by Ivy Hunt
“Last night?” Connor prompts.
I swallow past the lump in my throat. “Hannah. She invited you?”
“She did.”
“Did you come because you felt sorry for me?” I have to ask. I don’t know what I’ll do if he says yes. String myself up by the sheets, maybe.
He looks at me for a long moment.
“It was more like I felt sorry for myself.” Connor’s expression is wary.
That makes me blink. “You?”
“Me.” He nods. “She said you were bringing a date.”
“Oh. I just said that because Hannah was being a burbitch.” For a second Connor’s lips twitch. My heart skips—just a tiny little hop.
But I force myself to go on. “Still. It shouldn’t have happened,” I say. “We—I—shouldn’t have…” I look at the mussed up bed, dying a little more on the inside.
“We didn’t have sex. If that’s what you’re asking.”
“No. I know we didn’t… I mean that last night—that wasn’t me. None of this has been me. It was all a mistake.”
Connor looks at me, uncomprehending. I try to explain.
“This shouldn’t have happened. None of it. The robbery. You, me, this…” I wave my hands at the foot-long gulf between us.
Self-loathing engulfs me at the hurt that sparks in his eyes. But the emotion there quickly fades and his features harden. “You say it wasn’t you last night. Newsflash, Miss Dixon. It was. Because guess what? Not everyone fits a mold. You like to put labels on everything, everyone—Ken, Barbie, Boy Scout, Soldier, Victim, Badass. People can be more than just one thing. And that includes you. For fuck’s sake, just be you. Just Ella. That’s it. That’s enough.” Connor takes a deep breath, and his voice softens. “And let me be me, just Connor Hall.“
But I’m too angry now. “Oh, I know that. Mr. Perfect Connor Hall.” I jeer.
“You are so hung up on that word.” A muscle in his jaw ticks. “Perfect? Yeah, perfectly stupid because guess what? I love you!”
“You don’t know me!” bursts from me even as I grapple with his words, unable to make sense of them.
He snorts, derisive now. “Are you kidding? I know you, maybe even better than you know yourself. But you keep hiding. Even from the ones who want the best for you!”
Shock at his earlier declaration subsides and a mix of outrage and hurt fills me instead. “I’m not hiding. It’s called being independent!”
“On your own and away from the people who care about you?”
“On my own and away from the people,” I snarl, “who keep telling me what’s good for me and what I should do!”
“No one’s telling you what to do. You’re just using that as an excuse to run away to your Manhattan apartment, saying you want to be independent. Being independent doesn’t mean you can’t accept a little help now and then.” He scoffs. “I think you’re just afraid because you think that if people get to see who you really are, they’ll walk away. So you push them away first.”
I can’t think of anything to say, and the silence between us stretches.
A mask descends over Connor’s face like a shutter. I’ve seen him upset, concerned, angry, lustful, laughing. But never this… blasé, bored, cold character. Now he really does resemble a plastic-faced action figure. “Tell you what, let me save you the trouble of sending me off this time around. I’m leaving.”
Chapter Thirty-One
CONNOR
Blood pounds in my ears and every muscle screams. My arms quiver for a couple more seconds before I grunt and lower the weight-laden bar. The clang reverberates through the space.
Swiping the damp hair off my forehead, I make myself take deep, heaving breaths to regulate my breathing, slow my heart rate. My arms and pecs burn. I’ve been in the weight room forever, but fuck it. What’s an extra set of reps if the rest of me is already hurting? It’s not like I have anywhere better to be.
I squeeze my eyes shut, grit my teeth, and get ready to go again. I wrap my fingers around the bar, count to three and lift.
But I can’t raise it. My lids pop open. Jake and Logan are stationed on both ends of the bench press station and push down, adding their combined bulk to the bar already holding plates of a hundred and fifty pounds on each side.
“Talk,” Logan commands in full team captain mode.
I scowl. “Fuck off.”
Bracing myself, I try to lift again, my upper body arching and straining with the effort. All that does is make the fuckers force it down harder. I collapse back on the padded headrest and shut my lids in defeat.
