by Kyle Autumn
Thankfully, though I never thought I’d use that word for this, my stomach turns and the small amount of crackers I ate threatens to come back up. I bring a hand to my mouth and decide to use this as my way out.
“Sorry,” I say, pointing toward the hall to the bathroom. “I need to…”
“I’m not buying this,” she tells me while I’m closing the door.
“You don’t want to catch this,” I point out through the small opening. Then I shut the door all the way and pause with my hand on the knob.
Whew. That was close.
“Lyra, this is ridiculous. You can’t avoid me or be sick forever!”
No, I can’t be. But I can until this all goes away. In the meantime, I really do go to the bathroom in case I have to vomit again. I wasn’t selling a lie, and my body proves it for me by retching as soon as I make it to the toilet, where I drop my mail all over the bathroom floor. Ugh, this blows. Not only am I puking, but I’m staring at a pile of bills I need to pay.
Except one doesn’t look like a bill. When I’ve wiped my mouth and flushed the toilet, I crawl over to the envelope. My address is written on the front in a scrawl I don’t recognize, and there’s no return address in the corner. I sit on the floor, my back against the wall, and rip it open to see who it’s from.
Inside, I find a letter written in the same handwriting that matches the envelope. An actual handwritten letter. When I unfold it, a rectangle piece of plastic falls to the floor. But that’s not all that important right now. Because, with one look at the greeting, I know exactly who sent this.
Angel,
You told me not to e-mail, call, text, drop by, make you deliver my packages, or send carrier pigeons or smoke signals. However, you did not mention letter-writing, so that’s how I’m choosing to reach out to you. Even though you said not to contact you again. Because, this time, I can’t listen to your request. Not a single part of me wants to, and though I’d give you anything if I could, I can’t give you that. Though I’ll do it within your rules.
Please let me explain everything you have asked me not to comment on. I promise that it’ll all make sense if you let me tell you the truth. Whatever you’re thinking can’t be true if you’re this upset, and the last thing in the world I want to see are tears in your eyes. I need to explain the items in that box. I think, then, you’ll see that this is just a misunderstanding.
Meet me at The Steam Room on Monday at 8:00 a.m. Bring the gift card I included with this letter to get breakfast, coffee, whatever you want. You didn’t want me to buy you any popcorn at the movie, so I thought this might be a better option. You can still feel like you’re paying for it. But, with me, you don’t have to pay your way. If it’ll make you happy, I’m willing to buy it.
See you Monday,
Blake
He wants to explain. Clear the air. Not be with me. He probably wants to tell me that he waited a few days before moving on to the next woman. And maybe he was going to ask me if the seeds he bought would do well if planted this time of year. Well, he can shove it. And ask his damn gardener.
As those lies sink in, more tears come. That’s not really what I think. What I really mean is that he can’t possibly still want to be with me. I went rogue on myself, gave him a taste of his own medicine, and then spouted off like a crazy person. I have to accept my role in our demise—my role as the woman who thought too much and caught feelings for the quintessential playboy.
I am not Shiree, and Blake is not Chaz. Our roles might be the same, but we’re starring in very different movies. My best friend got her happy ending, and I’m so happy for her, but I fear I’ve completely ruined any chance for mine. I always do this. I always get too ahead of the game, assume too much, and then lose. Sometimes, what I lose wasn’t worth having in the first place. But, other times, what I lose is worth fighting for.
I’m just not sure I have the fight in me anymore. I’m sick now, and I’m tired of being so confused. So I don’t think I can fix this. Maybe I need to start completely over. Forget the whole “just have sex” thing and come at dating from a different angle. Yeah. That could be it.
Because I think I’ve lost yet another battle. The one that decides the war.
***
Blake
If I thought wondering all weekend if she had received my letter was hard, this is absolute torment of the worst kind. The crowd at The Steam Room is the usual: writers with their laptops and their coffees, businesspeople getting their caffeine fix before work, stay-at-home moms meeting for breakfast now that the kids are in school. And here I am, sitting alone, waiting for the woman who holds the power of my future. The woman who’s a half hour late at this point—if she even shows.
