Page 50 of When the Walls Come Down
She twisted a little on the bench to face me. “So, friends? That won’t be weird after all the…”
I looked at her and deadpanned, “Maggie, we were weird before the sex. Don’t expect me to start acting normal now.”
She laughed, but it held little humor.
“I think you should go. I’m gonna sit here awhile,” I said.
Truth was I had little confidence I would be able to resist slamming her up against the elevator wall and showing her how much I still wanted her. The way she’d stuck up for me that day. Memorized all my biggest accomplishments at Bay in one morning. How invested in our shared management plan she’d been. The fucking high-waisted satin slacks and pressed cotton shirt she’d worn made me want to strip her naked and kiss every square inch of her skin—and don’t even get me started on the shoes.
God damn, that woman could give a blind man a foot fetish.
But before things got ugly and out of hand, before push came to shove at the office, I needed her to know I cared about her and that what we’d had—what we’d almost started together—wasn’t just some fling or fly-by-night affair for me.
“Are you sure about this?” she asked. Not protesting. Not trying to change my mind.
“If either of us have a fighting chance, we’re both gonna need to get good sleep at night, and we both know that’s not really been our forte. Trust me. I hate this more than anything.”
Slowly, she stood and took a deep breath, almost like she was about to say something else. Like she was going to fight me on it.
Secretly, I wanted her to.
She didn’t though. The only thing she said before she walked off toward our shared building was, “I hate this too.”
I sat there on that stupid fucking bench, which I would now and forever loathe, and thought about my options. I could go home and make myself crazy trying not to go over to her apartment. I sure as hell wasn’t going to go spend time with my nieces and nephew because I wanted to throttle their parents. Plus, even I knew how fine the line Casey was running with respect to conflict of interest.
Coffee would only keep me up longer that night thinking about the fuck-all of a predicament I was in.
And although I didn’t have much of an appetite, I headed in one familiar direction. It was settled. I was gonna drown my sorrows. Not in an all-night binge like the old Shane would have, but in the new start-early-and-be-passed-out-in-bed-by-nine version Shane way.
It didn’t feel much like progress, but at that point, I honestly didn’t want to feel anything for a little while. My brain needed a break. So it was time to tag my liver in to pull the night shift. He’d been on the sidelines long enough.
It was going to be a shit’s-going-down, bottoms-up kind of night.“Hit me,” I said and slapped the bar top.
“This isn’t poker, fucknut, and by the way, this is your last one,” Chris warned across the counter. “I’m all for tying one on after a bitch of a day, but I’m cutting you off before you make a bitch out of tomorrow too.”
I looked at my phone. My poor, nobody-even-called-or-texted-me phone. “It’s only seven, Pisstopher.”
“Try ten til eight, Shane,” he corrected as he poured only a finger of bourbon into my empty glass.
I glanced at my cell again, and I’ll be damned if he wasn’t right.
Oh well. It still wasn’t too late. I’d be home soon and in just the right condition to face plant on my bed. Only after I did one last thing.
I had some stuff I needed to get rid of.The minute I got back to my apartment, I took my heels off and hurled them across the room. One put a hole in the wall, which just put a hole in my security deposit. The other knocked that stupid, weird bowl filled with hollow teal balls off my coffee table. And if that wasn’t symbolic for my fucking life, I had no idea what was.
I paced for a long while, cursing the meddling universe.
After that, I poured a glass of wine. It was the remnants of the nasty bottle that had been gifted from my apartment complex, but I choked it down. It did absolutely nothing to curb my frustration, but I had a sneaking suspicion nothing would.
I ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for dinner and every part of me longed for Shane’s tomato cream pasta.
But really, I just longed for him.
Finally, I ended up on my couch, resigned and wallowing. Netflix had failed me, so I sat there with my legs curled under me and stared at old reruns of The Office without actually watching them.
Shane was right. This wasn’t going to work.
