by Max Monroe
I could have been the butt of many jokes, the object of numerous men’s end-of-world postulation, but I couldn’t find it in me to care. And it was clear I’d been feeling that way for the greater part of the morning.
Cutting short a meeting with Wallace Fellers, one of my biggest regular investors, and heading straight for the airport only to chase Georgia’s plane across the country was not exactly precedented behavior.
The flight attendant’s phone rang, and my head jerked up from my lap at the sound.
Gemma laughed as she hung it up and showed compassion for my pitiful existence by delivering the news from air traffic control immediately. “She should be on the ground, sir.”
Phone in hand from the cupholder at my side, I scrolled to her number and dialed.
Two short rings gave way to her voicemail, and I hung up without leaving a message.
I knew it was crazy, dialing someone the moment the wheels of their plane touched the ground, obsessing over their arrival so valiantly in an effort just to hear their voice that I couldn’t wait the five-minute security delay a Google search would imply.
But I was a very sick man, the first stages of love overwhelming my cells and multiplying by the minute. It was aggressive like most terminal cases, taking down one organ after the next until I had no choice but to succumb—succumb to the crazy, desperate lengths to make contact and the desire to swaddle myself in her presence and never unwrap.
I typed out a text instead.
Me: After a few bribes and several heinous displays of my money and influence, I got the FAA to give me an exact schedule of your arrival time. Call me as soon as you can.
Several minutes and an intense one-man conversation later, I added the words I should have included in the first place.
Me: PS-I love you.
When she didn’t answer immediately, I knew I was one short step away from throwing myself off the proverbial ledge. I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to do something else, be something else—if for nothing more than the sake of my poor, overexcited heart.
A nap. That was the only answer.
Determined, I sunk into my seat, reclined the back, and forced my eyes closed.
I pictured her smile and her hair, and as I focused really hard and gave myself over to the dream, I could even smell her perfect Georgia smell.
I woke hours later to the jolt of our wheels meeting the pavement of the runway. Gemma smiled and waved as my eyes met hers, and I jumped to pull my seat back to upright and grab my phone from the cupholder.
No messages showed on the screen, so I unlocked it to be sure, but no amount of hope could make the status change.
Nothing.
No calls. No texts. No messages from Rose. I checked each and every folder rigorously, searching for some phone-cyberspace loophole that’d robbed me of the one thing I desired so much.
But ten minutes and a mild case of carpal tunnel later, I still came up empty.
I prided myself on being a smart man, and something didn’t feel right.
But I quieted my thoughts with the power of sheer will and unbuckled my seatbelt as we pulled to a stop.
She’d had a meeting to get to immediately upon landing, and as much as I’d bitched about her waiting for a later plane, she’d already had it scheduled to the very last possible minute.
With New York as her habitat, it probably took every ounce of concentration and a pledge of sainthood to make it there on time, in one piece, and with an inkling of schmooze left in the tank. She wouldn’t have much left for me.
I moved to the front of the plane, re-strategizing on the fly and focusing on the element of surprise. I was here, in the same city, free to chase her down until the sun came up if I had to. She didn’t know I’d flown home earlier than expected and keeping it that way would only amplify the reunion.
Jesus. Yeah. I liked the sound of that.
“Thanks, Gem,” I said, giving her a genuine smile as she stepped to the side of the main cabin door to let me by.
“Anytime, Mr. Brooks.”
I took two steps down the stairs when she called my name again. I looked back at her over my shoulder.
“She’s very lucky, sir.”
I shook my head and laughed.
“Me,” I corrected, tapping my chest with a wink before scooting down the rest of the stairs to a waiting Frank.
He stood, holding an open door and wearing a smile.
“Mr. Brooks.”
“Hey, Frank,” I greeted. “Straight to the office, okay?”
I’d start at the beginning and work my way around the city until I found her from there. I couldn’t wait to see her face.
“Yes, sir.”
The lights of the office were dimmed enough that they rubbed off on my hope, but I headed for the back anyway. As long as I was here, I’d check my desk for messages and change into one of my spare shirts before heading for Georgia and Cassie’s apartment.
I kept my pace to a near jog, but considering the strength of my desire to run, I counted it as a victory.
My door was cracked, the lamp at my desk illuminating the immediate surrounding space softly. My eyebrows pulled together at the sight, but I didn’t slow my gait, striding for the beckoning light at a canter.
The surface was clear except for two loose sheets of paper. I shuffled them to the side in a hurry, grabbing for the tray at the back where Pam often placed my messages when the photocopy caught my eye.
It looked like a screenshot of a message window on a phone.
At the top, a few short strokes of delicate scrawl demanded my immediate attention.
Ruck,
Of all the people in the world…my best friend?
I hate that I still love you after seeing this,
but I can’t be with someone who lies to me.
This doesn’t hurt good.
Benny
One word bled into the next as I tried to make sense of the simple sentiment, but a mushrooming cloud of dread jumped and swooped, swallowing me whole.
Bold and cruel, the screen of the messaging page of the TapNext app taunted me.
