, looking sincere. But that just makes it worse.
“No, I was your employee,” I say, angry at myself. “Which means I should have known better. Why did I think you were suddenly capable of an actual mature relationship? You can’t do it, it’s not in your DNA.”
“Is that what you think of me?” Dylan’s expression changes, and I feel a tiny twinge of guilt, but I’m too mad to walk it back now.
“Can you blame me?” I retort. “I’ve had a front-row seat to every no-string seduction you’ve pulled over the past year. You barely managed two whole days playing my boyfriend before you went back to your old habits!”
Dylan’s jaw tightens. “Don’t stop there,” he says, drawling casually. “Tell me how you really feel.”
His casual tone is salt in the wound. He’s not even pretending to care. “Is this all just a game to you?” I demand, furious now.
“That depends,” Dylan shoots back. “Is this all just a job to you?”
I blink. “What are you talking about?”
“It seems pretty simple . . . if I hook up with Jasmine now, you get fifty thousand dollars, don’t you?” Dylan asks, sounding bitter. “That’s one reason for you to flip out and push me back to her.”
My jaw drops.
“You think I’m doing this for the money?” My voice rises in disbelief. “I can’t . . . I mean, I don’t . . .”
I’m speechless. Actually speechless he could possibly think I care about that damn check. “You don’t know me at all,” I finally manage.
“Clearly.” Dylan turns to leave.
“So that’s it?” I can’t help asking. “You just walk out?”
“Isn’t that what you expected from me?” he replies, looking like a stranger. The charming smile is gone, and in its place, there’s a tense, detached look. “I’m the shallow manwhore, remember? Your best client. Well, congratulations. You really went the extra mile this time. I’ll put your check in the mail.”
He winks, then walks out the door, leaving me reeling.
And I finally break down in tears.
* * *
And keep crying for who knows how long, until April and Natalie find me that way: still sitting cross-legged in the middle of the living room, bawling my eyes out.
They exchange a look, and bless my friends, they don’t even need to ask what happened. April comes to give me a hug, and Natalie makes a beeline for the kitchen. “Vodka or tequila?” she asks.
I hiccup-sob in response.
“OK then: both!”
I somehow manage to drag myself up and over to the couch, where the two of them sandwich me with love and a glass of something so strong, it could strip paint.
“This is disgusting!” I gag . . . and then take another sip.
“I’m so sorry,” April comforts me, after I’ve told them everything—Jasmine and all. “Are you sure you can’t work it out with him?”
I shake my head sadly. “How about this for dramatic irony? Or is it hubris? Anyway, I’m just too good at my job. I should have known she wouldn’t resist that letter.”
“Yes, but Dylan could have resisted her,” Natalie reminds me. “I know it hurts now, but at least you saw his true colors now, and not when you’d really fallen for him.”
I wince.
“No, you didn’t?”
“I did.” I gulp sadly, feeling it hit me all over again. I let myself believe . . . I let myself hope that maybe, this time, I’d found something special. But yet again, the closest I get to real love is the words on a page I write for somebody else.
Natalie squeezes my shoulders. “Oh, babe . . .”
I take another sip of the worst cocktail in the world. It tastes like heartbreak and misery with a side of hangover, but I don’t care. I just want to make this ache in my chest go away.
I just want to stop wanting Dylan.
“If he even has to think about it for a minute, you’re better off without him,” April says loyally. “He should be lucky to have you. Begging for another chance.”
“Seriously,” Natalie agrees. “I mean sure, Jasmine has her appeal, but seriously, who would sign up to a future of vegan burgers and raw beets when they could be eating chili-cheese fries with you?!”
I sniffle. “Thanks,” I sigh. “But I don’t think Dylan was assessing our snack choices. He’s got Jasmine built up in his mind to be the woman of his dreams. I could never compete with that.”
“Well, fuck him!”
I look at April in surprise. “You never curse!”
“Well, he deserves it.” She gives a shrug and sips her cocktail, dainty.
