The Lineup

by Quinn, Meghan

  Ding.

  I check the oven, then the counter . . .

  Ding.

  My eyes fly to Dottie’s computer. Oh, okay. I chuckle to myself, letting the short panic fade. I have everything timed out, and at this point in preparation there should be no extra—hey, why does that email have my name as the subject line?

  I glance at the ham and then turn back to the computer, leaning a little closer.

  Does it say Jason?

  I squint.

  Yup, that says Jason.

  Maybe it’s a different Jason . . . or maybe it’s about me and the dinner tonight. Should I look at it?

  No.

  That’s Dottie’s email. She’ll read it and tell me what it says. Right?

  What if she doesn’t? What if she’s too nervous to tell me what it says? I don’t want to disappoint her tonight.

  I bite my bottom lip and look toward her bedroom.

  Maybe a quick glance, just to get the gist of it.

  I step away from the oven but then catch myself.

  “No,” I mutter, turning away. “That’s her work email. It’s private. If I need to know the information, she’ll tell me.”

  Keeping my eye on the ham, I watch the juices spark inside the oven while the email bores a hole in the back of my head.

  It’s calling out to me, tapping me on the shoulder, encouraging me to read it, look at it, practically smell it for information.

  “Ah,” I groan, pulling on my hair with my oven mitts.

  Just a quick once-over.

  I glance at the ham one more time. I look down the hallway—the coast is clear—and then I read the email.

  Dottie,

  I’m assuming everything is set for tonight. I have all the confidence in the world that you can close the deal.

  As for Jason, how did he take the news about your fake relationship? I’m assuming okay if he’s willing to go along with tonight. I still feel uncomfortable about you using him for the dinner, but as long as he’s in the know, that’s all that matters.

  Knock them dead. Love you, kid.

  Dad.

  My eyes swim over the words, rereading the same sentence as if it’s not registering in my brain.

  I still feel uncomfortable about you using him for the dinner, but as long as he’s in the know, that’s all that matters.

  Using me?

  Fake relationship?

  What?

  I shift on my feet, reading the email again. He must be mistaken. What we have isn’t fake. There’s nothing fake about our relationship. I’ve never felt something so real in my life.

  But . . . what if . . .

  No. I shake my head and step away from my computer, my mind reeling with every conversation I’ve had with Dottie.

  This is real. Real for me, real for her.

  Then again . . .

  When did she talk to the Carltons about me? They’ve been on vacation for a while, so she must have told them before they left. When was that though? Shit, either way the timing doesn’t seem to work. Why would she tell her dad this was fake unless . . . it started that way?

  Shit.

  I wrack my brain, trying to figure out the timeline, tempted to go through her emails to help me but think better of it. I’m sure they aren’t ones she’d keep.

  What about the enchilada fiasco night? She went to work that day pissed as shit at me. I didn’t think she’d come to dinner, and yet she showed up. But . . . she more than just showed up; she came on to me and hard. It was weird at the time, still fucking weird now that I think about it, but if she was desperate to seal the deal, I wouldn’t put it past her to do anything it takes.

  Holy.

  Fuck.

  I step back again, both oven mitt hands on top of my head as I try to understand the implications of this.

  Does she actually like me? Or has this all been a fucking game to her? Have I been a pawn in her life? Using me for sex and career gain?

  I don’t want to believe it, but then again, I know the drive that hides behind those seductive eyes of hers.

  I still feel uncomfortable about you using him.

  Why would her dad say those specific words? “Using him.” He would only use that precise term if that’s what she told him.

  My heart plummets to the floor, shattering right there on the spot as my breathing starts to pick up.

  All the late-night conversations, the flirty smiles, the serious talk about belonging to one another . . . it was all a farce, a goddamn lie for her gain.

  Fuck. It’s like Melissa all over again. I’d thought she was into me as well, but she’d been all over other guys at the same time. Why can women lie so easily? What do they really gain from being so . . . false?

  “Fuck,” I say to myself just as a burning smell hits my nose.

