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“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“That’s exactly what you’re saying.” He looked through her as he spoke, like she was a blank spot on the wall he just happened to be staring at.
Her heart twisted. “Just let me explain.”
“You don’t need to.” He could have been carved out of marble, his expression was so cold. “Honestly, I’d rather not listen to your reasons, if that’s okay with you. It doesn’t really matter why.”
It mattered to her. It mattered that he understood, so he didn’t hate her. She needed him not to hate her.
She reached a hand toward him, but he backed out of reach, kicking up a gout of gravel in his haste to get away from her. “I’m gonna take an Uber back to your place. I’ve still got my key.”
“Please don’t—” she started, but he held up a finger and she closed her mouth.
“I can’t be here anymore. Tell your friends—” His lips pressed together in a tortured grimace. “Tell them whatever you want.”
He spun on the ball of his foot and walked away. Out the garden gate to the street beyond.
Brooke almost ran after him. She even took a few jerky steps, her high heels kicking up the stones of the gravel path.
But she decided it was better to give him some space. He needed a cooling-off period. They both did. Once he got over his initial hurt feelings, he’d be more reasonable. They’d be able to talk calmly, and he’d see she was right.
They could still salvage this.
They had to.
She couldn’t lose him.
Chapter Eighteen
The whole drive home from the reception, Brooke’s mind played out different versions of the conversation she’d have with Dylan when she got home. She practiced making her case, tried to anticipate his responses, and rehearsed different ways to counter any arguments he might make.
She’d been afraid this would happen. They never should have let their libidos run away with them. Now look what they’d done. They’d gone and fucked up a perfectly good friendship by getting sex all over it.
This was all fixable though. Dylan’s feelings had been hurt, and he’d need time to recover, but she still believed they could come back from this. They’d had fights before, and they’d always found their way back to each other.
Brooke hadn’t told her friends anything before she left the wedding reception. She’d sat on a bench in an out-of-the-way corner of the garden, letting the cold air sober her up. She wasn’t drunk—her last glass of wine had been over an hour ago—but she felt light-headed. This wasn’t the pleasant buzz of alcohol, but the sickening nausea of vertigo.
As soon as she’d felt calm enough to drive, she’d walked straight out of the reception and to her car.
She didn’t trust herself on the freeway when she was this distracted, so she took surface streets instead, which gave her more time to go over what she’d say to Dylan. Figure out how she’d make this better.
When she opened the door to her apartment, Brooke was met by a frightening silence.
Her insides started to slide.
“Dylan?” Even as she said his name, she knew he wasn’t there. The pit in her stomach widened into a crevasse.
His backpack wasn’t propped against the end of the couch anymore. His suitcase no longer lay open in the corner of the room. But there was a note on the coffee table.
She walked toward it, feeling like she was going to throw up.
He’d scrawled it on the back of a pizza receipt. There was only one sentence.
Your key is under the mat.
Just that. Just those six words. NoDear Brooke, orLove, Dylan. He’d left her no best wishes or warmest regards. The only thing he’d left her was her key, on his way out the door.
He hadn’t even said goodbye.