Natalie laughs, but I can’t find it in me to smile just yet. “What am I going to do?” I ask, aching inside.
“The same thing we always do,” Natalie says, with a wry smile. “Tell yourself that you’re a strong, independent woman who doesn’t need a man, channel all your romantic frustrations into your work, and then get drunk and hook up with Tattooed Steve at the bar around the corner.”
We all wince.
“Poor Steve,” April says. “Always the rebound, never Mr. Right.”
“Hey, don’t shed a tear for the man,” Natalie protests. “He’s the one who zeroes in on a breakup like he’s got a damn radar for heartbreak.”
“Good point.”
We sit there, listening to the sound of the city outside the window. I’m grateful for my friends, but the hurt in my chest is still too fresh to bear. “He’s probably with her right now,” I gulp, imagining the two of them together, being impossibly charming and ridiculously attractive. “Oh God, their kids will be supermodels.”
“Don’t think like that,” April says quickly, but Natalie knows I prefer to rip off the band-aid. She fishes out her phone and taps on the screen, pulling up Jasmine’s social media.
“She’s at some launch party for a vegan handbag line,” Natalie reports.
“Is he with her?”
She squints. “It depends . . . do you think that’s the back of his head in the shot with her?”
I take a look. My heart falls even further.
It’s definitely the back of Dylan’s head.
“So, now I know,” I say, feeling hollow.
I stare at the snapshot, Jasmine smiling widely somewhere across the city. And why wouldn’t she be happy? She doesn’t know what it’s like to feel tossed aside, runner-up for the prize. She has the one man I wanted, more than anything. And me? I have a week’s worth of laundry, student loans I can’t even look at, and a hangover waiting for me in the morning.
“It’s over.” I sigh. “He picked her.”
23
Poppy
“. . . Her favorite movie is Titanic, so if you could maybe write something using the lyrics from that Celine Dion song? Or quote the part with Jack and Rose?”
“Sure. Because nothing says true love like freezing to death in icy waters,” I mutter, taking notes. “And, by the way, there was totally enough room for him on that raft!”
It’s Friday afternoon, weeks after my ugly breakup with Dylan—if the end
of a two-day love affair counts as a breakup, that is—and I’m back to work, meeting a prospective client at the coffee shop across from his work. Unfortunately, the place is packed and noisy, and as for my mood . . . ?
Let’s just say, I’m not the best advertisement for true love right now.
My new client, Malcolm, looks vaguely nervous. “Umm . . . Also lizards,” he adds. “She loves lizards. And she has a pet tarantula too, called Prince Harry. Can you work with that?”
“I’ll just have to, won’t I?”
Somebody jostles me from behind, elbowing me in the back of my head. “Hey!” I blurt. “Watch it, mister!”
“Sorry.” The man shrugs and moves on, and another woman takes his place in the coffee line—this one with two screaming toddlers in tow.
I begin to get a headache.
“So, what is it you need exactly?” I try to focus on the job—and not the kids having a meltdown because they lost their favorite toy.
Malcolm looks excited. “It’s our one-year anniversary next month. Well, not exactly. See, I wanted to celebrate the anniversary of the day we met, but Kitty insists it should be when we had our first date. Or maybe not. What do you think?”
I think my headache is becoming a full-on migraine. “Whatever date is meaningful for the two of you works.” I try to smile. “So . . . the job?”
“A treasure hunt!” Malcolm exclaims. “With each of the clues being a special love note reflecting on our time together, and also leading her around the city to all the spots that matter to our relationship.”
I blink. “That’s . . . very sweet.”
If he were the one doing all the damn work himself. Farming it out to me? Not quite so swoon-worthy, but hey, I’ll take any gig I can get these days.
“Something like this will take quite a bit of time,” I warn him. “And I bill by the hour.”
“Whatever you need,” Malcolm says quickly. I should have guessed from the tech-bro fleece that he could afford it. “I just want this to be special for Kitty. She really is the best thing in my life.”