Page 85 of When the Walls Come Down
I’d been right. He loved me and was going to do whatever I wanted, risking his own happiness just to hold on to us. The idea of caving and running back into his arms was really fucking appealing. But then what? What happened next year when he got antsy and started ring shopping? What happened when he did have the money for that fancy new house and he moved out of the apartment next door? What happened in a few years when he got sick of waiting for me to be ready?
It was hard enough to lose him after a matter of weeks. I couldn’t imagine watching him walk away after years together.
No. This was for the best.
It sure as hell didn’t feel like the best though.
Blowing on my knee, I leaned over to look at my phone.Shane: And if you can reach it without snapping your gorgeous fucking head off, give that shoulder a goodnight kiss from me.Yeah. I was a fool, because as sad as I was, I did it. I kissed my own damn shoulder, and for the brief seconds my lips were there, I imagined they were his. What? It was no different than masturbation. Or, say, climbing on the floor into the corner of a balcony four hundred miles away to feel closer to him the moment his name hit my notifications. I figured, with a hotel as nice as this one, the floor would at least be smooth. Nope. It tore my knee up on the first step.Me: Done.Shane: You know, I’ve heard these phone-thingamajigs do more than just text.Me: I’ve heard a rumor about that too.Shane: What are you doing right now?Me: Dabbing blood off my knee with champagne. Lifestyles of the rich and clumsy.My phone lit up with an incoming FaceTime the very next second. I shouldn’t have answered. I should have ended it and waited until Wednesday after work—and then truly ended it.
However, see the aforementioned fool part. I picked up on the second ring.
“What the hell happened to your knee?” he barked.
I could barely make out his face in the dark, but I recognized that brick wall. He was on the balcony and didn’t that just do some fucking things inside my chest. All of which hurt more than my knee.
“It’s fine. Just a little skin,” I replied.
He squinted at the phone. “Let me see it.”
“Shane, I’m good. I promise. I was just…” I twisted my lips. Trying to feel close to you while wallowing in self-pity about how we can’t be together when all I really fucking want is to be together. “I slipped.”
He didn’t seem convinced, but thankfully, he didn’t press the issue. “Are you outside?”
“I’m on the balcony.”
“Oh.” He turned the camera to his kneepads. I couldn’t believe he actually wore them. Though, given my current situation, maybe he was onto something. “You need to get yourself a pair of these bad boys.” He patted the foam top and then turned the camera back to his face. “They were an odd but surprisingly practical gift from the woman I’m in love with.”
I screwed my eyes shut. It was one thing to see it written in a text, but it was a slash through my resolve to hear it firsthand.
“Shane, don’t,” I whispered.
His voice was deep and sincere. “Not saying it won’t change it, Peach.”
But it might leave me with a lot fewer memories to torture myself with later.
“I should go. We can talk when I get back.”
His shoulders fell, and I was thankful for the darkness cloaking the disappointment in his eyes. “And when might that be?”
“Well, I have to be back at work on Wednesday. So I guess sometime tomorrow night.”
He drew in a deep breath and I could almost make out the purse of his lips, but the only thing he said was a resigned, “Okay.”
“I’ll let you know as soon as I get home.”
He nodded.
“G’night, Shane.”
“Hey, Maggie?” he called before I had the chance to hang up.
“Yeah?”
“What are you listening to?”
My stomach knotted, and my throat got tight. He might not have known everything about me, but he knew this. Bad days were for sad country songs. “Reba.”
“Damn,” he whispered, rubbing the center of his chest.
“We’ll talk soon. I promise.”
“Yeah. Okay. G’night, Peach.”
He hung up first and I sat there for over an hour thinking about everything and somehow simultaneously nothing. My playlist, complete with my old pals Garth and Shania, had just started over again when Heath got home.
“Magalicious,” he called.
“Out here!”
He appeared in the doorway, taking off the jacket of a dapper navy-blue suit. It still made me giggle that this gruff businessman was the same dorky kid who had once stored old Pokémon cards in the top of his closet.
“What are you doing down there?” He lifted the bottle of champagne to inspect the level. “You drunk?”
