Standing on the bottom step of my mother’s front porch, I watch her load into her van. And then I watch her drive away, drying tears on the sleeve of her jacket.
Fuck.
Heading inside, I’m slightly dazed and still trying to wrap my head around what just happened, but I force myself to snap out of it for Daphne’s sake.
“Where’d Mom go?” I ask when I find her alone in the living room.
Daphne rises slowly, placing her bag over her shoulder and keeping her gaze fixed on the window by the front door.
“She’s in the kitchen,” she says. “A timer went off. She said she had to stir the sauce.”
Yep. Sounds like Mom. I point to her bag, my brows lifted. “You leaving?”
“Yeah.” Her gaze flicks from the living room window and rests unsteadily in mine. My entire conversation with Joey probably played out before her in real time. Doesn’t help that these windows are as paper thin as these walls. You can hear everything through them.
Racking my brain, I try to play back my conversation with Joey, wondering if there was anything I said that may have given Daphne pause, but I can’t think of a single thing. Joey admitted her feelings for me, but everything was one-sided.
Daphne moves toward the door.
“Daphne, wait.” I follow her, placing my hand on the small of her back. “Where are you going? I thought you were staying for dinner?”
“I’m sorry,” she says, reaching for the handle. “I can’t do this. I thought I could, but I just . . . can’t.”
I follow her through the front door, half thinking this is a joke, half refusing to believe this is happening.
Letting the screen door slam against the house, I chase after her.
“Stop. What are you doing?” My shoes scuff the chipped and cracked sidewalk, every sound, every sensation from this moment magnified as if to offer proof that this is actually happening.
“Please, don’t do this. Just let me go.” Her voice is low as she glances over my shoulder. I follow the direction of her gaze and find my mother’s next door neighbor, Fran Andrews, sitting on her front porch observing our exchange with watchful, unblinking eyes.
By the time I turn back to her, she’s inside her car. Clearing my throat, I shove my hands in my pockets and walk casually to the driver’s side window. I don’t want to make a scene here, but I want to know what the fuck is going on.
Lowering myself, I say, “Daphne. Don’t go.”
She won’t look at me. She only stares ahead. “Can we not make this a thing?”
“You made this a thing when you stormed out of my house for no apparent reason.” I exhale hard. “Did my mom say something to you? Did she say something that upset you?”
“No. It’s nothing,” she says, her gaze meeting mine for a fraction of a second though long enough to confirm we both know she’s lying. “It’s nothing I want to talk about. Please just let me leave.”
“Did something happen back home? Is everything okay with your sister?”
“Nothing happened back home.” She starts the engine and shifts into reverse, the car jutting backward in response as a soft clunk sounds from the engine. “I have to go.”
“I’ll call you,” I say, stepping away and watching her go. Scratching my head, I make my way back toward the front porch, watching until her red taillights disappear over the hill.
What.
The fuck.
Was that?
Waiting until her taillights vanish over the hill, I slip my hands behind my head, give Fran Andrews a wave, and dip back inside.
“Where’d she go?” Mom stands in the middle of the living room, a wooden spoon coated in thick red sauce in her left hand.
Shrugging, I release a held breath and plop into one of the easy chairs. Resting my elbows on my knees, I stare ahead at the blank TV screen.
Mom frowns, taking a seat on the sofa beside me, her free hand cupped beneath the dripping spoon. “Did you say something to upset her? I thought things were going well. I really liked her. I could tell you really liked her too.”
I shake my head. “I thought she seemed a little different when she walked in. Just thought she was nervous. Maybe something had been bothering her. I don’t know.” Leaning back in the seat, I blow a hard breath between my lips and add, “I’ll call her later. She just needs some time to cool off. I’m sure once we talk . . .”
I don’t finish my thought. Truth is, I’m not sure of anything. Maybe she’s back with her ex? The football player? Maybe she came here to break things off for good? Maybe she knew from the second she stepped foot in here, that she’d be leaving soon enough?
But that doesn’t make sense.
If that were the case, she could’ve blown me off altogether. A lot easier to no-show than to drive a couple of hours to meet someone’s mom.
“Cristiano,” my mother says sweetly, reaching over to place her hand over mine. “Everything will work out the way its supposed to, that much I can promise. But in the meantime, if you really care about this young woman, and I can tell that you do, I suggest you fight like hell to get her back before she’s gone forever.” Rising slowly, she extends her hand. “Now come help me in the kitchen. The table needs setting.”
Snorting through my nose, I take my mother’s hand and follow her into the next room. Tonight I’ll call Daphne, and if she doesn’t answer, I’ll call her tomorrow.
And the next day.
The day after that, too.
I’ll keep calling until I get through . . . until I can get her to talk to me.
It’d be easy to hop on a plane again. Fly somewhere exotic. Leave this bullshit behind. But if I do what I’ve always done, I’ll end up where I’ve always ended up: alone and convincing myself that I’m living the kind of Bachelor-in-paradise lifestyle most guys only dream of.
