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See? Men fuck everything up.
The knot in my stomach won’t go away. It’s telling me something, but maybe it’s not something I want to hear right now. I felt this way when my marriage hit the skids too. I just needed time. And therapy. And lots of hand-holding from my girlfriends.
Although the idea of calling Kate and Lauren feels . . . not great, either. Probably because they’ll also tell me something I don’t want to hear.
I put a hand on my chest. I feel short of breath.
I feel trapped. Like I’m being stonewalled in every direction, caught in a box that’s suddenly too small to stand up or move around in.
“Okay,” Ria says slowly. “Why don’t we all take five and regroup after a cup of coffee?”
“Let’s,” I manage, my stomach turning over at the thought of said coffee.
You know it’s bad when the idea of God’s second most delicious creation (after beer, of course) turns you off.
Ria closes the door behind Alan and Paige.
“Hey,” she says kindly. “I can clear your schedule if you need the day off.”
I wave her away, trying valiantly to blink back tears before they spill over. “Too much going on. Don’t want to miss our meeting with Jeremiah. He’s supposed to have samples of those finishes and fabrics we talked about last time, and I’m so excited to see them.”
If I keep telling myself that, I will actually feel excited, right? Because I was excited about meeting with our top-tier interior designer and his team to finalize the design for the new space before.
Before I met Hank.
Before I went to Blue Mountain.
Before I wrote a song with a famous football player and danced and laughed and drank with his lovely, foul-mouthed family.
I miss him, and I want nothing more right now than to dial his number and hear his voice.
But I can’t, and it’s killing me.
“I’m sure Jeremiah can reschedule,” Ria says, swiping her thumb across her phone screen. “You don’t need me to tell you mental health days are both necessary and restorative, right?”
I shake my head, blinking against a fresh press of tears at my assistant’s kindness. “Since when are twenty-year-olds so wise?”
“I wish I was twenty.”
“Do you really?”
Ria laughs. “No, actually, not at all. Twenty was fun, but . . . yeah, twenty-eight is better.” She holds up her phone. “I can shoot Jeremiah an email.”
I shake my head again, typing nonsense into a blank email on my laptop. “I just need a minute. Is it still raining? I’m going to walk over to Latte Larry’s.”
“Yep.” Ria glances out the windows at my back. “Still raining.”
Of course the weather would reflect my not-awesome mood. I’m starting to think Hank’s fame, hotness, and helpfulness actually point to him being a god. An honest to goodness divine being with biceps of glory and the power to destroy a perfectly good Tuesday morning.
“I brought my coat,” I say, reaching behind me. “I think.”
The past twelve hours are a blur. I remember boarding the plane in Asheville. Remember getting home and ordering a pizza I didn’t eat.
After that? Just lots of tossing and turning in bed with my phone in my hand in case Hank texted or called.
He didn’t. At the airport in Nashville, I let him know I landed safe and sound, and I thanked him for the ride. Thanks again for everything, he’d texted back. That’s the last I’ve heard from him.
“This doesn’t have anything to do with the order?” Ria asks. “The one Blue Mountain put in?”
“Nah, the order’s still good.”
“We’ve had people change their minds before.”
I swallow for the thousandth time. “The Beauregards are old-fashioned like that—they keep their word.”
I’m not sure how I know this, exactly. I’ve been around Hank and his family for all of three days. But somehow, I know it. The sky-is-blue and grits-are-good kind of knowing.
“Go take your walk. We’ll be ready for you when you come back.”
“Thanks, Ria. I’m sorry about all this.” I circle my hand in front of my face.
She puts her hand on the door handle. “Don’t be. I’m sorry you’re feeling so shitty.”
“I’ll be better for our meeting, I promise.”
“Of course you will.” She turns to the door and pushes the handle down, only to turn back to me. “Can I say something?”
“Yes.”
“I’m proud of you.”
My eyebrows snap together. “Seriously? For what? Crying at work? Even Paige, the intern, knows what a faux pas that is.”
“I mean this as a compliment, but I’m proud of you for staying vulnerable. I think there’s this myth around leadership that you have to be this hard-assed, man-eating, shit-kicking dominatrix to make it. And you can definitely be a hard-ass, Stevie, don’t get me wrong. But you’re willing to put yourself out there, which means you’re willing to get hurt. You’re brave, and that’s something I admire very much about you.”
