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Yet another reason why I should have never said yes to this arrangement.
“There’s no one else.”
She pins me with a hard stare, examining me with the same expression I know she uses to read her clients for the truth, and I stare back at her because I don’t have anything to hide. There can’t be someone else when you aren’t actually in a relationship, and the person you want just walked out on you.
“So we’re just done with the friends-with-benefits thing?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
Relief courses through me, washing out some of the irritation as Kristen and I smile at each other. Not being at odds with her right now feels nice, and it gives me hope for some kind of resolution with Sloane that’ll keep her in my life as something between what we are right now and what I’ve always hoped we could be.
.
18
Sloane
Now
The week after Eric died was the longest of my life. Seven days of emptiness. Seven days of guilt gnawing away at me, eating me alive from the inside out. A week of tears and rage, of drinking and crying and cursing my existence. Of questioning God and, at my lowest point, praying for the strength to remove myself from this world because I didn’t want to live without him. If my mother thought I was being dramatic at the funeral, my behavior during that week would have given her an aneurysm.
It was in that week that I made myself face the hard truth about what my future would look like without Eric: a quiet house, a lonely bed, no hand to clasp tightly in my hardest moments, no arms that felt like home, no kisses to my forehead while I slept
A solitary existence. That’s what I was in for, and funnily enough, it was exactly what Eric was convinced I wanted when he walked out the door that day, and I let him believe it because I was scared. It all seems so pointless now: the fight, my fear, his hurt. I could have spared us all if I had just been brave enough to tell the truth, but instead, I let my fear keep me rooted to the spot while I watched my husband walk out of my life for the last time. That day, when my ability to be brave mattered more than anything, I was a coward, and, four years later, I still am.
Just in a different way.
For the last few days, my fear has had me in constant motion. Whirling in and out of La Grande Nuit like a short-lived tornado because the thought of ending up alone with Dominic after what happened on Tuesday terrified me. It’d taken an emergency session with my therapist and a full-blown breakdown in front of Mal—where I lied and said I was feeling guilty about going on a date—just to pull me out of the pit of despair I was plunged into when the post-orgasm clarity hit me, and I wasn’t willing to go back there for anything. Not even for another endless moment with the delicious heat of Dominic’s body pressed against mine or the intoxicating feel of his fingers digging into my flesh.
I just couldn’t risk it.
So I spent the week running, caught somewhere between desperately wanting Dominic to seek me out and tell me my erratic behavior was completely understandable and hoping he never looked in my direction again. Ultimately, I landed on hoping he never looked in my direction again, and that’s exactly what I got.
In the rare moments that we were in the same space, meetings with James or passing each other in the hallway he looked right through me like I didn’t even exist. Having my silent wish granted shouldn’t have hurt, but it did because it took me back to the time before our weird friendship happened and made me realize I had no clue what it meant to truly be iced out by the man.
For years I hated him for the way he treated me, thinking his glares and hurtful words were the worst he could do to me, but this was different. This was stepping out of the safety of a warm car and having the cold bite into your skin. This was reopening a wound you thought was on its way to healing. This was a swell of dark clouds after weeks of sunshine. This was….the closest thing to heartbreak I’ve known since Eric died. Only it makes no sense to be heartbroken over a man I should hate myself for wanting.
Should being the operative word.
After the incident, I thought I hated myself, but the longer I sat with my feelings, the more I realized I didn’t. Sure I was embarrassed about the way things went down, but ultimately I had to accept that I didn’t do anything wrong. My husband is gone, and the vows I swore to him on our wedding day were intact when his heart stopped beating. All of the promises I made to him had been kept well past till death do us part. And like Mal has pointed out several times since I said I wanted to start dating again, Eric would want me to be happy.
Would she still be saying that if she knew you were the reason Eric was on the road that day? Would she still be so supportive of you dating if she knew you were dreaming of Dominic taking her brother’s spot in your bed?
Now that I don’t know. Okay, yes I do. I don’t need to ask Mal to know she wouldn’t be happy about any romantic developments between me and Dominic. This is the same woman who got mad at him for bringing me a slice of cake first, so I think it’s safe to say all hell would break loose if she found out about Tuesday. There would probably be tears, accusations, and a stain of betrayal on our relationship that would never go away.
Just the thought of it makes me sick to my stomach. Thankfully, I don’t have to wonder about whether the chemistry between me and Dominic is worth it—it’s not—because he has iced me out so quickly and efficiently, my head is still spinning. I just wish I knew why…
“It doesn’t matter,” I whisper to myself as I search for the perfect shoes to pair with the outfit I’ve laid out on my bed in preparation for my date. That’s right. I’m going on a date. Tonight I’m going to have dinner with a handsome man whose romantic interest doesn’t threaten to implode my entire life, and I’m going to like it.
Okay, I’m going to try to enjoy it, but I can’t make any promises.
“Sloane, why aren’t you dressed yet? Ash will be here in twenty minutes.” Mal storms into my room just as I’m exiting my closet with a pair of nude heels that make my legs look incredible. She has both hands on her hips and wrath shining in her amber eyes as she glares at my robe. “Please don’t tell me you canceled.”
“No, I didn’t cancel. I just needed to find some shoes to go with my outfit.”
I gesture towards the red satin dress I bought yesterday to get excited about this date with Ash Strickland—a former NBA star who dominated the court for some team on the west coast until he tore his ACL two years ago and was forced to retire at thirty-two. All the information I’d gleaned from the short Google search I ran on him last night told me he wasn’t letting the massive blow to his plans slow him down at all. He went from owning the court to conquering the New Haven real estate scene in a matter of years.