“You sucked out there today. Lucky it wasn’t a real game,” Logan starts.
Jake chimes in, “You damned near killed Milo. You realize it was practice, and that he’s on our team, and we’re not going to win any more games if you’ve crushed him into a tin can, right?” His tone is slow, as if trying to reason with a toddler.
I press my lips tight and say nothing.
Logan tries again. “Well? What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing. It’s fine. I’m fine.” I focus on the square ceiling tiles, hoping to hell they get the hint and scram. But their eyes are like ants crawling along my skin.
“Fuck, I knew it,” Jake says in disgust.
“What?” Logan asks.
“He’s got girl problems.” Out of the periphery of my vision, I see Jake back away, hands stretched out in front of him as if I’m infectious.
I snort and slide out from underneath the bar. Heaving myself up, I sit up on the edge of the bench before grabbing a towel and running it over my face. I leave it draped there.
“Ella?” Logan questions.
Cloth still over my face, I nod, likely resembling a Halloween ghost. I fucking feel like one, it’s like she’s sucked the life out of me. Pathetic.
I sigh, drop my head further, and the terry cloth drops to the ground.
“He’s terminal,” Jake says. I look up to find him shaking his head. “There’s no coming back from this. I mean, look at that schmuck.” He gestures at Logan.
Our team captain scowls, grabs a bottle of water from a nearby table and tosses it at me. I crack it open and guzzle it down.
“So, what’s the deal, then?” Logan asks me again.
I drag my hand down my face, squeezing my eyes shut for a moment. “She doesn’t want to be with me.”
Jake winces. “Harsh. So harsh, man.”
Across him, Logan lifts an eyebrow. Just one. Always wished I could do that. “Did she actually say that?”
“Say what?”
“That she didn’t want to be with you.”
“Not in those words.”
Logan keeps his voice even, modulated. “What words did she use? Exactly.”
I’ve been trying to block out the memory of our last conversation entirely. Wish I had a mind-wiper. “She said we were a mistake. That I was too perfect,“ I spit out that word. “She said she doesn’t want people telling her what to do, what to think.”
“Then?” Jake prods.
“Then I told her she was hiding because she was afraid that people would leave her,” I say.
“You said that?”
“Yes.”
“You did all the talking?” Jake looks horrified.
I shrug.
“Shit,” Logan says.
“And you left?” Both guys wear twin expressions of incredulity.
I nod.
“You. Fucking. Moron.” Jake slaps his forehead.
Logan translates. “So basically you did what she said everyone always does. Told her what was good for her. Lectured her. And left.”
When you put it that way… “Fuck.”
“Ding, ding, ding.” A smirk appears on Logan’s face as he leans forward to knock me on the head. I swat his hand away.
Panic begins to rage within me as all the other things I said rush back. I told Ella I loved her. And that people who cared about her wanted to support her, and then, in the same br
eath, I left. Abandoned her. My stomach goes into free fall.
I suck in a harsh breath. “So now what?”
“You want her back?” Logan confirms.
I scowl. “I never wanted to let her go to begin with.”
Jake stands. “Time to pull out the big guns.” He cracks his knuckles.
I don’t even want to guess what’s going to come out of his mouth next.
“You need the grand gesture.” He says with authority.
“Huh?” I grunt.
“Grand gesture. Something to demonstrate your lurrve,” he says. “Think holding a boombox over your head, jumping on a plane and serenading her, putting her on a floating door from a sinking ship even though there’s enough fucking space for the both of you.” Jake scowls at that last one.
“How do you know this?” I ask.
“Dude. I have five sisters.” He holds out his hand, fingers starfished. “Five. You questioning me?”
He has a point.
“So, what? Send her flowers? I can do that.” I’m already reaching for my phone.
Logan shakes his head. “Are you kidding? Even I know that’s an amateur move.”
“What then?”
“What does she want?” says Jake, the newly minted in-house love guru for the New York Titans. “Think big.”