My right leg won’t stop shaking, and I doubt that’s from the three coffees Kimber has poured for me since I got here fifteen minutes early. I’m one hundred percent certain that’s from the nerves. Because I don’t think she’s coming. As much as I desperately want her to, I honestly don’t think it’s happening. How much longer am I going to wait for a woman who doesn’t want me anymore? I need to recognize the fact that I blew my chance. I had a shot with my angel and I tossed it in the toilet. Then I went back to watch as she made a show of flushing it away.
Kimber approaches my table with her coffeepot. “Want another, Blake?” she asks, raising it.
Between the caffeine from the other three and having been stood up, my heart is already pounding inside in my chest. I don’t need a reason for it to explode any more than it already has. Or maybe it’ll implode. Whatever. It can’t do either of those. I need it right where it is long enough for me to somehow fix this disaster. But I have no idea how if she won’t even meet me halfway.
I shake my head at Kimber. “No, but I will take two chocolate chip muffins to go, please.”
She gives me a sympathetic smile and touches my shoulder as she nods. “I’ll go get those for you.”
I finish the last dregs of my coffee before she comes back with the muffins. I thank her and tell her I’ll leave the cash on the table for her. Then I pull my wallet out of my pocket, remove a twenty-dollar bill, and pick up the bag of muffins. The same chocolate chip muffins I got the morning I brought her breakfast.
And I walk out the door to the tune of self-pity and failure. What a beautiful fucking start to this shitty week.
~~~
***Six weeks later – present time***
My doorbell rings at one in the morning. Oddly enough, I was expecting it to. These last couple of months haven’t warranted many one-a.m. doorbells, but the phone call ten minutes before tipped me off. Still, there’s that pang in my chest when I realize that it won’t be her no matter how much I want it to be.
The only good thing that’s come of her not being in my life is that the board is officially off my case. The things they don’t know won’t hurt them, but no one’s badgering me about my lifestyle anymore. No pressing for a better image. And—thankfully—no pushing for a “family man” appearance. I’m not in the limelight like Chaz was, so I guess it’s not as big of a deal. But, if I’d publicly stepped out of line, I’m sure I would have heard about it. Luckily, nothing like that has come up.
As soon as I get to the door, I swing it open. “You said it was urgent?” I ask, but I barely get the words out before Chaz has pushed his way into my house.
“Yeah, it’s fucking urgent,” he says, stalking straight into my kitchen, heading for the liquor cabinet.
“Can I get you a drink?” I ask, joking with him.
He gives me a pointed glance as he grabs two rocks glass. Then he opens the whiskey and pours two fingers in both glasses. Once he’s handed mine over, he drains his, pours another, and takes his glass to the kitchen table.
I join him at the table with my glass of whiskey. “Wanna tell me what we’re drinking for?”
“Shiree’s pregnant,” he tells me, staring at the wall.
Well. I might have been expecting his arrival, but I wasn’t expecting
that news.
“Congratulations?” I say, but it comes out more like a question. Then I take a sip of my whiskey.
He snaps out of his weird trance shakes his head. “Oh, man. Yeah. Thank you. No, that’s great. I am really excited about having a baby.”
“Oh, good.” I nod. “I’m happy for you, man.” But then I stop nodding.
He was short on the phone, and then, when he got here, he immediately went for alcohol. If that’s not what’s so important…
“Then what’s the urgent shit?” I bring my glass to my mouth. But I put it down a second later.
Because Chaz downs his second whiskey. “Well…shit.” While hesitating, he gets up to likely pour another drink.
“Sit down,” I demand. “Spit it out, man. Before you’re too drunk to drive home. Remember your wife? And your unborn child?”
He solemnly nods.
“Okay, then. Tell me.” I sip some more whiskey.
So he does—with words that make me choke on my drink.
