She had to miss me, miss what we had. More than that, she had to see it as something she didn’t want to live without, something worth the risk. I knew she’d miss the sex, and fucking hell, I would too, but she had to miss more than that for her to change. She could get great sex from any guy with half a brain and a functional dick (although I do like to think mine is more than just functional). What we had was something special.
At least, I’d thought it was.
I’d tried hard to be what she wanted, give her the space she needed, respect her boundaries, but if it wasn’t enough, then I’d have to get over her somehow. Move on. Try to forget.
The thought was like a sledgehammer to my chest.
I fucking loved her. I wanted to be with her. I didn’t need her to be perfect or wear a ring or spend every waking moment with me, I just wanted to share my life with her, make her laugh, make her happy—and I wanted some assurance that she wasn’t going to run away whenever she got scared.
I thought about the way my father had taken off on my mother and felt a rush of sympathy for her. Did I love a lost cause, too?
I knew one thing—I’d been wrong to think I could prove to her that love existed…she’d refuse to see it. She didn’t want to see it. She wouldn’t let herself.
And there wasn’t a thing I could do about it.
I couldn’t stay here any longer. Knowing she was up there, probably miserable and too stubborn to come down here and talk about it, would drive me crazy. I’d give in and go up to her, and we’d either end up fighting or fucking, neither of which would alter her point of view.
No. She’d turned me away, so I’d give her what she wanted.
No matter how much it hurt.
Twenty-Six
JAIME
He moved out the next day.
Without a word to me.
He didn’t call or text or leave a note or anything. He just packed up and left.
I realized this because I actually went down to talk to him after I got home from work. I’d spent the whole night crying and the entire day at work agonizing over what I’d done and his reaction to it. I wasn’t even sure what I was going to say to him when I knocked on his door; I just knew that I hated where we’d left things, and I didn’t want him to move out without at least one more conversation.
Maybe I’d been too hasty in calling things off. Maybe I’d let Margot’s situation influence me too much. Maybe this time he’d try harder to change my mind.
I knew my face looked puffy and terrible—people at work kept asking if I’d had an allergic reaction to something—but I knocked anyway. When he didn’t answer, I realized that I hadn’t seen his car on the street. (Never did clean out the other half of the garage. Yet another thing to feel bad about.) I’m not sure what made me check the handle to see if the door was locked, but when the knob turned, I pushed it open.
I knew right away he was gone. It just felt empty. All the furniture was still there, obviously, but none of his things—no books on the coffee table, no boots by the door, no photos of him and his mom on the built-in shelves next to the fireplace.
Wandering into the kitchen, I noticed he’d left it spotless—no dishes in the sink or even in the dishwasher, no crumbs on the floor, no spills on the counter. I opened the fridge and saw that he’d emptied it out, and the freezer as well.
In his bedroom, I checked the closet and nightstand drawer. No condoms. The thought of Quinn needing condoms at his new place hit me hard in the gut, and I sat back on the bare mattress as if I’d been pushed.
But he’s mine!
Fists and jaw clenched in rage, I went into the bathroom and opened all the drawers, even peeked into the shower. Everything was gone, but I could still smell his soap and cologne.
Goddamn it!
I ran back through his flat, slammed the door, and pounded up the steps. Inside my apartment, I threw myself on the couch and curled into a ball, hugging a throw pillow to my stomach.
He must have called the movers and rescheduled for today. But why? He hadn’t even seemed upset last night! Was this just to punish me? Make me regret my decision?
Or maybe overnight he’d decided I was right, and stepping back was the best thing for us. Maybe I wasn’t worth the hassle.
Angry and confused, I spent a wretched hour staring at my phone, even picking it up once and nearly pressing his name, but I never reached out.
I endured another miserable night.
Followed by a miserable week.
And then another.
I even called Alex, hoping he might drop Quinn’s name, but he didn’t.
I thought about him every day, endless questions peppering my brain all day long. What was he doing? Did he miss me? Was he settling in OK? How was the view of Comerica Park? Who would he take to Opening Day? Had he slept with anyone? Was he thinking about me? Who did he talk to about his mom? Who did he tease? Who did he cook for?
His Instagram posting had stopped, too.
Damn him! It was like he knew I was trying to stalk him and he was thwarting my efforts!
My body craved his with such intensity, even my vibrator didn’t take the edge off. My heart ached painfully when I thought about never being close to him again.
You were always going to feel like this, said the cynic in me. So it’s now instead of later, big deal. In fact, better now than later, because more time together would have meant even stronger feelings, right? It would have been harder down the road. When there’s a matter to be settled, you settle it.
Yes! I clung to that. It made sense to me.
My friends? Not so much.
“You did what?” Claire screeched at GNO, three days after I broke up with Quinn.
“I broke things off with Quinn. It was time.” I couldn’t look either one of them in the eye so I focused on my martini.
“What do you mean, ‘It was time?’” Margot said suspiciously. “Was there some sort of expiration date?”
“No. It was just…time to step back. You know me.” I shrugged, trying to sound casual. It felt horrible to lie to my friends, but I thought if I could convince them I was OK, I’d have a better chance of convincing myself.
