Page 53 of Gym Bros (Bay Area Bros #2)

The fact that he’s still sharing it with me shouldn’t give me any hope. He could have easily forgotten to turn it off with everything else that’s happened.

I can’t stop myself from thinking about the plans we had for today. Carbs. Non-athletic sex. We were going to talk about his career and my place in his life.

His text, whether he realized it or not, leaves a lot of room open for interpretation. The fuck you was kind of a signal not to try talking to him, but the let you part…well, that could mean he has an expectation that I do show up. That I owe it to him to show up and explain myself.

Even if he slams the door in my face, it’s the literal least I can do.

I crawl out of bed and walk over to my drawers, pulling out sweats and normal underwear, a t-shirt and one of my zip-up sweatshirts. Samuel’s hoodie is currently on me. I’ve never washed it, and I gather two fistfuls of it and bring it to my nose, smelling it—the lingering traces of him there.

I can’t give it back. It’s the only thing I have of his, and if I lose it?—

Fuck, why can’t I stop wallowing? I need to be in problem-solving mode. I need to fix this. But no matter what combination of words I string together in my head as an option to say to him—nothing makes this okay.

I lied. And it wasn’t a white lie. It was a big lie. I allowed him to think I was something other than what I actually am because I liked his version of me so much better.

I fell in love with him on purpose. It wasn’t an accident.

It wasn’t an oops—now I’m fucked. It was a luxury I allowed myself a little bit more of every day until I refused to live without it anymore.

And I took it. I stole his love under false pretenses, and it’s not something I can just give back.

It’s something I’ll be ripping away. It’s something I have ripped away.

My hair is a slept-on-wet disaster, so I pull it back in a ponytail holder and study my swollen eyes.

I dab some concealer on. I have no right to cry in this scenario. My feelings are the last thing he needs to deal with. I brought this on myself.

The drive to his apartment is nauseating. I brought water, but one sip makes me want to hurl, so I leave it mostly untouched. When I arrive, I check his location again. He’s still here. Or at least his phone is.

I fight back what wants to be more tears and take a few breaths before getting out of the car and letting the cold, gray November afternoon slap me in the face.

I know his building code, so I let myself in, then slowly make my way to his second story door. Bracing myself for anything, I knock.

The door opens after a few seconds. Beauty rushes toward me, but Samuel puts his leg out to stop her. I look up at his stone-cold face.

This is probably the look The Beheader got yesterday before he had his ass handed to him.

“Can I come in?”

He steps out of the way. As much as Beauty wants me to pet her, I don’t. I take a few steps inside, and Samuel closes the door. When I turn, he’s leaning back on it, arms folded. There’s not a hint of emotion on his face.

His eyes are icy, and his jaw is set. He’s shirtless with all the bruises I knew about healing and some I didn’t blooming. His knuckles are scabbed and swollen. His sweats hang low on his hips, and he’s barefoot even though it’s cold in here.

He’s terrifying and beautiful. All the tenderness in his eyes I’ve learned to take for granted is gone.

“I should have told you,” I say.

He nods.

“It wasn’t only my secret to tell, but I should have told you.”

He frowns and breaks eye contact. His face twists through a few different grimaces, and he heaves in a breath. “I get why you didn’t, but it doesn’t change…anything.”

“I know,” I whisper.

When he blinks and looks at me again, there are tears in his eyes. “I can’t believe he’d do this. ”

I swallow so hard it hurts. I don’t have a clue what to say.

“I mean, I can.” He clears his throat. “But I guess I actually fucking believed him when he denied it. Do you get how fucked up this is?” he asks.

I want to ask which part, but I only manage a slight nod.

“Who’s better in bed?”

“Samuel…”

“It’s a fair question. I’m guessing him because he’s got so much fucking experience…apparently.”

“You’re nothing alike,” I say, and I wish I could take it back the second his gaze narrows.

“No? I was always told we look a lot alike.”

This brings me right back to the first time I saw his foreskin. Were we here or at my place? Because I did think that, didn’t I? And when he called me angel. The way I’d frozen.

