Page 17 of Ready or Not (The Nape #I)

“Bro,” Chance tsked through the phone screen. “I’m starting to think you the problem.”

I sighed, taking a seat on my couch. Phone in hand so I could continue the video call, I mentally scrolled through the last couple of hours of my life, searching for evidence to either confirm or deny his accusation.

But when I returned, her side of the bed was made… and all traces of her were gone.

No note, no explanation… nothing.

The shit rubbed me the wrong way because I had finally made up my mind about her.

About us.

About what I wanted this to be. I spent so much time stuck in my own head last night, questioning every move, every word, every feeling that seemed too big for how new this thing between us was, I had finally landed on something solid.

Something real.

Everything with Solène felt right—Complete, like a jazz song that found its rhythm in a room full of chaos.

She was the notes I didn’t know I needed.

The melody that slipped in unnoticed but lingered long after.

I was ready to chase that tune.

To let it guide me through every room, down every street, into whatever murky, rat-infested corners life threw.

I was ready to tell her I wanted to explore something deeper with her.

Yet she never gave me the chance to say my peace.

Or worse, maybe she wanted last night to be a one-time thing while I… again wanted more from someone who didn’t.

“I’m not the problem,” I muttered, though even as the words left my mouth, they felt hollow. Chance raised an eyebrow, his skepticism practically radiating through the screen.

“Okay,” he chuckled, dragging out the word in that annoying way that irked me. “Then what happened? It sounds like you rushed her into something she wasn’t ready for.”

Me?

Rushing someone into something they weren’t ready for? Nah.

“How’s that possible? I was patient with her, I listened, and I thought we had a good night together based on…. No, I know we had a good night together and I didn’t rush shit,” my voice dipped into frustration. “And then she… left like all of it meant nothing. We didn’t even get to talk about it.”

“You sure you ain’t miss any signs?”

I opened my mouth to retort but snapped it shut just as quickly.

Signs…

Had there been signs? Sure, Solène had her moments where she pulled back, moments I observed where she seemed like she was more comfortable skating the surface than diving into deeper waters—but wasn’t that just her being cautious?

Didn’t I show her that caution wasn’t necessary anymore?

“I don’t know,” I leaned forward, rubbing a hand over my face in exasperation.

“That’s your problem right there,” Chance jumped in, smirking slightly. “You don’t know, no matter how observant you are. Sometimes, these women are showing you things in ways that aren’t wrapped up with a nice little bow. Gotta pay attention, man.”

I groaned, slumping into the couch. “So now I’m supposed to be some mind-reading detective or something? Come on, man. That’s not realistic. It's like... what happened to just talking? Saying what you mean instead of playing all these damn games?”

“Women are complicated, bro,” he threw his hand up in mock surrender. “They protect themselves and move on their own accord. Hell… Half the time, they don’t even know what they want until they’re halfway down the road, looking back at you, wondering why you didn’t run after them.”

I let out a bitter laugh, shaking my head. “That’s supposed to make me feel better? That she doesn’t even know what she wants?”

“I didn’t say it was supposed to make you feel better. I’m just saying maybe this isn’t all about you. Maybe she’s the problem.”

I stared at the screen, letting Chance’s words settle like dust in the endless clutter of my thoughts.

The problem wasn’t me?

I wanted to believe him, but the knot in my chest told a different story.

The Solène I got to know was layered, intricate.

She was a blend of contradictions—confident yet guarded, playful yet full of hesitations.

That’s what drew me to her in the first place: the depth, the layers she didn’t wear on her sleeve but hinted at with every subtle glance, every unfinished sentence.

But… maybe I’d mistaken those openings for something more permanent.

Maybe those glimpses weren’t invitations to stay… just warnings that I was getting too close.

Maybe … and I hated myself for the thought crossing my mind… Maybe I’m not enough.

Maybe I was never enough for a woman to stay long enough to take me seriously. Maybe that’s why I still hadn’t been in a relationship after all these years of half-starts and almosts. Maybe I was the kind of guy women kept around for a good time, but never for the long haul.

The thought burned deep in my chest, a toxic swirl of confusion and disappointment I couldn’t shake.

All I wanted was to be enough for someone.

Enough for them to stay, enough for them to trust me with their chaos, enough for them not to see me as just a temporary fix.