“Skywriting?” I say doubtfully.
“Bigger.”
An idea strikes me. So perfect. So perfectly horrible.
Chapter Thirty-Two
ELLA
Silver ice buckets strategically placed around the living area of this hotel suite ensure that no one is more than an arm’s length from booze. Unfortunately, the alcohol selection itself is substandard—pink champagne, cranberry juice and vodka, some dainty daiquiri thing—all selected to match the color scheme of the bachelorette party. What does a girl have to do for a Scotch around here? Should’ve brought a flask.
So goes the fifth circle of hell: Bachelorette Party.
I’m a thorn among the roses, literally. In a black dress of my own design while everyone else is in shades of red and rose, per the ‘suggested’ attire. Hannah is not pleased. My one concession is the sash screaming, ‘Bride Tribe’. And only because Celeste insisted. It was either take it or choke her with the pink and white streamers laced around the room. Meanwhile, Hannah is in a white satin and tulle micro-dress that’s more wedding night than day. A crystal-encrusted tiara sits atop her blond hair.
The rest of the Barbie Brigade is here in full force tonight, bodies trim and toned compliments of Pilates and Soul Cycle and Botox.
But I know what’s underneath.
Or do I? All week, words hammered at my skull. Possibly cracking it open just the tiniest bit, letting a little sliver of truth slip through. Many of Hannah’s friends aren’t all that bad. Some have always been really nice.
What was it Connor said? That I was all about labels, implying I was judgy.
A little, niggling voice in my head whispers that maybe he has a point. Guilt washes over me.
Fine. So I’m judgy.
Settling myself in one corner, I attempt to ignore the curious looks that come my way. Most of the women here saw the spectacle I made of myself with Connor that first evening. Wonder how desperate they thought I was then?
I take a long draw of my pink drink. But was Connor right about the rest of it? What else did he say? Oh, that I was hiding away. Nope. Not me. He has no idea what it’s taking to sit here on my own. In plain sight and sticking out like a broken nail in my black dress.
The large-screen TV shuffles through a slideshow of Hannah in some very risqué poses. A sexy photo shoot, compliments of one of the bridesmaids. I shudder at the thought of her sending a selection to Hank. For his Spank Bank. I snort at the rhyme and get a few more covert glances.
The music goes back and forth between 80’s, 90’s, and whatever is popular on TikTok. When Madonna’s “Like a Virgin” comes on, the girls dance around Hannah as she croons into a pink dildo. Obviously a nostalgic moment.
Oh, right. Note to self—be less judgy. I sigh. It’s going to take a while to kick in.
Another song comes on. One with a distinct beat. Please don’t twerk, please don’t twerk. I squeeze my eyes shut when the twerking commences. I’m subjected to perky booties jiggling.
I cross and uncross my legs, squirming as I take in the bubble butts all around while more of Connor’s words mill around my head like pink elephants.
He said I needed to look beyond the labels. That I was hiding. Afraid.
And then that pinkest mammoth of them all—he said he loved me. The words trumpet in my ears, rivaling the sound system where Beyonce orders men all across the globe to put a ring on it.
Connor Hall said he loved me.
No wonder he kept saying he wasn’t perfect. The idiot is blind.
Who does that? Tell them they love them, tell them they’re enough, and then bails?
Talk about imperfect.
Just like me.
Because in my stupid attempt at self-preservation, I pushed him away. Regret is an ugly knot in my belly.
Panic rushes through me. I need to find him before he comes to his senses and decides he can do better. I grab my bag and stand, sloshing my drink over the edge of my glass in my hurry. But Hannah skewers me a look and I plop back into my seat. All I want is to get out of here and run Connor down—sit on him if I have to until he gives me another chance.
A sickening fear that it’s too late fills me. My foot bounces uncontrollably. When the lights dim further, I force myself to take a calming breath. The end is in sight.
