Page 108 of Faking It
I slide the empty glass away and grab the fresh one Barney places in front of me.
The old me knows what I would have wanted. To walk over there and tell her she’s not going anywhere and bring her back to my place. We’d have a great time living it up in the city for the next couple of days. Then we’d leave for home, part ways once we got there, and walk away free and clear and tired as fuck.
The new me . . . Christ. I run a hand through my hair and blow out a frustrated sigh. The new me is right back where I was when this whole thing started—wanting to stay as far away from Harlow as possible because she scares the shit out of me all the while fixated on the fact that I can’t stop thinking about her. Or wanting her. Or needing her.
But I can’t give her what she wants . . . what she deserves. I can’t be her knight in shining armor.
I can’t change who I am.
You deserve the kind of love that makes you believe in love
Or can I?
“YOU’RE MAKING A MISTAKE BY sending that text, mija.”
I glance over my shoulder to my mother. Behind her is the kitchen and the postage stamp backyard, all the same but they feel so very different.
It’s been two months—on the road, exploring, experiencing, growing—and it’s only given me a hankering to want more. Out of my career. Out of my life. Out of everything.
It’s also been a very good lesson in how you can’t control who your heart falls in love with.
Lula snuggles in beside me, and I run a hand absently over her fur. She hasn’t left my side in the two days since I’ve returned and I can’t figure out if it’s because she missed me or if it’s because she knows I’m sad and her dog radar has picked it up.
“He’s on the news again, Low,” she calls from where she’s watching TV. Just like she has every time she’s seen Zane or the two of us on it since I’ve been back. With the launch being such an enormous success, it seems like she’s saying it every couple of minutes.
Or maybe it’s just because it still hurts to even think about him.
I hope this gets easier.
For some reason I’m not sure it will.
What I do know now though, is that being removed from the situation—from the constant togetherness where we were forced to be each other’s entertainment, the one we’d take our frustration
out on, and comfort when we needed it—has made things feel less . . . intense. As if when you’re in the situation you can’t stop thinking about it, but once you’re able to step outside of it, the emotion doesn’t seem as powerful.
That’s such bullshit, Low.
Feed him that line—feed your mom that line—but be honest with yourself and admit that you miss him more than you ever thought possible. That you’re questioning yourself and whether you should have taken his offer to leave things how they were because maybe, eventually, they could have grown into something more.
“Robert said that he might extend your contract, mija. That you’re needed to help some more since the campaign was so successful. If you send that text, you might not get it.”
“On the contrary.” I sigh. “I need to send it to prove to Zane that I can be professional. That it was all a mistake and that I won’t be difficult to work with.”
And maybe I just want to send it to see if he replies.
Or maybe he’s cut his losses and figured Simone will get her shot.
I hate myself for holding out hope that maybe he’d come around. That he’d call or rush to the airport to beg me to stay or be waiting on my porch.
Oh my God. When did I become my mother? When did that hopeless romanticism take over my thoughts and skew my opinions?
It’s that damn L-word. Love and everything that comes with it.
But if we’re truly done, what did he tell Robert about us? How is he explaining why I left when he’s still there?
“Regardless, you don’t need him,” she says with a shoo of her hand. “Your email is dinging with people wanting to talk to you about jobs. He’s served his purpose.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
