Page 66 of Crazy In Love (Love & War #2)

FOX

New day. New week. New me.

Kumbaya and all that shit.

And because I’m all about riding waves of enthusiasm, I spent my entire commute to the office calling moving companies and emailing my landlord to let him know I would no longer need my apartment after this week.

I’ve come to a decision. For me.

Thanks to Taylor Swift, Chinese food delivery, and a clawfoot tub.

Now, I slide out of my cab—not Eugene’s—and stand tall on the sidewalk outside Gable, Gains, and Hemingway.

Shaking my hair back, I smooth my jacket and fix my purse on the crook of my arm.

Finally, I draw a deep breath until smoggy city air fills my lungs, then release it again and start toward the front doors.

New week. New me. It’s time to be intentional.

“Fox! Hey.” Brenna bounds from her chair behind the tall receptionist’s desk, waving her arms until her entire body sways with the movement. “Welcome back! And congratulations on your promotion.”

“Thanks.” Hell yeah. I forgot how it feels to be a badass bitch inside a workplace where everyone adores me.

Like Superman donning his cape, I need only to wear heels and a skirt suit to feel confident again.

I stride to the elevator and tap the call button, but while I have a moment, I spin back and meet Brenna’s eyes. “Is Booker already in? ”

She touches her ear and accepts a call, but she shows me two thumbs up— affirmative —so I turn on my heels and head into the elevator.

My phone chirps with a text, and other GGH employees file in, so I back up until my shoulders touch the steel wall, and taking out my phone, I spy Alana’s name on my screen.

Though, my spidey senses tell me she’s not who sent the text.

I have to go to school in a minute, but Mom said I could play a game of chess with you. She said you’d feel guilty about leaving Plainview early, so you would for sure play.

My phone vibrates again, but with a picture of a freshly set chessboard. Already, the first white pawn has been moved.

Snorting, I tap at the screen, knowing I have time before we reach the fifty-first floor.

Emotional manipulation is cold, classless, and an entirely unkind war tactic that violates the Geneva Convention. But since you were upfront about it, I figure I’ll allow it.

Clear communication is, after all, the cornerstone of healthy relationships. Move my pawn to E4. I’m walking into work now, so we’ll continue our game this afternoon.

The elevator door opens and closes a half dozen times, allowing new people in and others off. A myriad of perfumes mingle in the air, though thankfully, the nausea I felt last night is gone, replaced with a steely determination for what I know is coming next.

While I wait, I hit reply again, but my message is intended for Alana.

Your son is a meanie. However, I’ve gotten especially good at chess in the last month, so prepare him for his inevitable loss. When I’m done, I intend to point and laugh, lording my power over a defenseless ten-year-old.

I’m heading into my boss’ office in a sec to set some shit on fire. Wish me luck. And Franklin, if you’re reading this, don’t tell your mom I said shit. But do prepare for your humiliation. You’re toast .

Swiping out of that chat, I slide over to Chris’s next. Though, unlike Alana’s, the conversation I’ve had with him is… sparse. Even when things were good and six weeks felt like an eternity. If I invited him to the bookstore apartment, all I ever received were one-or-two-word responses.

Yes.

No.

When I would send: I’m thinking of you. And I’m just about to step into the shower.

I’d receive: On my way.

When my emotions got heavy, and Alana was unavailable to talk, I’d say: I’m in my feelings today because I just remembered Alana named Hazel for me. It’s kind of a big deal to me, and I’m annoying myself by obsessing over it.

He’d send back: It’s a big deal.

He always acknowledged that I spoke but never provided reassurance that my words were welcome. That’s where he and I differed. It was between those cracks that my doubts crept in, and my lacking self-esteem became a smothering blanket I never quite escaped.

But now, cloaked in New York confidence and nerves that’ve been bolstered, I type the things I forced myself not to send last night.

Last night was for me and Taylor Swift and a bottle of beer.

I have a million things I never told you and a million more insecurities I never shared. Because, duh, they’re embarrassing. They’re my reasons for the way I am. They’re why I said that thing about friends on Saturday.

They’re not excuses. But they are context. And it’s that context that will help you understand why we’re probably not a good fit.

I hit send and glance at the elevator control panel. We’re still in the teens, so I look down again and keep typing.