An old school disco ball hangs in the center of the ceiling, its mirrored squares spin, casting lights in the shadows. It makes me think of my concussion. Which in turn makes me think of Connor.
A smoke machine starts up, spraying the room with a fine mist of red and pink. Small lines form between Hannah’s brows as her blond hair frizzes, just the tiniest bit. She makes fruitless attempts to smooth it down. The cool air brings back that afternoon in Central Park. Which makes me think of Connor.
And then the stripper comes in. He’s all strapping and muscly. Tall, with blond hair worthy of a Viking. My mouth dries. He reminds me of Co… He is Connor.
My mouth drops. Flies might make their homes in my mouth.
Connor Hall. Football Star. Boy Scout.
Like, literally a Boy Scout.
He stands there, in a tan shirt with a red neckerchief, paired with olive-green shorts that come to his knees, making his powerful thighs look even more muscular. His uniform strains at the seams, almost like Bruce Banner in the midst of his transformation into the Incredible Hulk. Even his knees are manly. Can knees be manly?
I traverse the rest of him—solid forearms and hair roughened calves that disappear into high socks and black shoes.
He’s flanked by other men in uniform—a police officer, a fireman, and a construction worker with dildos and tubes of lube sticking out of the tool belt looped around the waist of his low-slung jeans.
But my attention is fixed on Connor. A whole mixture of feelings course through me. Disbelief, confusion, and underneath it all, a euphoria that he’s somehow found me. I slide a glance at Hannah. Her eyes meet mine, and all she does is raise a perfectly arched eyebrow before turning back to the oiled and lubed men, now gyrating to their enthusiastic audience.
Even in the ridiculous get up, the crowd is in awe of him. They part and let him cross the room, their dropped jaws and cow-shaped eyes following him until he’s here. In front of me. Right now, it’s just the two of us. The rest of the world has disappeared..
“You’re here,” I say dumbly.
“I’m here.”
“But why?” I ask.
“My grand gesture.”
I bite my lips, desperately trying to contain my laugh. It’s like champagne bubbles in my bloodstream. “Is it?”
“The guys said I needed to prove myself. Run into a burning buildin
g. Swim through a school of sharks. Something like that. Grovel.”
“So you’d get on your knees if I ordered?”
“You wouldn’t need to order.” But then his confident mask dissipates and uncertainty fills his eyes. “Did I screw things up completely? You have every right to tell me to fuck off. But I’m praying you don’t.”
I shake my head. I’m still having trouble believing that Connor is here, especially since I was the one who messed everything up. I open my mouth to tell him exactly that, but he speaks first. “I left you,” he says as he swallows. “Right when you didn’t need to be alone. After saying you could depend on people.” He grimaces in self-disgust. I can’t stand it.
“Yeah. You did. But I don’t blame you. Well, not much anyway.” I take a deep breath. “But I deserved it. Kinda needed it, really.” This is it. The moment of truth. I’m so scared, I almost want to throw up. “I kept telling myself that you were perfect, that you weren’t my type, that everything we had was temporary. I made up all sorts of excuses in my mind why we couldn’t be together. Because if I fell for you, there was no going back. And if I wasn’t going to be what you wanted, then it would be better to end things sooner rather than later. So I pushed you away.”
“I know you don’t need me. You’re entirely competent. For fuck’s sake, you faced down a guy with a gun to your head. No one needs to save you,” he says.
“That’s the thing. I kinda do need you. So, so very much. I was so full of myself. Figuring I knew everything. Had everyone pegged. But you were right. I was all about the labels. I needed—hell, I still need to sort myself out.”
“I shouldn’t have said that.” Connor grimaces. “I mean, shit, what do I know?”
I respond, “No more than me, apparently. I was dumb. Dumber than the dummy in my apartment. Cloth scraps between my ears because I haven’t wanted to let the truth in for a while.”
We exchange smiles, and the air between us thickens.
“You really meant it?”
“That I loved you? I did. I do.” He gives me a crooked grin. “I mean, look at me.” He pops his hip and I laugh, and joy suffuses me.