He tilts his glass and then looks me right in the eye. “I think you’re having one too.”
Chapter 13
Lyra
“So you mean to tell me that you told Patti and Zo first?” Shiree asks me, her hand on her hip, once I’ve managed to spill the whole story.
Patti and Zo look at me from their perches on the couch. From the side chair, I look at Shiree, who just came back with chips and salsa, and shrug.
“Not good enough,” Shiree tells me as she sets the bag of chips on the coffee table.
Patti unscrews the cap on the salsa. “Don’t be mad at her. You were just married, on your honeymoon… It was a crazy time.”
“Not too crazy for my best friend!” she spits out around a salsa-covered chip. “And I don’t want to hear it from you two. You’re secret-keepers too!”
That turns the three of them into bickering children, and I start to wonder how the four of us have stayed friends for so long. It’s usually humorous, but I have no patience tonight. Between having learned about the baby and having told the entire story, I’m wiped.
“Stop!” I shout, and they all do. “Let’s remember why we’re here.”
“So tell her why you kept it from her,” Zo urges, eyeing me as she dips her own chip.
“Ugh, fine,” I groan, shoving a pillow over my face. Then I drop it. “I didn’t want to tell you because it was Blake, okay? He tried to ruin your relationship, and I didn’t think you’d appreciate the fact that I fucked him because I had taken your—horrible, I might add—advice.”
Shiree shakes her head. “Still not good enough.” Then she throws her hands in the air. “Moving on! Explain to me why you didn’t meet up with him after letter. Seems to me, if you had, you’d be together right now,” she says, crunching on tortilla chips.
I pick at some lint I’m pretending is on my sweatshirt. “Because I messed it all up too much. And let’s face it. We barely know each other. It’s not like I was myself when we first hooked up. And I wasn’t me when I was freaking out at him, either. We both made too many mistakes.” I huff out a breath. “I didn’t think there was really any true coming back from that.”
Shiree groans. “That’s just an excuse. You could have gotten to know each other.” Then she eats some more.
“Slow down,” Patti warns her.
Zo laughs. “Seriously. Leave some for the rest of us.”
“I’m eating for two now!” she squeals before laughing and taking a big handful of chips.
That makes the other two laugh and clap. So much excitement. Yay.
Totally sarcasm.
“Yeah, well”—I snatch the bag of chips from the table and sit back down—“I am too.”
Patti and Zo gasp at the same time. Yeah, they weren’t here for that part. Shiree told them about her as the way to get them over here. When they got here, I was luckily right at the part when I’d told them about Blake. They thought I was finally coming clean to Shiree about him. And, because I mentioned no other guy because nothing else of any kind has happened since I met him, they can easily put two and two together.
“You’re what?” Zo exclaims as Patti, clearly shocked, says, “You didn’t tell us that part!”
“Serves you bitches right,” Shiree mumbles around another mouthful.
The three of them again dissolve into silly bickering I don’t want to listen to anymore. So I inhale deeply, about to shout at them to quit—because hello, I’m in a goddamn crisis here—but I’m interrupted by Shiree’s front door storming open.
All four of us swing our heads in that direction, but only three of us gasp at the sight before us. I’m the only one whose heart stutters so hard in her chest that she can no longer breathe. The only one whose stomach plummets to the ground and whose heart—once it’s stopped stuttering—lurches into her throat. The only one who jumps to her feet, brings a hand to her mouth, and blinks until the sight before us goes away. Except that it doesn’t. Nope. It stays within my vision, which is starting to blur from tears. And I’m the only one who’s about to cry.
Blake and Chaz have barreled through the doorway. Chaz goes straight to Shiree, who’s shooting daggers at Blake. Patti and Zo look like they’re getting more comfortable on the couch. Whereas I don’t know what to do with my hands anymore, so the one stays at my mouth, but the other goes to my stomach in a protective way. A way I can already tell I’ll be used to very shortly. And that it doesn’t get past Blake.