It was not going well.
Claire’s jaw was open and cocked to one side, eyes narrowed. Margot was making this face she makes with one eyebrow up, lips pressed together, her gaze so searing hot you’d swear she could fry an egg with it.
(Tonight the role of the egg will be played by Jaime Owens.)
“This is bullshit, Jaime,” she said. “This is just you freaking out because someone finally got to you.”
“Exactly,” said Claire. “Quinn is crazy about you, and you’re crazy about him. I’ve seen it.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” I said lamely. “And I’m not that crazy about him.”
“Don’t lie to us. We’ve known you too long, and your cheeks get too red.” Claire shook her head. “You’re sabotaging this on purpose.”
“I am not!”
“You are, but let’s ignore that for a second.” Margot waved a hand in the air. “What did Quinn say when you said you wanted to break up?”
“He didn’t even care.”
“Another lie,” said Margot.
“Yep,” said Claire.
“It’s not! He didn’t say anything, and when I told him he had to say something, he said, ‘OK, if that’s what you want.’” I left out the part where he said it wasn’t what he wanted. Didn’t really fit into the Poor Me picture I was painting.
Margot sat back, arms crossed. “I don’t buy it.”
Claire shook her head. “Me either.”
“Look, you guys can gang up on me all you want, but that doesn’t change the fact that Quinn moved out without saying anything to me the very next day. I’m telling you, he didn’t care. Now can we please talk about something else? I’m trying to forget the whole thing.”
Their faces softened.
“Sorry, Jaims. We’re not trying to g
ang up on you.” Margot put her hand on my arm. “We just don’t want to see you hurt.”
“I’m looking out for myself so I don’t get hurt, OK?” I said, trying to force the lump in my throat to go away. “You of all people should understand me right now.”
She didn’t say anything, but she nodded and patted my arm. “OK. Let’s talk about something else.”
“How are you doing, Margot?” Claire asked her.
She took a breath. “Better. Not great, but better. Thinking things through. Talking to my therapist. I think you might have been right about a change, Jaime.”
I smiled, glad to hear I was right about something.
Maybe I wouldn’t cry myself to sleep tonight.
Alex’s birthday was toward the end of March, and Nolan was throwing him a party at their house. I had to show my face, but I was terrified of running into Quinn. We hadn’t seen or spoken to each other in three weeks, and I was finally able to go a day without crying or eating a king-sized Hershey bar, but I wasn’t anywhere near over him. Would seeing him again fuck me up completely? Would I fall apart?
No. Don’t let it. Be strong.
Figuring strength would come easier if I felt good about my appearance, I got my eyebrows waxed and my hair blown out. I wore what I considered my best armor, a sexy little black dress that showed off my curves and the leopard heels. I gave myself a Sophia Loren eye and a classic red lip. When I saw the necklace he’d given me in my jewelry drawer, my stomach twisted. I loved it so much, but I hadn’t been able to bring myself to wear it since Quinn moved out. The reminder of that amazing night was too painful, so I left it in the drawer and chose a gold tassel pendant instead.
At the party, I had a cocktail to calm my nerves, and then another one after that because Quinn hadn’t arrived yet but I knew he had to be coming. By the bottom of the second drink, I still hadn’t seen him, so I approached Nolan. “Hey, was Quinn invited?”
“Yes,” he said, opening a bottle of red. “But he said he was going to be a little late.”
“Oh,” I said, hoping I sounded as if I didn’t care. “Just wondering. Hey, can you pour me a glass of that?”
Twenty minutes later, I was sipping wine in one corner of the living room, watching the doorway like a bird of prey, when he walked in.
My heart stopped.
The room spun.
I’d forgotten how beautiful he was.
As if he had radar where I was concerned, his eyes found me immediately. I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t. I wanted to breathe, but I couldn’t. I wanted to run over to him and wrap my legs around his waist, but I couldn’t. The room seemed to go silent, the air full of something so thick it stifled the sound. My mouth was dry. I lifted my glass to my lips and drank, barely tasting the wine.
God, what had I done? Why had I walked away from him? What the hell was wrong with me? Physical need for him took over my senses.
I have to get him back in my bed, in my arms, in my body.
But how could I do it? Was he still mad? Would he even come over to say hi?
I decided to try a little smile.
He nodded without smiling back, and went into the kitchen.
Fuck! Why had I smiled at him? Now I seemed weak and pathetic, and I didn’t want to come from that position. I needed to find a conversation to get in on before he came back in here and saw me standing alone. Searching the room, I saw Alex talking to some of his friends from work, and made my way over to them. I positioned myself so I’d see if Quinn came into he living room, but he never did.
Goddamn him! Was he made of steel or something? How could he ignore me like this?
Because he doesn’t care.
I bit my lip. Was that true? Had he gotten over me already? I couldn’t bear the thought. I downed the last of my wine and went for more, stumbling a little on my way out of the room.
From the kitchen, I could see into the family room, where Quinn was talking to Nolan and a woman I didn’t recognize. Jealousy made my nostrils flare. I poured another glass of pinot noir, spilling some on the counter.
