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Denial, that’s exactly what this is.
It doesn’t have to be, though. I can change the outcome of all this. I can be who she needs me to be without dragging her down to my hell again.
Fuck this, I’m calling her.
Her phone rings and rings, yet she doesn’t pick up. It’s almost six—she should be done with work and back at her place. Where the hell else would she go? While debating whether or not to call Christian, I push my feet into my gym shoes, lazily tie them, and shove my arms through my jacket.
I know she’ll be upset—beyond mad, surely—if I call him, but I’ve already called her six times, and she hasn’t answered once. I groan and run my fingers over my unwashed hair. This giving-each-other-space shit is really fucking irritating me.
“I’m going out,” I tell my unwanted houseguest. He nods, unable to speak due to the handful of potato chips that he’s shoveling into his mouth. At least the sink is free of dishes now.
Where the fuck am I even supposed to go?
Within minutes, my car is parked in the lot behind the small gym. I don’t know what being here will accomplish or if this shit will help me, but right now I’m growing more and more irritated at Tessa, and all I can think about doing is cussing her out or driving to Seattle to find her. I don’t need to do either of those things . . . they’d only make things worse.
Chapter seventy-seven
TESSA
By the time my plate is clear, I’m practically twitching in my seat. The moment we ordered our meals I realized that I left my phone in my car, and it’s driving me more insane than it should. No one really calls me much. However, I can’t help but think that maybe Hardin has, or at least sent me a text message. I’m trying my best to listen to Trevor while he talks about an article in the Times he read, trying not to think of Hardin and the possibility that he may have called, but I can’t help it. I’m distracted during the entire dinner and am positive that Trevor notices; he’s just too kind to call me out on it.
“Don’t you agree?” Trevor’s voice pulls me from my thoughts.
I scramble through the last few seconds of conversation, trying to remember what he could be talking about. The article was about health care . . . I think.
“Yeah, I do,” I lie. I have no clue if I agree or not, but I do wish the server would hurry and bring our check.
As if on cue, the young man places a small booklet on our table, and Trevor hastily pulls out his wallet.
“I can . . .” I begin.
But he slides several bills inside, and the server disappears back into the restaurant kitchen. “It’s on me.”
I quietly thank him and glance at the large stone clock hanging just above the door. It’s past seven; we’ve been in the restaurant for over an hour. I let out a breath of relief when Trevor says, “Well,” claps his hands, and stands.
On the way back to his place, we pass a small coffee shop, and Trevor raises his brow, a silent invitation.
“Maybe another night this week?” I offer with a smile.
“Sounds like a plan.” The corner of his mouth rises into his famous half smile, and we continue the trek to his building.
With a quick goodbye and a friendly hug, I climb into my car and immediately reach for my phone. I’m frazzled with anxiety and desperation, but I shove those feelings back into the darkness. Nine missed calls, every single one from Hardin.
I call him back immediately, only to get his voicemail. The drive from Trevor’s apartment to Kimberly’s house is long and tedious. The traffic in Seattle is terrible, bumper-to-bumper and noisy. Honking horns, small cars whipping from lane to lane—it’s pretty overwhelming, and by the time I pull into the driveway, I have a massive headache.
When I step through the front door, I see Kimberly seated on the white leather couch, a glass of wine in her hand. “How was your day?” she asks and leans over to place her drink onto the glass table in front of her.
“Good. But the traffic in this city is unreal,” I groan and plop down on the crimson chair next to the window. “My head is killing me.”
“Yeah, it is. Have some wine for your headache.” She stands up and walks across the living room.
Before I can protest, she pours the bubbling white wine into a long-stemmed glass and brings it to me. Taking a little sip, I find it’s cool and crisp, sweet on my tongue.
“Thank you,” I say with a smile and take bigger sip.
“So . . . you were with Trevor, right?” Kimberly is so nosy . . . in the sweetest way.
“Yes, we had a friendly dinner. As friends,” I say innocently.
“Maybe you could try answering again and use the word ‘friend’ a few more times,” she teases, and I can’t help but laugh.
“I’m just trying to make it clear that we’re only . . . uh . . . friends.”
Her brown eyes shine with curiosity. “Does Hardin know you were being friends with Trevor?”
“No, but I plan on telling him as soon as I speak to him. He doesn’t care for Trevor, for some reason.”
She nods. “I can’t blame him. Trevor could be a model, if he wasn’t so shy. Have you seen those blue eyes of his?” She exaggerates her words by fanning her face with her free hand, and we both giggle like schoolgirls.
“Don’t you mean green eyes, love?” Christian says as he suddenly appears in the foyer, causing me to nearly drop my glass of wine onto the hardwood floor.
Kim smiles at him. “Of course I do.”
But he just shakes his head and gives us both a sly smile. “I suppose I could be a model as well,” he comments with a wink. For my part, I’m relieved that he isn’t upset. Hardin would have flipped the table over if he caught me speaking about Trevor the way Kimberly was.