Page 80 of Miss Behaved
That’s putting it mildly. The man rocked my world right off its perfect little axis.
Luce and Kennedy look at me with lifted eyebrows, letting me know I’m not getting off the hook that easy.
“Fine,” I relent, and I dive into the whole story. The murder-mystery night, the rage room, the sex in the truck. The sex in his bed. The sex in my bed. How he asked me to come to LA, and I shut him down. But not only that, I walked out on him.
By the time I’m done, Luce is smiling, and Kennedy is giving me an amused look.
“Say something,” I tell them.
It feels like I’m out of breath and words.
“All right, first off.” Kennedy holds up a finger. “I’m really proud of you. Sometimes I worry you hold yourself back too much, and it sounds like you really stepped out of your shell on this trip.”
“Thanks, I had fun.” And it’s true. I honestly can’t remember the last time I truly let go and just enjoyed my life. Everything up until now has felt like a project or a deadline. Even relationships had this cloud hanging over them that made me wonder where they were going or if they would work out. But in Arizona, with Carson, it wasn’t like that. I knew it was for the moment, so I just lived it.
“Second, you kinda fucked it up.” Her nose scrunches, and a sour feeling settles in my gut.
I look at Luce, who is nodding.
“Listen, I get the hesitation,” Kennedy continues. “You know when I met Zac, I had hang-ups galore. But at some point, you have to decide what’s a deal-breaker and what’s worth it. And honey, you and Carson have been through a lot. But I don’t think either of you sound done with it. And I think he genuinely cares about you.”
“Even if we were living in a bubble?” I say. “Because yes, it was a lot of fun, but we were on a work vacation. We live in different states, places we’ve established lives in. I can’t ask him to give that up, and he can’t expect that from me either.”
“Twenty-two years of history with a guy isn’t a bubble. You met him in kindergarten, right?” Luce says, her sharp blue eyes pinning me to my seat. “Sure, this past week, you were kinda locked away from the rest of the world, but that’s one week in the past twenty-two years of knowing him.”
“Ten of which we didn’t speak,” I say.
“At least seven of which he lived right next door to you, and you did,” Kennedy argues. “Listen, can you honestly tell me you spent those ten years never thinking about him or wondering what if? Because it sure sounds like he did. And that wasn’t in ‘the bubble,’ as you call it. That was in the real world, him thinking about you and wishing he could have made a different decision.”
“Then why didn’t he call me, reach out, anything?”
“Why didn’t you?” Luce counters. “Honey, sometimes men can be dense. And don’t get me wrong: that’s how I prefer them, so they don’t linger or get too attached. But you’re not built like that. You’re built for love and fairy tales and all that other crap. So if you want the man, sometimes you’ve gotta step up and tell him.”
I sink back into my chair, shoulders slumping as I take a sip of my drink. If even Luce, self-proclaimed lifelong bachelorette, thinks I’m in the wrong, then the sinking feeling in my stomach has full validation.
“You really think he still cares?” My eyes dart between them.
Kennedy nods. “For the romantic in the group, you can be a little blind to love when it’s looking you in the face.”
It sinks in how much I’ve messed up. It doesn’t matter if Carson was the one who walked away when we were basically still kids, because I was the one who shut him out when I was old enough to know better.
I pull out my phone again—there’s still nothing. I flip to that last text from a few days ago.
Hope you’re settled back in.
I was annoyed by his response. Short, unfazed. Calling me on accident, like maybe he meant to hit another woman’s number and dialed me instead. But now, reading it and thinking about what my friends said, I can’t help but see a little hurt in between the lines.
He called, and I didn’t even bother calling back. I texted—impersonal—to avoid having to face him. On top of that, when he’d checked in with me earlier, I sent a single picture of rain in return. I’d shut him out. I had no right to expect him to keep coming back just to be burned.
“I should—”
“Go.” Kennedy waves me off.
“I’ll be right back. Just making a quick call.” I hop out of my chair and dial his number before I’m even out of the bar, holding my breath as it rings and stepping out onto the street.
“Hi—”
“Carson,” I start to say, but the message continues.