When I looked up again, I caught him staring at me.
You do care, Quinn. I feel it. And I want you—I need to feel your hands on me, hear you whisper dirty words, watch your face as you come.
Suddenly I had an idea—the perfect plan for seduction.
It was risky, but if it worked it would be kind of funny, and Quinn loved a good joke. Plus sales pitches were my thing, right? I was a little drunk, but I thought I knew what Quinn wanted to hear—the three little words that would lure him into my bed.
It would totally go my way this time.
Tossing my hair over my shoulder, I headed in his direction.
Twenty-Seven
QUINN
God, she was gorgeous. That dress she was wearing clung to every curve. Fuck, I missed those curves. And her hair. I missed the way it felt in my hands, the way it smelled, the way it looked spilling across the pillow. Those shoes were the ones she’d been wearing the night I took her to The Whitney, the night she’d asked me to stay over, the night of the Finger.
My cock jumped, and I stifled a groan.
I’d known she would be here tonight, and I almost hadn’t come, but hiding out wasn’t my style. Then when I saw her, standing there in the living room by herself, looking so beautiful, so vulnerable, I nearly lost it and ran right for her. Not a day went by that I didn’t want her back.
But not on her terms, and not with her boundaries. I wanted more.
She walked up to me, and I could tell right away she was tipsy. Her eyes were glassy, and she didn’t seem too steady on her feet. “Excuse me,” I said to Nolan and the woman he’d introduced me to (although I’d forgotten her name instantly). Moving away from them slightly, I turned to Jaime.
“Hi,” she said, so friendly it was as if she’d forgotten she broke up with me three weeks ago.
“Hi.”
Suddenly she took me by the arm and pulled me into the hallway, past the kitchen, and into the bathroom. She let go of my arm and shut the door, setting her wine glass on the vanity. The light was off but a huge green candle with three wicks had been lit by the sink.
“I’m so glad you’re here.” She moved closer, pressing her chest to mine and running a hand up my lapel. “I missed you. You left without saying goodbye.” She had lipstick on her teeth.
“Are you OK?” I asked her, feeling the way she swayed toward me.
“I’m totally fine,” she said. “Mmmm, you smell good.”
“How did you get here?”
“I drove.” She toyed with the collar of my shirt. “Why, do you want to take me home?”
“I want to make sure you get home safely.”
She giggled. “You’re worried about me. I like it. And look where we are.”
I looked around. “The bathroom?”
More laughter. “Yes. I want a do-over.”
It hit me right as she spoke what she was doing.
“I think I love you, Quinn.”
Oh, Jesus. “Jaime.”
“I want you back.”
“Back where?”
“With me. In my bed.”
“Why?”
“Because I miss you there.”
I stared down at her, searching her face for the truth, for some evidence that she knew what she was saying to me, for some sign of change in her.
I didn’t see any of it.
“No.” It was hard keeping my hands to myself the way she was hanging on me, but I did, one clenched around a beer bottle, one fisted at my side.
“What?” She blinked.
“Why are you doing this, Jaime?”
“I told you,” she said, one hand sliding down the front of my jeans, the other snaking around my waist. “I want you. I want back what we had.”
“Why did you throw it away? Be honest this time.”
She lifted her shoulders, her focus on my chest. “I was just being silly.”
&nbs
p; I set my beer down and gently pushed her away, holding her forearms out in front of me, forcing her to look me in the eye. “Answer the question, Jaime. I deserve the truth from you.”
“You know why.”
“Say it.”
“Because I was scared, OK?” She stepped back, knotting her fingers at her waist. “I’m scared of the way I feel. I’m scared that when things fall apart, I will too. And they always fall apart, Quinn.”
“Bullshit.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re not scared it will fall apart. You’re scared it won’t.”
“What do you mean?” Her voice shook.
“You hide behind this ‘love is just a fairy tale used to sell lipstick’ wall so you don’t have to make yourself vulnerable to another person. So you don’t have to trust someone and let him trust you. So you don’t have to fucking commit to someone and be willing to say I’m sorry or I forgive you or help me or I need you. So you don’t have to be humbled by a feeling so fucking strong it changes your life. Well, I want that. I want to trust you. I want to need you. I want to be humbled by love, because it makes me feel alive and part of something good.”
“What we had was good! Why can’t we go back to it?”
I shook my head. “Because I changed my mind. I’m in love with you, but I want more. I want a commitment from you, a future with you, not just a fling. I want to hear you say you believe it’s possible.”
“That is what I’m saying, isn’t it?” she asked, but I heard the doubt in her voice.
“No, what you’re saying is that you want me back in your bed, because the sex is fun and you miss what we had, but it’s just temporary because these feelings won’t last.”
“But I said I love you! Isn’t that enough?”
“Those are pretty words, Jaime, but right now it sounds to me like you’re using them as a means to an end. That isn’t love.”
“You think I’m lying to you?”
“No. I think you’re lying to yourself. I think you want more too, and you’re scared to take it.”
She went silent, her shoulders slumping.
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