Blake with his delicious-looking five-o’clock shadow. With his shaggier-than-before hair, his T-shirt and his jeans, and his gorgeous eyes. Fucking Blake.
And fucking Chaz. He ran straight over there and told him. Why didn’t I think that was going to happen? Shit. Maybe it was some subconscious way to lure him back to me. I have no idea. All I know is that it’s been six long fucking weeks since I’ve seen this man, and all of the intense emotion hits me like a tidal wave. My entire body thrums with the ache and hurt and love I feel for him. The love that didn’t go away when I kept myself from going to him and the ache and hurt that grew every day he was gone. All of it rushes through my veins until I can barely stand.
Blake’s gaze is locked on the hand I have on my stomach. It stays there for what feels like hours. Like an eternity where neither of us can move. Until he finally looks at my face, right into my eyes.
“It’s true?” he asks, the picture of seriousness.
He’s not angry. He’s not accusatory. But he doesn’t look thrilled. Not like Chaz is about his baby. Is he worried? Scared? Upset? Unhappy in any way? I can’t tell. He’s just staring at me.
I blink. Swallow hard. Drop my hand from my mouth so it can join the other at my stomach. When I finally find words, I say, “You should go.”
He scrunches his brow and shakes his head. “Tell me if it’s true.”
All I can do is repeat myself.
Blake wipes a hand down his face, frustration setting in. “Angel, please. Just tell me—”
Chaz steps in now. “Man, she sounds like she doesn’t want to talk to you right now. I told you that this wasn’t a good—”
“I don’t care if it’s a good idea!” Blake booms at him. Then he turns to me and visibly softens. “All I care about is you.”
“That’s why I haven’t seen you in almost two months?” I ask like an idiot.
He points a finger at me and opens his mouth to speak, but apparently, he thinks better of it. His mouth closes, his hand drops, and he releases a breath. “Can I take you home? So we can talk about this privately?”
“You knew when you showed up here that I was somewhere not private, Blake,” I sling back at him. “If you wanna talk, talk.”
Shiree steps in now. “Sweetie,” she says, putting a hand on my arm. “Maybe he’s right.”
When I glance at Patti and Zo, they’re nodding. I shrug away from Shiree. I don’t want to hear that he’s right. This whole thing is too fucked up for him to be right. Even if he’s right. Shit. I pr
ess my palms into my eyes and rub. I can’t think straight anymore. Maybe I do need to go home.
I put my hands up in front of me. “Fine.” Taking a big breath, I look at Blake. “Fine. Let’s go.”
Shiree wraps an arm around my shoulders and leans in close. “It’s for the best,” she whispers, squeezing me. “Tell him everything. The truth.”
Nodding, I approach the door, snatching my purse up on the way. I throw a wave over my shoulder as I head out, and the screen door bangs after me. Then it opens, they mumble their goodbyes, and the door closes while I walk to my car. When I get there, Blake’s hot on my heels, holding his hand out.
“I’ll drive,” he says simply.
I’m too overwhelmed to argue with him, so I dig in my purse, find my keys, and hand them over. Then I march over to the passenger’s side, but he follows me. He opens my door, allows me time to get in, and the shuts its before getting behind the wheel. Like a goddamn gentleman.
“Your place or mine?” he asks, starting my car.
“Oh, I get a choice now?” I shoot back at him—along with a glare.
“I feel more comfortable driving, but I’d rather take you where you’d be most comfortable.” He puts the car in reverse.
I face the windshield and say, “I just want to get this over with, and your place is closer.”
“Okay.” His hand reaches over the center console and lands on my thigh. He squeezes me there before rubbing up and down a couple of times and ultimately settling just above my kneecap.
And that’s how we stay, quiet and unmoving, until we get to his house. But it’s so late and I’m so tired that I fall asleep before we arrive. While I’m in and out of consciousness, he gently removes me from the car, takes me inside, and gets me in bed. The last things I register are him slipping my shoes off and tucking the blankets around me. And then I drift off to sleep.
***
Blake