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I want her to stay, I want her to say screw the plans and stay here with me. Or at the very least act like she’s sorry to leave. But the last thing I want is for her to feel obligated to me. If she’s going to be with me, I want it to be because she wants me, not because she thinks she should. Or shouldn’t.
Her phone dings again, and she looks at the screen. “Fuck. I’m going to be late if I don’t go now.” She takes a step toward me but hesitates. “I’m sorry, I feel like such an asshole, leaving like this. I’ll text you later, okay?”
“Sure. Have fun with the girls.”
She pauses again, then turns on her heel and lets herself out. I’m tempted to wait a beat and follow her out, to make sure that pissant Derek hasn’t been waiting for her at her apartment or something, but even I know that’s too much.
I’m not her boyfriend, not her bodyguard. I’m just a friend, doing her a favor. We don’t owe each other anything.
That’s what I tell myself every time I check my phone for the rest of the day and there’s no text from her.
When I don’t hear from her all day on Sunday, her message is painfully obvious. But seeing her from across the lobby on Monday morning, deep in conversation with Raj over cups from Two Birds drives it home.
She doesn’t want me.
Nineteen
Frankie
Lauren steps back to admire her handiwork, cocking her head to one side before grabbing my chin and moving my face from side to side. “Well, it’s not perfect, but I did the best I could.”
I shouldn’t be annoyed by her words, I know she’s not trying to be mean, but I’m running on eight hours of sleep in the last week. The only thing keeping me upright is the quadruple espresso I sucked down on my way to her apartment. The bug I thought we fixed on Friday night? Turns out our patch seriously fucked something in the main Mailbox servers, and the whole website went down on Saturday.
After leaving Julian’s place, I’d dashed over to the tailor to meet up with Lauren and Sophie for a final fitting on our dresses. Lauren had just zipped me into my dress when Sophie’s ashen face peeked into the dressing room. She’d held out her phone to me before pulling Lauren out of the room with me.
“Frankie?” The sound of Mr. Sutton’s voice on the phone had been enough to wash away all the dreamy thoughts of Julian I’d been enjoying as I admired my dress in the mirror. “I need you at the office. Now.”
The three of us had scrambled through the rest of the fitting, and I’d left my dress in Lauren’s care while I rushed over to the office. We’ve all been working around the clock to fix the original issue plus the break to Mailbox’s servers in time for tonight’s party. I’ve been sleeping in my office all week, only leaving on Wednesday morning when Lauren dragged me out and drove me home herself with instructions not to come back until I’d gotten at least four hours of sleep and a shower.
That was two days ago.
Mr. Sutton himself was the one who found the broken line of code, working just as hard as the rest of us to trace it and rewrite everything it had affected. He sent us all home at two today, with instructions to nap and get ready for the launch party tonight. Even though the problem isn’t completely resolved, it’s under control and only needs a few more hours to fix. It can wait until tomorrow.
Since my dress was still at Lauren’s apartment, and getting dolled up isn’t my skill set, I agreed to come over and get ready with her at her house. It seemed way more important to Lauren than I would have guessed, but she was so excited about it, I couldn’t say no.
I haven’t texted or spoken to Julian since I walked out of his apartment. Even though every moment I’ve stopped to take a break has been spent daydreaming about our night together, every time I picked up my phone to text him, I didn’t know what to say. And the longer we went without texting, the more I clammed up at the thought of restarting a conversation.
Somewhere in the back of my head, I know that this is my own fault—that my anxiety and inaction is making this worse. That a single conversation could fix everything. But every time I tried to do it, I froze up. My brain locked up, my body locked up, and irrational fear took over. So I went another day without talking to him. And everyday that passed just made it worse. I don't know how to break the cycle.
He has to be angry that I pushed him aside again. First for my family, then for Sophie and Lauren, and now for work. He told me he wanted more, and instead of giving him an answer, I’ve gone radio silent.
We never discussed the plan for tonight.
Was he even still coming?
In a fit of desperate courage, I sent him a text this afternoon asking if he was and if so, could he meet me at the party since I was getting ready at Lauren’s place. He’d sent a reply while I was in the shower, a single sentence that gave me no clue how he felt.
Julian: I’ll be there. I’ll meet you outside the venue.
What does that mean? Even if he understands how insane this week has been, I was practically out the door before he pulled his pants back on. Guilt for vanishing like that doubles down with the deeply ingrained messages I’d grown up with.
Nice girls didn’t sleep around.
No one wants used goods.
What kind of person would do something so intimate and then walk away? A selfish bastard, that’s who.
I thought I’d done a good job of getting past those bullshit purity-culture messages when I left for college, but I guess enjoying sex without guilt was a step farther than my mind was willing to go. My lady bits keep reminding me that I’ve never had sex good enough to question why I felt guilty about it before.
