Emma put down her phone, a triumphant grin on her face. “There you go. I got the job done, and I didn’t even have to lie about it. Noah is definitely going to be at home this afternoon. If you go over there about four o’clock, he’ll answer his door.” She rolled her hand. “Go forth and inform him of his impending fatherhood, sweetie. It’s time. Matter of fact, it’s past time.”
16
Noah
“All right. I’m here. And I’m listening.” Juliet made a point of looking at her watch. “You’ve got five minutes, then I’m out of here.”
I sat across from her at my kitchen table, my gut twisting, wondering what the hell I was doing. It had been three days since the damn party, and during that time, aside from Zeke’s visit and threats, I’d known more peace than I’d had in months. My house had been quiet and empty, and for the first two days, I’d done nothing but sleep and eat whatever the hell I’d wanted.
But this morning, I’d awakened gripped with guilt. Was it because the pillows still smelled like Juliet’s perfume? Maybe. Or it could have been because she hadn’t so much as texted me since she’d stormed out of the party. I’d expected to hear from her that night, or at least the next morning, but she’d maintained total radio silence.
Her stuff was still all over my house. Her lingerie was on the counter in my bathroom, along with her makeup, skincare shit and soaps. Her shampoo was in my shower. She’d left everything behind when she left.
Including me.
I didn’t care about her. Or at least that was what I kept telling myself. I was so happy to be free of her making my appointments, prepping my meals, telling me where to go and what to do. Yeah, I’d had to blow off my PT yesterday because I couldn’t find anyone to drive me to the clinic, but I’d figure it all out. Or I wouldn’t. Juliet had been insistent that my life wasn’t over. She kept talking to me about shit like second acts and new starts, but that wasn’t what I wanted.
Or was it?
Now that she was gone and my home echoed with my aloneness, I had lots of time to think. I sat up in my bed, pillows propped behind my back, wondering where my life had turned to shit. Everything that had been essential to me up until I’d taken that hit . . . and then slowly it had been siphoned away. Angela was gone . . .
Live your life and don’t be a dumbass.
The words floated unbidden to the top of my mind. I could almost hear Angela’s voice, her sweet, no-nonsense tone not willing to take any of my bullshit. But it wasn’t quite a memory . . . or if it was, it seemed oddly recent.
I sat back against the pillows, and my gaze landed on the framed picture of the two of us that had been taken the day we’d gotten engaged. Angela was beautiful as always, her face alight with joy and laughter. In the photo, I was standing behind her, my arms wrapped around her middle, my face buried in her neck as she crinkled her eyes with humor. It was one of my favorites of the two of us, so young and full of hope. We’d been in that garden in Madison at the University . . . that garden. What had it been called?
Goosebumps rose on my arms as an unsettling realization swept over me. I’d been there. . . or I’d dreamed that I was there. With Angela, sitting on the grass, and we’d talked. She’d said important things to me, things I needed to remember, but now, I couldn’t dredge any of them from my memory. Nothing except that one line.
Live your life and don’t be a dumbass.
Had she been telling me not to give up? That sounded like my Ang. So maybe it was time to try something new. I had to let go of football the same way I’d said goodbye to Angela. I had to accept that both of my loves were now in my past. I had a choice: I could stay there with them and die a slow death of regret, or I could let them go and move into the future.
The problem was, I didn’t know what the future looked like. I couldn’t even imagine it. What was I going to do if I didn’t play football? Who would I share that life with?
Alison came to my mind unbidden, like an answer to a question I hadn’t dared ask. God, she had made me feel . . . so much. During that brief time that we’d had together, I’d been tempted to hope and to believe love could happen again for me. But I knew that I’d fucked it up. I’d ignored her, blown her off. She probably hated me now. And even if she didn’t, she deserved someone better than I could be. She needed a man who could give her the kind of future she deserved.
That wasn’t me. Not anymore.
And honestly, she wasn’t my concern. Despite her texts, I was sure she’d move on, probably thinking of me as a huge asshole. Maybe she’d count herself lucky that she’d dodged a bullet.
On the other hand, Juliet had not only taken the brunt of my jerkiness—she had actually volunteered for it. She’d seen me at my worse, and she’d hung around anyway. And what had she gotten for her trouble? She’d heard me tell my friends she was only temporary, a convenient woman to fuck while I was busy diving into self-destructive behavior.
Zeke’s harsh, take-no-prisoners lashing had also forced me to face the fact that I’d done Juliet wrong on so many levels, capping it all of with my drunken boasting to the guys the other night. I tried to imagine how I’d feel if I’d heard someone saying that about Angela . . . I shuddered, and I felt like a dick, especially knowing now how Zeke felt about her.
Why hadn’t he made a move earlier, asked her out, clued her in that he was interested? Even as I bristled, asking myself those questions, I knew the answer. Juliet had set her sights on me the moment she’d been hired. Even if Zeke had flirted, made a play, she probably would’ve ignored him.
I didn’t know why—Zeke was a much better bet than me. He was single, had never been married, and he was a well-paid, good-looking football player. He was younger than me. Even if there was some reason Juliet had been drawn to me at first, once I’d been injured, Zeke would have looked even better.
If I’d known all of this—if I’d been even slightly more aware of what was going on around me—I might have been able to keep Juliet at arm’s length. I might have kept her from hanging out at my house, from flirting . . . from taking off her clothes and riding my dick. I might have told her that if she’d opened her eyes, she’d notice the man who could give her everything she really wanted—a much better man than me.
But I hadn’t. Instead, I’d let everything happen—I hadn’t put up more than a token protest when Juliet had begun staying here, acting like a wife more than anything else. I sure as hell hadn’t put up a fight when she’d sat on my lap that night and offered me her tits. I hadn’t even had a second thought about fucking her. Not that night, not many days and nights since. If it made me feel good, I didn’t care how my actions and decisions affected everyone else.
God, I really was a miserable son of a bitch.
But I could start changing that now. So I’d reached for my phone and called Juliet. She hadn’t answered—I wasn’t surprised—but I’d left the first of several groveling voicemails. And then I’d texted her, begging her to come over so we could talk. So I could make it up to her, or at least try to do that.
It had taken two hours before she’d responded with a terse text.