  I spin around only to find the oven bursting with a flaming ham.

  “Ahh,” I scream as if my body was replaced with a ten-year-old girl’s. Flames crawl out of the oven and tickle the kitchen air as I dance around the tiled floor, arms flailing, trying to locate a fire extinguisher. “I’m going to die,” I say in the most dramatic voice ever heard. “Fire. It’s a fucking fire.” I jog in place, my cock and balls bouncing against my apron. “Charred to death naked. Ahhhhh.”

  I bounce.

  I dance.

  I flail every limb of my body.

  I pray to Jesus for indoor rain.

  “It’s a goddamn inferno in here. This is how I die, naked, and—” I spot a red canister in the corner and quickly run to it.

  Praise you, praise you!

  I pull the metal clip, take the hose, and point it at the oven. Using my most efficient twinkle toes, I waltz around the kitchen, a fire extinguisher as my partner, hand and hose, and together we douse the fire until it’s completely out.

  On a deep sigh, I relax my shoulders and stare at the charred ham.

  Completely ruined.

  All that hard work. All that prep. All that tasty, crispy smell.

  Gone.

  The email, the uncertainty, the ruined ham—the fact that I almost burned up in flames naked as the day I was born—it all comes crashing down on me, leaving me to sink to the floor into a pile of sodden emotions.

  And even though the ham is the final kick to the crotch, that’s not what’s slowly draining the life from my body. That’s not what’s causing this ill feeling to bubble up inside me.

  It’s the email.

  The words “using him” flashing, making me feel like a complete idiot.

  A lone tear falls down my cheek.

  What’s bringing me the most grief? What I thought Dottie felt for me wasn’t really true.

  I feel like a goddamn fool.

  An idiot for thinking that this high-powered woman with work on her mind constantly could genuinely open her heart to me.

  “Fuck,” I mutter, rubbing my eye with my mitt-covered palm.

  I take calming breaths and as air fills my lungs, anger filters into my veins. How many times has she told me I’m ridiculous? How often has she told me she should hate me but then said words to buffer the truth? I’m competitive by nature, but I’m not sticking around to attempt to win this. Win her. Because she doesn’t want to be won. At least, not by me.

  Fuck this and fuck her.

  I can’t be here any longer, and I sure as shit can’t be here when the Carltons arrive. No fucking way. Unlike a certain woman, I’m not a talented actor.

  Standing, I toss the oven mitts to the ground and tear off my apron. Naked, I walk to Dottie’s bedroom and quickly put on my jeans and shirt. Without a word, I head to the living room and grab my shoes.

  That’s when Dottie pops out of the bedroom in her robe, a confused look on her face. “Is something burning?”

  I ignore her and finish tying my shoes. When I stand, she’s coming toward me, and even though it looks like she’s concerned, I honestly can’t tell if it’s real or not at this point.

  “Jason, wh
at’s wrong? Your eyes are bloodshot.” She glances over my shoulder. “Did something happen to the ham?”

  “Yeah, it’s fucking charred. I wouldn’t serve it if I were you.”

  I move past her and walk toward the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Anywhere but here.”

  She pads across the hardwood floors and steps in front of me. “Wait, what’s going on? Is everything okay?” Her hand crawls up my chest and I grip her wrist, stopping her. Her eyes widen, and I slowly remove her touch from my body.

  “No, it’s not okay.” I push my hand through my hair. “Care to tell me why I’m really here?”

  “Wh-what are you talking about?”

  “Don’t act like you don’t fucking know.”

  “Jason.” Her voice goes weak, scared. “I really don’t.”

  “No?” I twist to the side and then back at her, distraught and so fucking angry that I’m about to lose my goddamn cool. “Then why the fuck is your dad emailing you about me, and saying he feels uncomfortable about you using me for your career?”

  She stills, her breath catching in her throat as she looks toward her open computer.

  “Yeah, that’s what I fucking thought.” I go to move past her again, but she stops me with her hand to my chest. “I suggest you don’t fucking touch me right now, Dottie.”

