Her hand suddenly leaves my chest, sliding over my dress shirt, groping my pecs and purring seductively. I think I’m a bit in shock, but just as she finds my belt, I grab hold of her wrist, stopping her progression.
This doesn’t seem to deter her in the slightest, and she seems to take this as consent, moving closer and pressing herself against me as I look wildly around wondering if I’m beingPunk’d. Is this what some women feel like in the workforce who are inappropriately fondled and degraded?
If so, #MeToo.
I’m about to speak up and push her away when I hear Sutton’s soft, confused voice behind me.
“Miles?”
I turn, but the movement only brings Melissa along with me, who is still in my grip. I drop her wrist so fast she loses her balance and topples forward. I move to catch her and stand her upright, then let my hands fall to my sides. My hands clench into fists.
All the while, Sutton looks on with shiny, hazel eyes, blinking past the tears threatening to fall underneath her lashes.
“Sutton. What are you. . . ?”
There’s a moment where I think she’s going to turn and run, her fingers pressed to her mouth to cover her quivering lips. I know what she thinks she’s seeing, but she’s wrong. So, so very wrong.
I extend my arm to reach out, but she dodges it and steps back, all the while staring at me with eyes that tell me everything.
You’re an asshole.
You hurt me.
I trusted you.
How could you do this to me?
I’m unable to respond to any of those questions or correct the misunderstanding because as people walk around and between us, a few times her face disappearing from my view, she finally steps forward and slaps me, figuratively, with her accusation.
“How could you, Miles? I thought I meant something. I thought you’d changed. If Melodie were still with us right now, she’d be so ashamed of you. You’ve humiliated me once again. I can’t believe what a fool I’ve been. Thanks for letting me see the real Miles Thatcher.”
The crowd dissipates just when Graham walks out the restaurant door to witness the conclusion of this scene. Sutton turns swiftly around and books it down the sidewalk as Graham steps up next to me, blocking my view, and stares at me.
“What did I miss?”
I have no words, but Melissa pipes in, “I think Miles just got dumped.”
And sure enough, there’s a first time for everything.
40
Sutton
Tears taste like salt.
Salt can be bitter.
Bitter is how I feel.
Bittersweet is the feeling of not seeing Miles again.
I don’t want to feel anymore.
My head remains buried under a pillow as I sprawl across the couch, where I’ve taken up residence for the past week since moving into my new apartment.
With the help of Ben, Christiana, and a couple of loads boxed up by Taylor, I moved into my new three-hundred-eighty-five square foot apartment in the West Village. With the money I’d saved from the Morgan’s pet sitting job and the extra hours I’d taken on in Lucy’s absence at the store, I was able to find a great second-floor walk-up in a cute red brick building, complete with a balcony and a window flower box. Plus, I’m just a few short blocks away from one of my favorite music venues, Webster Hall.
If only the beauty of that blooming floral arrangement and the possibility of seeing great upcoming acts at the theater was enough to make me feel better right now. To help me get over this heart-wrenching pain of what happened with Miles.
