“Does it matter?” She tapped on the shiny bar top. “Right now. Does. It. Matter?”
My back shot straight. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
She lifted her dishwater-wrinkled hands in surrender. “Look, I’m not trying to get in your business. But advice kinda comes with this part-time territory. Whoever the woman in your reflection is or isn’t—from where I’m standing—seems to be in love with the guy.”
She was. And my biggest fear was that I always would be. Over the last few months, cold showers had been the name of the game. I’d tried to imagine what it would be like to date someone else, make love to someone else, trust someone else. But when I closed my eyes, my fingers playing between my legs, it was always Bowen who came to mind.
He loved me, but eventually he’d get sick of waiting and move on. Perhaps with a nice girl whose biggest drama was where she wanted to eat on a date. He deserved a blissfully monotonous life. He’d all but earned it. It was the one thing I would never be able to give him.
Telling myself that didn’t make the idea of Bowen being with another woman burn any less hot. Jealousy, I had no right to feel, was a very real living and breathing beast inside me. I mean, the man was a catch, and the moment he opened his heart for the possibility of love again, he’d be gone. For real this time. And it was a risk I took every single day.
The only other option was keeping him, breaking him again, and then ruining the most perfect man I’d ever met.
Jealousy was the devil I could live with. For both of us.
“Love isn’t always enough,” I told her.
“No, but maybe give that woman in the mirror a chance to figure it out for herself.” She propped her arm on the bar and partitioned her mouth off like she was about to impart some serious wisdom. “It’s not Vegas, but maybe what happens at the IBALS can staaaaaaaay at the IBALS.”
What a ridiculous acronym.
“Oh my God. Did you really just say that?” I slapped my hand over my eyes, peeking at her through my fingers. “Are you one of the nerds from his group chat? Is this a setup?”
She chuffed. “Not that I’m aware of.” Then she got very serious. “If that man has single friends—who look like him—I’d be willing to join it.”
Chuckling, I dug into my purse, pulling out every bill I had. I never carried cash, so it only amounted to about twenty-two dollars, but she had earned every penny of it and then some. By far my cheapest therapy session to date.
I placed the cash on the bar. “Thanks for listening.”
“Anytime. I’ll be here through the weekend.”
Still heartbroken but feeling marginally more in control of my emotions, I made my way up to my room. I’ll admit I stood in the hallway for too long, peering down the hall at the door across from the ice machine.
My body craved him. My heart too. But no matter which way I looked at it, the past was a roadblock I couldn’t allow myself to detour around.
With a resigned sigh, I lumbered to my room, half-heartedly kicking my shoes off by the door—the satisfaction nowhere nearing bra removal this time. Then I beelined straight to the shower. I probably needed a cold one, but after undressing, I allowed it to warm while I stared at myself in the mirror.
There were so many different versions of me in that reflection. Some I remembered. Some I didn’t. Scars I recognized. And those I never would. In my last memory I’d retained from before the crash, I was so happy and vibrant. Not a care in the world. Then there were the stories and medical records I’d seen when, only months later, I was at the lowest low a person could experience.
But one thing that remained the same: Every version of me—happy, sad, broken, shattered, lost, and later found on the courthouse steps—loved Bowen Michaels.
My eyes flashed wide, the woman staring back at me just as hopeful.
There were a dozen different versions of me.
Surely, a baker’s dozen couldn’t hurt. That bonus one should always be a freebie.
Bowen
Still damp from a shower and in nothing but a pair of sleep pants, I sat on the edge of the bed, pinching the bridge of my nose. The twenty-dollar airplane bottle of Jack from the minibar wasn’t cutting it. But I could be black-out drunk and still think of her. There were four days left of the conference, but my bags were packed, ready to go first thing in the morning. I’d wake up early, text Oscar, fake the flu, and go the hell home.
I’d thought it was fate when I’d seen her sitting at the bar.