  “Jason, it’s not what you think.”

  That’s what they always say.

  “It’s not?” My brows shoot up to my hairline. “So you didn’t tell the Carltons we were dating before we actually were?”

  She twists her hands together and looks off to the side. “I mean—”

  “Get out of my fucking way.”

  “Wait, please let me explain.”

  “Why? So you can lie to me like you’ve been lying during our entire relationship?” My breath catches in my chest as a wave of pain hits me. “I really fucking liked you, Dottie, and all this, that email . . . you’ve crushed me.” Whispering and staring at the ground, I say, “You broke my heart.”

  “I haven’t been lying to you,” she says, her voice full of sorrow. I glance up to see tears streaming down her face and for a brief second, I wonder if she’s telling the truth. “Everything we’ve felt between us, that’s been real. I was just in a tough spot a while ago. The Carltons weren’t going to consider my proposal because I wasn’t in a relationship. It was really stupid, and I panicked. I told them I was in one and dropped your name like an idiot.”

  “And that’s why you came over to my apartment that night, to make a move, to try to make what you said a reality. Great. So glad I could be a part of your game.”

  “I liked you before that,” she says. “I had such a bad crush on you in college and then seeing you again, years later, it all came flooding back. This wasn’t an overnight thing. This has been brewing inside me for a long time.”

  “Yeah, that’s evident from the way you had security remove me from your office.” I drag my hand over my mouth and say, “Fuck, Dottie. Has this all been a goddamn joke to you?”

  “No,” she sobs, trying to take my hand, but I whip it away. “This has been”—she wipes at her face, completely falling apart in front of me—“this has been so much more than I ever expected.”

  “But how did it start?” I ask, wanting the truth.

  “It . . .” Her lip trembles. “It started . . .”

  “Fucking say it, Dottie.”

  She reels back, as if my voice is venom splashing her face. Her face blanches, her tears roll down like a waterfall, and her hands shake as the clutches them to her chest. “It was—”

  I put my hand up, unable to look at her anymore. “You know what? Save it. I’m done.”

  “Wh-what?” she asks, her voice rocking with pain. “What do you mean, you’re done?”

  “It’s exactly what it means. I’m done. We’re done,” I say with such finality that I convince myself of the words. “And you know what the real fucking kicker is? Out of everyone, you should know what it feels like to be used.” I point at her. “You should know the anguish, the heartache, the unfiltered pain it causes to find out you aren’t loved, you aren’t cared for . . . you’re just a pawn in someone’s game.” I look her up and down, disgust filling me. “I expected so much more from you, Dottie.”

  I head to her door, opening it as she cries out in a sob. “Jason, please. Let me explain. I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry isn’t going to cut it, Dottie. You just broke my trust and there’s no coming back from that.”

  Before she can say another word, I exit her apartment and head to mine. The entire drive, I fucking cry like an asshole. When I reach my door, I consider knocking on Knox and Emory’s door, but instead, I head inside my dark apartment and slide to the ground against my bed. Fuck. How did she fool me? How did she fucking fool her friends? They’ve known her for years. Years. I know they weren’t in on it.

  This wasn’t an overnight thing. This has been brewing inside me for a long time.

  I’m so fucking stupid. It was an overnight thing.

  My mom once said that when I give my heart away to someone, it will be theirs for life. That they’ll take care of it because they’ll know how lucky they are. “Well, Mom, apparently that’s utter bullshit. I gave my heart to Dottie Domico, and she trampled on it. Destroyed it. Broke it.

  Broke me.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  DOTTIE

  The minute the door clicks shut, I fall to the ground in a heap of tears.

  My hands cover my eyes as regret assails me, stabbing me in the chest with every image of Jason’s heartbroken face that crosses my mind.

  Like a steel weight resting heavily on my lungs, my actions, my dishonesty, it’s impossible to breathe.

  We’re done.

  Those two words dig deep into my soul as realization smacks me in the face. He didn’t just leave, he didn’t just storm off . . . he broke up with me.