“I can’t speak for him, and I don’t want to,” I say.

I take a deep breath before continuing. “But what I have to say for myself is that before I met you, I was really, really lonely. Every day. All day. Constantly. I did things I don’t think I would have done if I’d been happy, but I wasn’t.

Happy. I was overwhelmed and anxious, and I felt like a mannequin. Like no one saw me.”

I’m fully prepared to say more, but he speaks up.

“You know Rachel told me before we hooked up that you liked older, married men. I totally blew it off. I mean I figured it lowered my chances, but I didn’t really give a fuck about your past. Honestly, I just wanted to fuck you.

I wasn’t planning on…” He waves a hand between us. “Whatever happened.”

Whatever happened was that we fell in love with each other, and the fact that he can’t or won’t say it is another blow I can barely withstand.

“I guess it just hits different when you know the married man. And who he’s married to,” he says. Then he gives his head a quick, firm shake without meeting my eyes. “Anyway, this isn’t gonna work out.”

I flinch at that. It’s not that I wasn’t expecting it.

It’s the decisive way he says it. Like nothing I could possibly say would make a difference.

But I knew that, too. Maybe I expected it to feel less clinical.

Less like standing in front of a casting agent who changed his mind about me at the last minute because I didn’t have the right look for the brand.

An old feeling coats me, almost like a protective film. I feel rigid beneath it. Jaded. Sad.

A face without a mind. A body without a heart. A clothes hanger.

Plastic and soulless.

Loveless.

“I’ll miss you,” I say, which doesn’t even begin to cover it.

He stares at me, and for the first time, I see the wound I left. He’s letting me, and as devastating as the sight of it is, it’s also a gift. One horrible moment of time where I get to see that I meant something to him. That I became someone more to him than a guy he wanted to fuck.

“I wish the scheme worked, you know?” he says.

“I wish you two had been able to keep this from me. You know when you have like a really bad dream—like someone you love dies or whatever and you wake up and there’s this intense relief that it was just a dream?

I woke up like that this morning. Like oh, thank fuck…

and then I saw my phone. All the texts that asshole sent me.

The one I sent you. So yeah…in case you’re wondering how I’m doing.

I don’t actually know. Why are you here? ”

“Because I wanted to say I’m sorry,” I tell him, my voice choked and raw.

“Oh, yeah. Right.” He pushes away from the door only to put his hand on the latch. “Me, too.”

He opens the door and steps aside. I can’t move. I know I need to. I try to make myself, but this doesn’t feel over. If it did, I’d go. But what’s he gonna do when I leave? Deal with this alone? He doesn’t fucking deserve this.

Every risk I’ve ever taken between us has brought us closer, and I don’t know whether this one will, but I can’t leave knowing I could have done something but got too scared. I take two steps, closing the distance that separates us, and wrap my arms around his shoulders.

He stiffens, inhaling sharply.

I squeeze tighter.

A horrible noise comes out of him, and I think it’s a sob.

Working myself to my tiptoes, I get as close as I can to his ear.

“I love you. I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone or anything.

I know it’s over. I know it’s too fucked up to fix.

But if for any reason you ever need someone—for anything—you have someone. I’ll always be in your corner.”

He hugs me back. I’m not sure he can help it.

I tell myself it’s only a reflex, and don’t allow myself to let it mean more.

I have to take him at his word—this isn’t going to work.

I pull away and notice he’s looking at me—his eyes roaming my face.

He’s the picture of devastation, but I make myself look.

What we had might have been quick, it might have been a mere blip on the timeline of our lives, but it was real.

We were the real thing.

It would take a lot of therapy and someone fucking extraordinary for me to ever fall in love like this again. Looking at him now, I think it might actually be impossible.

“Thanks,” he says, letting me go.

I don’t say any more. But I do put my hand over his heart and let my hand linger there until I’ve walked too far away. He closes the door behind me.

Having my heart broken feels exactly as painful as I imagined it would, and the only person I have to blame is myself.