Page 28 of Some Sort of Happy (Happy Crazy Love 1)
And she knew things about me. She knew about New York, or at least the bare bones of it, and she’d still asked me out.
As I drove the long, dark highway up the center of the peninsula, her SUV ahead of me, I found myself wishing again that things were different. No, that I was different. That I had something to offer her. Sure, there would be good days, like this o
ne. And for a while, maybe the good days would outweigh the bad, or maybe she’d find the good days worth the bad. But that wouldn’t last.
So when Skylar turned off 37 onto the road leading to her parents’ farm, I didn’t follow her like I wanted to. I didn’t pull up next to her in the dark, get out of the truck and wait for her to ask me what I was doing there. I didn’t grab her and crush my mouth to hers without saying a word. I didn’t hold her body close to mine and fiercely whisper how much it meant that she was willing to try.
But I wanted to.
So badly it hurt.
• • •
When I got home, the cabin seemed particularly dark and empty. I didn’t feel like mindless television, and the internet would only depress me, so I picked up a book my dad had given me recently, sat on the couch and tried to read. But I couldn’t focus on the story—the silence was smothering me tonight. Throwing my jacket on, I walked outside and unloaded the Adirondack chairs from the back of my truck. But once I’d lugged the boxes over to the patio, I didn’t feel like putting them together. Instead, I left them there and wandered down to the dock, grateful for the nighttime noise of the crickets and owls, the water lapping softly against the rocky shore.
What was Skylar doing right now? Sleeping? Watching TV? Or did she like to read at night like I did? Maybe she’d felt industrious when she got home and was attaching her bin pulls to the kitchen cupboards. I wish I was there to help her. I should have offered. I didn’t even have her number to call her again. Why hadn’t I asked her for it?
After a few minutes, I went back inside and sank onto the couch, feeling so lonely and sad I did something I hadn’t done in months. I picked up my phone and called Diana.
As always, it went to voicemail.
“This is Diana. Leave a message, and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”
“Hey…it’s me.” I closed my eyes. “I know it’s been a while. But I was thinking about you and thought I’d try to reach out. I guess you’re still not ready to talk to me, and that’s OK. I just wanted to let you know that you were on my mind and I hope you’re doing well. And…I’m sorry. I know I’ve said that a million times, but I am. I wish I could go back and do it all differently. Anyway. Goodnight.”
I ended the call, feeling, as I always did after calling Diana, a mixture of guilt and disgust with myself. I should delete her number and quit bothering her.
I was about to do just that when it vibrated in my hand.
It was Diana’s number.
Fuck. She’d never actually returned a call. Now what? Grimacing, I pressed Accept. I owed her at least that much.
“Diana?”
A long pause. “Hi.”
“How are you?”
“Fine. I…heard your message just now.”
I closed my eyes. “Yeah. Sorry about that. I shouldn’t call you.”
“No, you shouldn’t.” She sighed. “But I guess if I really wanted it to stop, I’d have changed my number by now.”
“I’ve often wondered why you haven’t.”
“I don’t know. I must like the reminders you’re doing OK.” She paused. “Are you?”
I answered semi-truthfully. “Mostly. What about you?”
“I’m OK.”
“Still in New York?”
“Yes.” She was silent again, and I worried she was crying. Fucking hell, had I not caused this woman enough pain? “Why did you call tonight?” she finally asked, and I heard the struggle in her voice.
To punish myself. “To apologize, I guess.”