TAPRoseNEXT (7:00PM): You’re a very nice guy, but I can’t continue talking with you anymore. I’ve gotten more serious with the man I’m seeing and this just doesn’t feel right. I’m sorry. Good luck with everything, Ruck.
BAD_Ruck (6:45AM): I get it. I do. But I think we should meet in person, just the two of us. Please, Rose.
“No,” I muttered, reading the words in a flash and reliving each of the seconds that led up to them and followed. “No, no, no, noooooo!” I screamed into the echoey silence.
So lost in the haze of new and all-encompassing love, I’d foolishly, faithfully believed I’d get the chance to straighten everything out in my time. Practiced, planned, and in a completely unmessy setting. That was what I’d been after, the meeting in person. I figured I could control the situation. She’d have the space to react and I’d have the chance to explain. I’d naïvely thought an in-person revelation could even be a little idyllic. But as I ran through the hours and the days I’d kept it to myself—the time I’d harbored my secret even after learning of our faux foursome with our friends—I knew I’d missed my chance.
Sometimes time is valuable, but it can also be your worst enemy. Because, no matter the root of my intentions, lies never led to romance.
This. This moment, this feeling.
This was hell.
I jumped into action, pulling the phone from the pocket of my pants and considering all the ways I could fix it. I was a fixer, a problem solver. I could fix this.
Couldn’t I?
I fought the tightness in my throat, but it was potent in a way I wasn’t prepared for.
I opened my text messages and typed out several drafts.
Me: Please, let me explain. I know it doesn’t look good.
Delete.
I shook my head and scrubbed at my face, willing the right words to come.
Me:
I love you. God, let me explain.
Delete.
Me: Georgie. Please talk to me. I’ve known it was you for a long time now.
Delete.
I opened the TapNext app and drafted a message to Rose.
BAD_Ruck (6:54PM): You’ve got this all wrong, Rose. I know who you are.
Delete.
Accusing her of any wrongdoing in this scenario was probably not a good idea.
BAD_Ruck (6:55PM): Remember the gargoyle dick, Rose. Not everything is what it seems.
Delete.
Goddammit. This was definitely not the time to be a smartass, either.
None of it was good enough. No words powerful enough to convince the inconvincible.
My nose stung and my eyes burned and the screen of my phone blurred before my eyes.
I’d fucked up in a way I didn’t know how to fix—didn’t know how to breathe through the fucking pain.
Jesus. If I couldn’t even put together a few fucking words that sounded convincing to myself, she was never going to believe me. Not ever.
“FUCKKK!” I screamed until fire raged in my throat and chucked my useless phone clear across the room and watched it shatter.
I punched at the top of my desk over and over until my hand developed a throb, pulling the pain and blood away from my pathetic pumping heart. Each thud enhanced the ache, and I prayed that somehow, someway, I’d find a way to make it end before the cycle purged my vital organs of enough blood to end me.
Time.
I needed it. Time to think, time to plan, time to understand what this was going to take.
Taking a deep breath and blowing it out, I pulled the sheet of paper over to expose the one beneath it and immediately lost my footing. I turned just in time, sinking to the floor with my back to the mahogany of my desk and clutched at the paper.
Her resignation letter, effective immediately.
She didn’t want my hollow words or pleading looks.
My little shark had bitten the lines of contact clean through.
It was done. Done in a way that I wasn’t remotely ready for. Done in a way that I couldn’t even conceive.
Done in a way that would never actually be done, not ever.
This pain would haunt me for the rest of my life.
I gave myself twenty-four hours to wallow and cry and browse Reddit “my boyfriend is a cheating, cock-sucking, piece-of-scum dirtbag” threads. Okay, maybe they weren’t really titled that, but I’d always enjoyed nicknaming shit.
And when I wasn’t trolling Internet threads, I could’ve been found doing any of the following:
1. Crying. A lot.
2. Turning my phone on and off every five minutes, in hopes that Kline would attempt to contact me. He didn’t, by the way. Not a text, a call, nothing but complete radio silence.
3. Re-watching the first four seasons of Gilmore Girls. If only we could combine Logan, Jess, and Dean to form the perfect man.
4. Eating all of our food. (Cassie was not happy about this.)
5. Taking one thousand BuzzFeed quizzes. I was a Hufflepuff, who should live in San Francisco and preferred NSYNC over Backstreet Boys. Chris Pratt should have been my celebrity husband, I’d have two kids, and my chocolate IQ was insane. Just in case you were wondering.
When BuzzFeed told me The Notebook was the Nicholas Sparks book that best described my love life, I gave it both middle fingers and shut my laptop.
If I was a bird, Kline Brooks could go fuck himself.
But you know what the hardest part was?
I still loved him. God, I loved him. I loved Kline just as much as I had before I’d seen that screenshot from Cassie. And this voice in the back of my head kept insisting something was off.
That Kline wouldn’t have broken my trust like that.
Stupid voice. It was that kind of voice that made people stay in relationships with someone who didn’t deserve them. I also gave that voice both middle fingers. Frankly, I was ready to give every-fucking-body the middle finger. Misery loves company and all that jazz.