But no matter how much effort I put in, how much I tried to show up as the man they deserved, it always seemed like I fell short.

I stared at the bag of food I’d brought back; it probably wasn’t even warm anymore.

Talk about a fucking metaphor.

“Stop that shit,” Chance said. “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?” I bit back, though I knew exactly what he meant.

“That self-blame shit. I was joking about you being the problem earlier but you’re taking that shit to heart.”

“I’m not?—”

“I’m watching you spiral in real time, bro.

You do it every-time you think you meet someone you think could be the one and my jokes aren’t hitting because you’re too busy digging a fucking grave for yourself.

Listen, Des, every time something doesn’t go your way with a woman, you start pulling out the microscope, looking for ways to blame yourself.

You ever think maybe it’s just not about you? ”

“Maybe… but it’s hard not to when I watch my friends find their happily-ever-afters while I’m stuck replaying the same damn pattern,” the words slipped out before I could stop them.

Sinking further into the couch, I murmured, "I try to do everything right. I can’t help but feel like I’m the common denominator, man. Like maybe I’m just… defective.”

Chance let out a long, exaggerated sigh, the kind he always used when he thought I was being particularly dense.

“Bro, you’ve got to stop tying your worth to whether someone else sticks around or not.

That’s not how this works. You think everything’s a checklist—do this, say that, show up like this—and then boom, you’re golden.

But people? Man, they don’t operate on your timeline or logic. Especially women.”

I squeezed the back of my neck and stared off at the corner of the room, guilt crawling over me. I hated how much his words made sense while still managing to make me feel like utter shit.

“And another thing,” he continued before I could gather myself for a response. “You ever think maybe she left because she’s dealing with her own shit? Like maybe it’s got nothing to do with you? Sometimes folks leave ‘cause that’s how they survive—not ‘cause you fucked up or aren’t good enough.”

“But she could’ve said something,” I argued weakly. “A note… anything.”

“True,” he leaned back in his chair, his face softening as he stared at me through the screen.

“She could’ve said something. And yeah, maybe she should’ve.

I ain’t giving her a pass for ghosting you like that ‘cause its fucked up. But you—” he pointed, his finger nearly poking through the phone’s camera, “you can’t sit here tearing yourself apart over it. Not every storm gotta be your fault.”

I sighed, staring at the untouched coffee on the table in front of me.

“I know you’re right,” I said slowly, forcing myself to meet his gaze. “But let’s just pretend for a second that I missed something. I brought her over to my house?—”

“You what?” His eyes widened. “Woah woah woah, run that back. You did WHAT?”

“She… came over?”

“You brought her over to your house? I thought y’all kicked it at a hotel, but your place??”

“Yeah—”

“You’re joking, right?” he took a dramatic pause, his fingers pressing against his temples.

“Des… Bro. Your house? Like, your space-space? Like YOU brought her into your space when you’ve never brought anyone to your spot before?

The guy who keeps his crib locked up like it’s a CIA black site suddenly opening doors for some girl you just met? ?”

I hesitated, my thoughts colliding like bumper cars.

“Yeah, I brought her over. We were soaked from the rain last night, so I invited her back to dry off, warm up, you know—the whole shebang. We talked, we… yeaaaaaah… and in the morning, I folded her clean clothes and left them on the chair in my room while she was sleeping—why’s your face like that? ”

My friend’s jaw dropped, and for a moment, he just stared at me like I’d confessed to robbing a bank. Then he burst out laughing—a loud, obnoxious guffaw that echoed through the phone speaker.

I frowned. “What?”

“Bro… bro…” he choked out between wheezing laughs. “I can’t believe you’re this stupid. Everything makes fucking sense now!”

“What? What I do?”

“You, oh my God,” he shook his head in disbelief. “You basically told her ass to politely get the fuck out in girl code. You’re over here bitching and self-destructing—the shit my therapist says I be doing sometimes—when you folded her clothes like it was some farewell gift!”

I blinked at him. “Wait… Cono, what are you even talking about? I cleaned up her stuff and went out to get us food. How is that ‘get out’ energy?”

He wiped tears from the corners of his eyes, still grinning like he had caught me in some cosmic joke. “Bro… folding clothes? Leaving them on the chair? You practically said bye.”

“But I put it by my clothes so she wouldn’t think that she was some kind of guest or something temporary. How the hell does that translate to an exit strategy?”