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“I need to make a call,” she said distractedly, not bothering to look at me as she left the room, closing the door firmly behind her.
Alright then.
Alone in her room, I sat up and took in the space I had barely paid attention to when I arrived. Things had progressed quicker than I had ever imagined once I showed up at Whitney’s Los Angeles apartment. She led me inside. We shared a beer on her patio, made small chit-chat, then she asked me why I came.
“To see you,” was all I said, and then she kissed me.
I didn’t question it. Why would I? This was what I wanted. This was what I had hoped would happen when I decided to make the trip to see her. I didn’t want to think too much about why, after all this time of ignoring my existence, she jumped into bed with me. Almost too eagerly. Too desperately.
Now I sat amid Whitney’s black bed sheets trying to find clues to who the woman was. I thought I knew her. I had spent so many years cataloging every detail. Her favorite color was pink. Her favorite flower was a lily. She loved salty snacks and wasn’t a fan of chocolate. She got teary-eyed whenever I Will Always Love You came on the radio, and she had seen Dirty Dancing at least thirty times. She and Meg argued but never maliciously, and she and her dad did crosswords every Sunday morning.
Okay, so listing all that stuff out, I sounded like a damn stalker, and I wasn’t. I swear it. I had just spent enough time with her family to pick up on things. So maybe I paid closer attention to anything and everything that had to do with Whitney Galloway. Like my grandpa always said, find something you’re good at and stick to it.
And I was good at loving Whitney.
Only, I was beginning to think that the Whitney that was now talking on the phone in a hushed whisper wasn’t the Whitney I remembered from Southport, Pennsylvania.
For starters, the clothes that spilled out of the tiny closet were nothing like the clothes she wore in high school. Not wanting to paw through her things, but unable to help having a snoop, I looked through the dresses and blouses that hung haphazardly. She used to be a girly girl, liking soft colors and modest hemlines. Clearly, that wasn’t the case anymore. There were more than a few dresses so small I wondered if they covered anything. Her shirts all were either mere scraps of cloth or had necklines I imagined left little to the imagination. There was even a leather skirt and thigh-high boots. I was sure she looked smokin’ when she wore them, but they were definitely different from what I was used to seeing her in.
I also noticed that aside from a framed photograph of her parents, there weren’t any other pictures in her room. I remembered her bedroom back home had been covered with photographs of her friends and family. Whitney was a popular girl, and her room had shown that.
Clearly, new LA Whitney didn’t care about surrounding herself with the faces of loved ones.
Feeling awkward as I waited for Whitney to finish her phone call, I figured I should get dressed. I hadn’t been lying when I said I’d like a glass of water. My throat was bone dry, and my legs were a little wobbly after the sex marathon. Well, maybe not a marathon, but it sure as hell felt like it.
I pulled on my boxers and the T-shirt I had been wearing on the plane. I gave the pits a quick sniff and promptly dropped it on the floor. No way I was putting it back on. I scanned the room and saw a grey T-shirt about my size over the back of the overstuffed chair in the corner. Not thinking much about it, I put it on and quietly walked out to the living room.
Whitney’s apartment was small. Tiny even. It had a bedroom, a bathroom, and a room that served as a living room and kitchen combined. There was a balcony that overlooked a parking lot, big enough for two plastic chairs and a wilted plant.
It was obvious Whitney wasn’t much of a neat freak. In fact, she bordered on slob. I could see dishes piled in the sink, cabinets open, and what looked like cereal spilled on the counter. The small, circular coffee table was covered in magazines mostly of the Glamour and Cosmopolitan variety. Shoes, socks, and random shirts were all over the floor. Discarded potato chip packets and boxes of snack cakes were piled precariously on one arm of the two-seater couch.
I kicked a pair of gym shorts out of the way as I made my way to the kitchen. Whitney was standing at the sliding glass doors that led to the balcony, her back to me. Her head was bent, and she was talking so low I could barely hear her.