Day Two, Post-Kline-breaking-my-heart:
I had managed to get myself out of bed, shower, and make some phone calls to a corporate headhunter so I could find a new job. Sure, I’d slept in Kline’s t-shirt that night and cried myself to sleep, but at least I was taking a step in the right direction. And it should be noted, I left my cell phone on and only checked for missed calls or texts every ten minutes that day.
Baby steps, folks. It was all about the baby steps.
Day three, Post-Kline-breaking-my-heart:
I woke up red-eyed and snotty but had several voicemails with possible job prospects and interview requests. One good thing out of the entire Kline mess, I had a killer résumé and other companies really wanted me on their payroll. I took an interview that day. It was a marketing position for an NFL team, popularly known as the New York Mavericks. They’d had a recent change in management that had left them in dire straits.
I didn’t know anything about football, but I knew marketing. When I sat down for the interview with Frankie Hart, the Maverick’s GM, I reminded myself of that very fact. It didn’t matter how much I knew about the game; all that mattered was if I could market their franchise in a way that was both profitable and creative.
I showed him slides of the successful campaigns I had done for Brooks Media. I asked questions about their current marketing outlooks and financial profitability. And then I showed Frankie the kind of ingenious skills I had by tossing out a few possible changes that would help build the Maverick name.
He loved my ideas. I left the interview feeling really proud of myself. And I hated that the first person I wanted to call was Kline. I hated that he had become such an important part of my life in such a short amount of time.
After drowning my hate and irritation in three beers and a plate of nachos at the bar up the street from my apartment, my headhunter called with a job offer. The New York Mavericks wanted to hire me and presented their offer with a generous salary and investment plan. I was shocked by their quick trigger. My experiences with getting a response from corporations was never this prompt. But maybe football franchises are different? Who knows?
I didn’t waste time trying figure it out.
Immediately, I accepted the position. Even though football, or any sport for that matter, wasn’t my forte, I was excited about the challenge, and honestly, I couldn’t afford to sit around for months without a paycheck. Student loans and rent did not accept IOUs.
That night, I slid into bed and checked my phone one last time.
Still no response from Kline.
I clutched my aching stomach and forced my racing mind to sleep.
God, I missed him so much I felt physically ill from it.
Later that week, Cassie surprised me by coming home a few days early from her shoot in San Francisco. This was why she’d always be one of the most important people in my life. I needed her, desperately, and she didn’t hesitate to rearrange her schedule to be my shoulder to lean on.
We ordered Chinese, gorged ourselves on chicken fried rice and crab rangoon, and lounged on the couch for a Friday Night Lights marathon on Netflix.
If anyone could brighten my mood, it was Tim Riggins, right?
Wrong.
I only got a few episodes deep before I was on the verge of losing it. The second I saw Lyla Garrity smile against Tim Riggins’ mouth mid-kiss, the emotional dam was ready to burst.
“Are you okay?” Cass asked as I strode into the bathroom.
All I could do was shake my head. Because I was very far from okay. Probably the furthest I’d ever been from okay.
I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror, my legs trembling and hands gripping the sink like it would somehow give me the strength to fight my pitiful emotions.
Don’t cry. He does not deserve your tears.
When that didn’t work, I attempted to distract myself by peeing. But I quickly found it didn’t serve as any type o
f distraction, because after about fifteen seconds, I was just peeing and crying at the same time. If you’d ever found yourself in that horribly tragic set of circumstances, you’d have understood it was the worst feeling ever. Not only could you not stop peeing, but you couldn’t hold back the sobs. Pathetic was the only true way to describe it.
Cass found me in the bathroom that way—pants around my ankles and tears streaming down my cheeks.
“What can I do?” Her face was etched with concern.
“Nothing,” I cried, shoving a clump of toilet paper against my nose. My elbows went to my bare knees—yes, I was still on the toilet—and my head was in my hands.
“Have you talked to him since?” She rested her hip against the doorframe.
“Nope. It’s been a week and he hasn’t tried to contact me. Hasn’t called. Texted. Fucking tapped out Morse code. No skywriter or carrier pigeon. Nada. Zip. Zilch.” I stared up at her, my chin resting in my hands. “He even knows I was out looking for a new job. How do I know this? Because when the headhunter called with the offer, he also mentioned my prior place of employment provided an amazing recommendation.”
“But—” she started to interrupt, but I kept going.
“So, basically, Kline Brooks doesn’t give a shit. He saw my letter of resignation. He saw the screenshot with the note I left him. And guess what? He never attempted to contact me. Plus, he was more than happy to give my future job prospect a glowing recommendation. Am I going crazy, Cass? I mean, was I completely deranged and thought Kline and I were way more than what we actually were?”
“No, sweetie,” she responded. “I saw you two together and it was more than obvious he adored you.”
“Then why did he want to meet up with you? Why did he want to meet up with my best friend?” I stifled a sob, pressing more toilet paper against my eyes. “Obviously, this is nothing against you, Cass,” I muttered.