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For about the hundredth time, Petra read the note Jake had left Saturday night. The sheet of basic lined notebook paper was badly wrinkled; her first reaction had been to wad it up until it fit entirely in her clenched fist.
He’d hurt her Thursday morning, fleeing her as fast as he could immediately after she’d gone out on a limb. As often as she reminded herself that they barely knew each other, that he owed her nothing, that she should have expected nothing, she was hurt.
She still thought she would have been fine if he’d simply said he wasn’t interested in more. Instead, he’d seemed to be interested but unwilling to put himself out there. So she’d done it—and then he’d run.
No one had ever run away from her. Broken up, sure. Ghosted, of course. But actuallyfled? Never, until a few days ago.
Yeah, it had hurt. It still hurt.
Thus her first reaction upon getting to her car after closing Gertrude’s on Saturday night—a night spent with Dre still pouting and barely monosyllabic, even to customers—had been to drop the flower to the ground (though callas were her favorite and she wondered if Jake knew that) and crush the paper in her fist. Of course she wasn’t going to call him. Biker boy could fuck right off.
She’d made it to the dumpster, intending to toss the paper away, when Alanis Morissette began screaming from the second floor. Dre hated Alanis, so Petra knew instantly that their musical selection was directed downward, to her. As of Thursday evening, Dre had been doing the absurdly childish thing where they only spoke to Petra through an intermediary. Petra had been too pissed at Dre’s petulant theatrics to tell them Jake was a non-starter.
So ‘You Oughta Know’ blaring out at two-thirty in the morning was obviously entirely rhetorical.
A bit on the nose, sweetie, don’t you think?Petra had thought, glaring up at the window. She’d turned from the dumpster and shoved the paper wad in her jeans pocket, primarily because she was pissed at Dre.
She’d spent the next few days smoothing that paper out, reading it, wadding it up, meaning to throw it away, deciding not to, smoothing it out and folding it, unfolding it, reading it, wadding it up, meaning to throw it away, deciding not to ...
It was now Tuesday, and she was still obsessing over Jake and his damn note.
She was trapped in theatrics of her own.
It wasn’t even the sex that had her obsessing over the guy. It was surprisingly great sex, for sure. She’d expected him to be eager and hyper and generally one of those guys who mistook force for intensity, and he’d instead been deeply focused and attentive and thoughtful. Not to mention really good with a clit—possibly the best of the men she’d been with. People with clits of their own tended to be better in that regard.
And yes, with aggravating frequency, her brain sent up memories of how good he was with her clit, and her tits, and all of it, but it was Wednesday evening that really had her thoughts trapped. Not in her office but after it. The way he’d sat at the bar, talking with the regulars, treating them with perfect respect and normalcy. He’d totally won them all over, and she’d been happily surprised. Then he’d helped her close up, even mopping the floor, and they’d chatted about their lives. Not the hard stuff, but the getting-to-know-you stuff.
Jake on his own was quite a bit different from Jake with a buddy in tow.
She’d brought him home again, and they’d fucked with their trademark quiet intensity until nearly dawn, then slept in each other’s arms.
So yes. Petra had been shocked and hurt when she’d told him she wanted to be with him and he’d responded by running from her apartment like it was on fire.
His dick move should have been a big enough red flag for her to shove him into her file of chance encounters and bad decisions, and probably it would have been, if not for this damn note.
And also because her life was stressful and scary right now, and when she was with him, her mind tabled her worries for later.
I’m sorry. Call me if you want.
Well, she wasn’t going to call him. Maybe she wanted to know what his two-word apology really meant. Maybe she’d appreciate a chance to tell him what a dick move his leaving had been, but whatever she wanted to say to him, she wasn’t going to do it on the phone. Not even FaceTime. She wanted to be physically face to face with him.
She set the paper aside, put her car in gear, pulled away from the curb, and drove the remaining few blocks to Brian Delaney Auto Service.
Was he working today? She didn’t know. There weren’t any cars at the pumps, so there wasn’t anyone pumping gas, and she couldn’t see the men in the service bays well enough to know if he was one of them. But she pulled onto the lot anyway and parked along the side of the building. If he wasn’t in there, she’d buy a snack, finally toss that stupid paper in a bin, and go on about her life.
Before she got out of the car, Petra took a moment, closed her eyes, and breathed. She meant to be completely calm. Carefree, even. She was here only because she was curious. Right? Right. If the situation called for more emotion, she had plenty in reserve. But calm and carefree was the way to start. If he was in there.
She climbed out of her car and went into the station.
It was a convenience store, a fairly large one for being part of a gas station. At first, she didn’t see him; there was no one at the counter and only a couple of customers, two Black teenage girls studying the shelves of candy like there would be a test later. But a chime sounded when she came through the door, and after a second or two, Jake emerged at the end of another aisle, an empty cardboard box dangling from one hand.
He wore his Sinclair uniform, of course, the dark green shirt neatly tucked into the matching pants. His hair was tied back in a half pony. Petra loved that look, on men, women, everybody. Though she didn’t think of physicality first when she liked someone, good looks certainly weren’t a hindrance, and Jake wassogood looking. Everything about him, head to toe, delighted her eyes. Especially that smattering of dark freckles.
“Hey,” he said and put the box down. His voice conveyed pleasant surprise. “You’re here.”
Petra was losing that calm she’d called up. There was a faction of brain cells advocating to run up to him and kiss him. She gagged them before they gained more influence, and she simply said, “Hello. