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And now, of course, I’m paying the price. I feel like I’ll never be right again. I have lost too many parts of myself in too short a time, and I’m not sure there’s enough of me left to make a whole.
I hate him for what he’s done to me, but I miss him like crazy as well. There are signs of him everywhere—the spare clothes hekeeps at my place, his toothbrush in the bathroom, the damn Shibari ropes that brought us both so many hours of mutual pleasure. I should box it all up and send it over to the office. Leave his new secretary to go through it and let her try to figure out what her boss needs so much rope for. I certainly won’t be going back into that building myself ever again. I’ll find a new job, somewhere less toxic. Like a chemical waste plant.
He’s contacted me a couple of times to check on me and left messages asking me to call back, but I haven’t. He can’t have it both ways. He either wants me or he doesn’t, there are no half measures. The way I feel about Drake is all-consuming, and I won’t do this whole “taking a break” dance. If he’s not all in, then he’s all out.
I have nothing left to say to him, and I’m angry as well as broken. I feel like I’ve been tricked into loving him, that maybe I loved a mirage—because he’s not the man I thought he was.
I roll around on the bed, which I’ve been doing pretty much all day. It now feels strange to have this bed all to myself. I let myself get used to him being here and filling it with me. To him being here and fillingme, in every way possible. Now, I am as empty as the bed, and I have no clue what to do about it. I wish my mom were around so I could talk to her. She would help me through this. She would take my tarnished crown, polish it up, pop it back on my head, and remind me that I am a queen. Or at the very least, her princess.
Thinking about my mom makes everything so much worse, and I’m lost in despair. I don’t know what to do with myself anymore. I don’t seem able to reach out to my friends, and I haven’t even told them what happened with Drake. I feel too hurt and too tired to discuss it. And also a touch humiliated. They helped me through everything when Chad cheated on me, and I hate the idea of them having to do it all over again. Therereally must be something very wrong with me for this to keep happening.
It’s just after 6:00 p.m., and I have a whole long-ass night ahead of me. That’s the other thing about this new version of my life that sucks—without my mom to care for or Drake in my world, every day seems to stretch into infinity.
A message comes in, and I pull a face when I see who it is. I’m not in the mood for Chad. I’m not in the mood for anyone.
I’ve found some photos of your mom I thought you might like. I can make copies of them for you and mail them, or would you like to come out for a bite to eat and a catch up? No pressure either way.
I sit up and push greasy hair away from my face. My personal hygiene has taken a nosedive recently, and I’ve worn nothing but pajamas since I got back here. I haven’t been outside at all and have kept the drapes closed because the sunlight is too damn cheerful. The only people I’ve interacted with in the flesh are the guys who delivered the takeout I ended up throwing in the trash.
Maybe I should go out. Maybe I need to. Whatever happens with me and Drake, I have to go on living. I have to be strong. Because that’s what I promised my mom I would do, and I’m a woman who keeps her promises.
Chapter
Forty-Seven
DRAKE
What is it with me and hanging around street corners in Brooklyn? I’m going to get a reputation if I keep this up. Drake James, neighborhood creep.
I don’t feel like I have any other choice right now though. As soon as she left the other day, I started to miss her. Everything ached without her near—my heart, my head, my cock. Even at work, I couldn’t function without her. Not only is she a great secretary, but it turns out she’s essential to me keeping my head on straight.
I can’t concentrate in meetings, I’m fucking up paperwork, and I missed a court date for the first time in my life. Work has always been my great solace, the one thing that has never let me down, but it isn’t doing the trick anymore. There’s simply no space in my mind for work. It’s too full of Amelia.
How the fuck did I let things get this bad? I did what I did for her sake. It came from a place of love. Which, I realize as I even think those stupid words, sounds fucking ridiculous. How can you hurt someone as badly as I hurt her and then tell yourself itwas because you love them? That it was all for their own good? That’s some patronizing bullshit right there.
The truth? I did it because I was scared. There. I said it. I was scared shitless of how much I love her. How much I need her. How much I had to lose. Chad put the fear of god into me, leaving me half convinced that he was right—that he might be the man for her. Amelia is the marrying kind. She’s the fill-a-house-with-kids kind. And me? Who the fuck knows what I am. I’ve never dreamed of those things before, but with her? Hell yeah. With her, I want everything she’s willing to give.
It’s taken me three days without her to come to this conclusion, which is testimony to what a dumbass I am despite my expensive and extensive education. She’s ignored my messages and hasn’t called back, and I don’t suppose I can blame her. She lost her mom, and while she was still grieving, the man who should have been by her side had a self-indulgent meltdown. My self-doubt is what drove the train, and it’s beyond unfair. That’s my own baggage, and Amelia has never done or said anything to make me feel that way. But I felt less than perfect after Edith died, I felt like I was messing up, dropping the ball. And heaven forbid the mighty Drake James does anything less than perfectly, right? Basically, I behaved like a giant asshole, and I desperately need to talk to her.
The only way to do that seems to be in person. I considered getting Linda to call her in for a meeting or being really sneaky and getting Melanie to contact her on my behalf, but even I’m not that much of a coward. So here I am, lurking outside her apartment building, planning what to say. Searching for the right words to apologize. For a man who makes a living from talking persuasively, I sometimes totally suck at it.
I’m clutching a huge bunch of yellow roses to my chest and I’ve just decided that a pretty solid place to begin would be “I’m sorry. I was a jackass, and I can’t live without you.” I’m about tocross the road and ring her buzzer when a cab pulls up outside the building and my old pal Chad rolls out. He stands there looking at his phone with a shit-eating grin on his punchable face, and within seconds, I know why.
Amelia—myAmelia—emerges from her building looking like a ray of fucking sunshine in human form. Her hair is a glorious shining curtain down her back, and she’s wearing a peach-colored dress that skims her ass and ends not much farther down. Chad does a comedic double take, then pulls her in for a hug. She doesn’t slap him or knee him in the balls, so I assume she doesn’t mind. They chat for a few moments, him obviously complimenting her, and then the two of them set off down the street toward the main drag of bars and restaurants.
Fuck. What’s happening? Is it a date? It certainly fucking looks like one. If I expected her to be in her apartment, wallowing in her misery and missing me so much she hasn’t eaten or slept for the last three days, I was very much mistaken. She looks fantastic and is clearly on her way to a night out. With her ex-husband. The one who wants her back.
Pain tears through me like a bullet, so fierce that I swear I should be bleeding. I have no right to feel this way. No right to be jealous or angry or hurt. I have no right to be anything other than sorry. Because this is on me. I pushed her away, straight back into the waiting arms of Chad. Will she be happy with him? Is he really the right man for her? I truly don’t know. Fighting back tears, I walk away from her apartment building, dumping the roses in a trashcan as I go. I know this much: If he hurts her again, I will fucking kill him.
I stagger along the sidewalk, no clue where I’m going, my vision blurred with tears I’m determined not to shed. This is too hard. Too raw. I need help.
It’s time to call in the big guns.
I sitwith all my brothers in a plush private booth in one of Manhattan’s most exclusive bars. They surround me, physically and emotionally, four big men with even bigger hearts. I haven’t cried in front of anyone since my mom died, but I broke that rule tonight, and they were here for me.
The table is overflowing with empty glasses and a bottle of insanely rare Yamazaki single-malt whisky from Japan. That was Maddox’s idea, even though he doesn’t even fucking drink, and I suspect we’re all going to have million-dollar hangovers in the morning. Apart from him, of course, unless there’s more in his OJ than he’s letting on.
“To Julia Roberts!” says Nathan, holding up his glass. “And her incredible smile!” We all cheer and hold up our own glasses to match him. And why not? Julia Roberts does indeed have an incredible smile, and it’s totally worth celebrating.