  He actually broke up with me.

  He’s gone, and from the finality in his voice, he’s never coming back.

  “I’m so stupid,” I mutter, shaking my head. “So fucking stupid.”

  How did I not tell him? How did I drag this out for so long and not say anything?

  Because I was terrified I’d lose him . . . but I lost him anyway.

  From my seated position, I glance toward the kitchen and dining room. The table is elegantly set using my finest dishes and silverware that I know he spent time polishing. Cream cloth napkins are folded into a swan shape, and the wine we picked out specifically to pair well with the ham is on the table, ready to be opened.

  He did this for me, and I didn’t even have the decency to tell him the truth about the Carltons.

  What did that email say? What words caused such agony for the man I love?

  Standing on shaky legs, I walk to my computer and there it is, clear as day, an email from my dad. Subject line: Jason. Probably the reason Jason opened it.

  I can’t be mad at him for invading my privacy, because if I was in his shoes, I’d probably have done the same thing.

  On a deep breath, I read through it quickly, my eyes swimming with regret as they wash over the words ‘fake relationship . . . using him.’

  Shit . . . I bury my head in my hands again, more sobs wracking my body. What he must be feeling right now. It was never fake, not for me. My first attempt at trying to win him over might have been forced, but the rest of it wasn’t. Nothing about my pursuit for him was fake. Nothing about our relationship was unreal. I can still taste him in my mouth, feel him between my legs, smell his scent all over my body, hear the deep baritone of his voice over my skin as he demands more from me.

  I shake my head in disgust. This is such a mess. I am such a mess.

  I glance at the stove, the charred ham, a symbol of my dead relationship. The time he spent on it, the time he spent on us, up in flames in the matter of seconds.

  And I only have myself to blame.
<
br />   I need to talk to him. I need to make this right. He needs to know it was him and only thoughts of him that made our relationship real.

  Picking up my phone from the counter, I type out a quick text to Jason, knowing fully well he’ll ignore it.

  Dottie: I’m so sorry, Jason. Please hear me when I say you deserve so much better than how I treated you. If I were a better person, I’d leave you alone, but I’m not, and I’m selfish, because I want you in my life. What we had was real. It was so real. I’m sorry I made you doubt that.

  Tears cascading down my cheeks, I scroll through my contacts and press call while bringing the phone to my ear. I don’t want to make this phone call, but at this point, there’s no other option.

  I wipe the tears off my face and brace myself as the phone is picked up.

  “Miss Domico, how can I help you?”

  I suck in a sharp breath. There is no way they can help me. In fact, I wouldn’t deserve it if they tried. I know I’ve ruined any chance of Domico Industries securing the contract, but at this point, why give a shit? He’s gone. “Hi, Mr. Carlton I’m afraid I’m going to have to cancel . . .”

  * * *

  Emory: Dottie . . .

  Lindsay: Oh girl, Emory just told me everything.

  Emory: Knox spoke with Jason last night. Why didn’t you tell him?

  Dottie: Because I’m an idiot. I really don’t want to talk about this.

  Emory: I don’t think that’s how this friend thing goes. We’re here for you, even when you’re a complete dumbass.

  Lindsay: I thought you told him. Why did I think you told him? Ugh, Dottie, Knox said Jason looked terrible.

  Emory: You weren’t supposed to tell her that.

  Lindsay: She needs to know. Jason is a good guy and she really hurt him.

  Dottie: I know I hurt him. He made that quite clear when he was leaving my apartment. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this sick, this awful, this unbelievably sorry in my entire life.

  Emory: He cried with Knox . . .

  I suck in a breath reading Emory’s text as I rest my head against my tear-soaked pillow. It’s been two days since he left, and I’ve yet to get out of bed after cancelling the dinner. I’ve sent Jason countless texts and I even tried calling him a few times but as expected, he’s been radio silent. I’ve considered going to his apartment but have thought better of it. I’m the last person he wants knocking on his door right now.