I’m crazy, and you’re calm. I’m spontaneous, and you’re… not. Ironically, we’re both children of trauma. Though unironically, that trauma manifests differently in each of us. I haven’t even told you about my parents yet.

All of the things you crave, I can’t be, and all the things I am, make your skin itch. I’m the shirt that doesn’t fit quite right, and the sheets that are a bit scratchy.

And sure, you could still wear the shirt and sleep within the sheets, and life would go on, and everything would be okay. But… I don’t want to be the reason you’re never quite at peace.

I hit send again, and gulp when I receive instant read receipts.

Jesus Christ on a cracker. He’s reading my words now .

I fooled myself into hoping you would follow me back to New York last night. Maybe you would’ve been waiting for me at the luggage carousel, or where the taxis line up, or… and this was my last-ditch hope… maybe you were sitting in the hall outside my apartment when I got home.

I would’ve run into your arms and made it into a whole big thing—which you would’ve hated. Man, oh man, my little Disney heart wanted it so bad. But alas… this isn’t the first time I’ve made an idiot of myself.

Little girls often wish for declarations of love. Like at my daddy-daughter dance at school, when I was sooooo sure my father would arrive with a bouquet of flowers and all my peers would ooh and ahhhh over how lucky I am.

I hit send each time my texts become too long. Then I keep typing.

I got my first boyfriend when I was thirteen, and I made damn sure he was entirely inappropriate. He was older and a smoker and an all-around bad boy.

I did it hoping it would bring my dad back, because him shouting at me about choosing wrong is still a declaration of love. I wanted that declaration so freakin’ bad .

I hit send and push on.

I convinced Alana it was okay for her to leave New York and move back to Plainview. I even called her while she was driving, egging her on.

But all along, I was kinda hoping she would turn around and siege my office in Manhattan and shout: COME WITH US, FOX! Come to Bumfuckville Hillbillytown.

Butttttt… kind of like how I said you and I were only friends, I never shut up about how small towns suck, and the chicken poo was a deal breaker for me.

How could she possibly ask me to come when she was so sure I would hate it? She’s too pure for that. Too kind. So the fact I hoped she would ask is, frankly, dumb.

You and I were never just friends, Chris. In fact, I don’t think we were ever friends at all. We’re yet to have a conversation that doesn’t include fighting with each other. But you wanna know when I fell in love with you?

It was just after Alana had the baby, and she asked for family time. She didn’t mean it the way it sounded, but hoh boy! I took it the way it sounded. I wanted to walk back to the apartment by myself because I wanted to cry. Sooooo much!

I wanted to rage and scream and accept that, yep, I’m a nobody, and I belonged nowhere. But no. You followed me. You insisted on driving me. And then you read my mind. Somehow, you knew what I was feeling.

You didn’t even like me, but you made damn sure to point out that what she said was not what she meant. And I don’t know if you know, but to the little girl waiting on her declaration of love: the fact you followed me and drove me home…

Well, that was the same kind of magic I’d been waiting for my whole life.

Which is dumb.

I was reaching. I was convincing myself that it was something it wasn’t.

Thennnnn, we banged.

And then you laid in bed with me and showed me this guy who wasn’t the same guy I thought I knew.

Which was the exact moment the younger, impulsive, desperate-for-love me piped up and said, ‘Hey, let’s not tell anyone about us.’

Because, duh, it was time to sabotage any spark of happiness I might ever experience.

I figured I was doing the right thing. And you agreed so easily. I didn’t want Alana to find out about us because half of me was scared she’d be mad when I inevitably screwed everything up.

And the other, louder, meaner half of me was terrified she would be pissed. She spent ten years crying for you, Chris.

A whole decade, mourning the loss of the love of her life. But also, mourning the brother she no longer had.

Godddd, the pedestal was HIGH! I had no chance of being good enough for you, and I desperately didn’t want her to tell me so.

My heart couldn’t handle it. So I did what I always do, and I sabotaged us before we even got a chance to try something else.

Glancing up when the doors open on the fifty-first floor, I stride forward and type while I walk. Paying attention to no one as I make my way toward Booker’s office.

These texts are starting to drag on, filling the whole screen. Which means your eyes have probably already started glazing over. But I guess I just wanted to say: I love you.

I loved you.

And since we’re on the subject, I want to say a little girl fell in love with the guy who insisted on driving her home that day.

That was the spark that lit this fuse.