But it’s not what I want anymore. Because she’s what I want.
And now I’m going to fight like hell.
39
Daphne
I pull into my parents’ driveway four hours later. I don’t remember leaving Cristiano’s. I don’t remember the drive here. The radio is silent. The engine calms to nothingness as I pull the keys from the ignition.
I’m in a daze.
I’m numb.
I feel everything and nothing all at once.
I didn’t hear his entire conversation with Joey, but I heard enough to know she still loves him. She wants to be with him. And I heard him tell her he’ll always love her.
If that journal means anything, and if those words he wrote were true, he still loves her. And up until December 31st, he was still writing those entries to her.
It all makes sense. He traveled the world, wishing she was by his side, only he knew she couldn’t be because she was with someone else.
But now she doesn’t want to be with that someone else – she wants him.
Once again, I’m someone’s consolation prize.
And I can’t.
I can’t do it.
Four Days Later . . .
“It’s for the best, really,” Delilah says into my ear. My phone is cradled on my shoulder as I hang clothes in the closet of my rental apartment in Seaview’s Campus Town section. “Given your history with Weston and how much that nearly destroyed you, I can understand why you wouldn’t want to get involved with someone who’s still hung up on a past love. Nobody wants to be second place. Nobody wants to live in the shadow of the one who came before her. You did the right thing. I know it’s hard, but it’s for the best.”
“He’s been calling me all week. And texting.” I hang up the last of my clothes and collapse on the lumpy bed in the center of my room. “Do I owe him an explanation?”
Delilah scoffs, and I hear baby Noah rustling awake in the background. “You don’t owe him an explanation, sweets. You knew him for what, two, three weeks? It’s not like he was your boyfriend. You didn’t even break up. You just went your own way.”
Earlier, I told De
lilah all about the journal. About Paris. About Joey and the accident. She knows it all, and she’s one of the most objective people I know, so having her in my corner should be reassuring, but there’s still a part of me that feels somewhat unsettled about my decision. But it’s probably the very same part of me that got my hopes up, that spent the last part of her Paris trip in a state of denial and optimism.
I wanted us to work out. As much as I hate to admit it, as much as I had to wrangle my excitement into submission until it was nearly undetectable, I really wanted us to work.
“Anyway, I should let you go. I’ve got to run to campus and print out my syllabi and drop some things off in my new office,” I say with an exhausted sigh.
“You nervous?”
“Not really,” I say.
“What are you teaching again?”
“Studio Drawing I and Introduction to Charcoal,” I say. “Easy peasy.”
“All right, well, keep me posted. Call if you need anything.” Her voice is temporarily muffled, followed by the squeaky whimpers of Noah beginning to fuss in the background.
“Come visit soon,” I say.
“I will.”
Hanging up with my sister, I head to the shower, but first taking a second to clear off some old text messages. But in the midst of sending back a couple of quick replies, I pause when it hits me that for the first time all week, I don’t have any missed calls or texts from Cristiano.
My chest tightens. I didn’t think ‘the end’ of us would feel so . . . heavy. So dark. I thought cutting ties would be easier than this. But this is how it has to be. This is for the best. As life has demonstrated to me time and again, some things are momentarily wonderful and sometimes those wonderful things aren’t meant to last.
Stripping out of my clothes, I twist the shower knob and step inside. The water is cold at first, covering my skin in gooseflesh, but I hardly feel a thing. I’m head-to-toe numb, inside and out.
And I miss him already.
I miss the prospect of us. The promise of something neon-electric intense. Everything we could’ve had. Everything we’ll never know. Everything that wasn’t meant to be.
40
Daphne
“Professor Rosewood,” my teacher’s assistant, Alexandria, taps my shoulder shortly before Studio Drawing I Wednesday afternoon.
“Yes?”
“Our female live model canceled,” she says, her red brows arched as she bites the tip of her pencil. “Betty said she found a replacement, but since it was such short notice, she could only get a male. Is that okay? She said he’s a professional model. Should I send him in?”
Taking a deep breath, I make an executive decision. It’s only my third day teaching and so far it’s been smooth sailing. This hiccup is only minor and definitely not worth getting my panties in a bunch.
“Yeah, it’s fine,” I tell her. “We’re learning to draw the human form. Gender doesn’t matter so much right now.”
Alexandria’s face lights and she nods. “Okay. I’ll go get him.”
Taking my spot at my desk, I log into my university-issued computer as the rest of the students file in and head to their stations. Checking my school email quickly before class starts, I send off some quick replies and clear my inbox. When I glance up, I see Alexandria strutting back into the room, a robed gentleman following behind. Glancing toward the classroom, I see all eyes are on him, though I don’t see his face yet. This is nothing new. A lot of live models are very comfortable in their skin and many of them model for a living, thus many of them are attractive.
My students need to stare and gawk and get it out of their system, because they’re going to see a lot of naked bodies this semester. By the time they’re done with my class, they’re never going to want to see another penis or vagina again. At least not anytime in the near future.
“All right, everyone,” I say. “Settle in. Let’s get started. We only have fifty-five minutes and a lot to cover today.”
Alexandria steps aside, and the gentleman appears. He’s looking at me – and only me.
That bronze skin. That shaggy dark hair. Those familiar, deep brown eyes. That charming smirk.
Holy shit.
Summoning every ounce of professionalism I have, I clear my throat and pull my shoulders back.
“He looks really familiar,” a student whispers a few feet away.
“Is that . . . is that Jax Diesel?” her friend says, whipping out her phone and tapping her nails quickly against the screen.
“Please disrobe,” I say to Cristiano, my gaze quickly averting. “You can stand up here, on this platform. Face the students and select a pose that will be comfortable for you.” Turning to the rest of the class, I say, “Please get started. I’ll be back in a moment.”
Rushing to the hall, I drag in deep breath after deep breath, trying to compose myself before I go back in.
Was. Not. Expecting. That.
41
Cristiano
The rustle of paper and notebooks and book bags signals the end of today’s class period. Relaxing my pose, I step down from the platform and slip my robe over my shoulders. Daphne is seated at her desk in the front, her stare concentrated on her computer screen.
One by one, her students flee the classroom, and I notice her glancing up for a millisecond, our gazes catching.
“Daphne.” I casually approach her desk like it’s no big deal that I flew clear across the country, slipped the administrative assistant in her department a couple Benjamins, and finagled my way into becoming her class’s nude model.
She closes her laptop with force before crossing her arms and peering up at me.
“What the hell are you doing here? Are you insane?” She rises, stepping around her desk. “This is where I work. This is my job. You can’t just . . . do you know how this looks?!”
Reaching toward her, my hand hooks her waist and I pull her against me. “Daphne, Daphne. Shh.”
She stops berating me for a second, her baby blues locked on mine.
“All my life,” I say, “I’ve run when things got too hard. Things get uncomfortable for me? Boom. I’m out of there. But something changed these last few weeks, and you’re the common denominator. That part of me that always wanted to run off? It’s not as strong anymore. I don’t want an escape anymore, Daphne. I just want you.”
She looks away, exhaling.
“And you want me too,” I say. “You’re just too scared to admit it. You’re too scared to give up control of your heart to someone else.”
Daphne’s eyes flick to mine.
“The men you’ve given it to in the past have thrown it away. They’ve taken it for granted,” I say. “But I won’t do that, Daphne. I promise you.”
Cupping her chin in my hand, I breathe the sweet scent of her exotic perfume and it transports me back to Paris in a single fleeting moment.
“We both have issues,” I say. “But if we can put our pasts behind us . . . if I can stop running and if you can trust someone with your heart again . . . we could have a life together. The kind we’ve been searching for our whole lives.”
“I read your travel journal.” Her voice is monotone. She doesn’t blink.
Releasing a held breath, I take a step back, dragging my hand over the side of my head before massaging my temple.
“You’re obviously still in love with Joey,” she says. “And I don’t want to be your consolation prize.”
“Daphne, what are you talking about?”
“I heard Joey tell you she still loved you,” she says. “Last week, at your mother’s house. I heard your conversation. And your journal entries . . . they were all written to her. You wrote nearly every single day that you missed her, you wanted her to be there with you. Cristiano, you can’t tell me you’re over her because you’re clearly not.”
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I fight a smirk.
She has it all wrong.
“Daphne . . .” I begin to say.
�
��Please. Go,” she says, stepping away.
Voices waft in from outside in the hall, and the sound of shuffling feet grow nearer until the doorknob twists and students for the next class begin filing in.
Daphne shoots me a look, gathers her computer and her bag, and navigates toward the hall, squeezing through the sea of students filling the space.
“Oh, I bet that’s our model,” a red-haired student says to her friend as they pass me by, their gazes zeroed in on me, enormous smiles on their faces. “Good lord. I could sketch that man for hours.”
Tightening my robe, I show myself out.
I’ve got to fix this.
I’ve got to get her back.
42
Daphne
“Betty, do you know who put this here?” I stand outside the faculty mailboxes the following afternoon, holding a small leather-bound journal I found in mine. “I think it was put in my box by mistake.”
I place it on the edge of her desk, hoist my bag over my shoulder, and eye the doorway.
“No, no,” she says placing her hand over its chocolate-brown cover. “It’s for you all right.”
Arching an eyebrow, I glance at Betty then to the book. She pushes it across her desk, urging me to take it with me on my way out. Sliding it off her desk, I tuck it under my arm and head out of the administrative office. My next class starts in five minutes, but curiosity overtakes me. Stopping beside the drinking fountains down the hall, I flip the book to the first page, which is dated for yesterday – the day Cristiano showed up at my classroom. I kicked him out as the next class filed in, and I kept an eye on my phone the rest of the night, fully expecting him to call or text or even show up at the door of my apartment. But he went radio silent.
Until now.
My eyes scan the page, recognizing his handwriting in an instant.
Cold Hearted Page 47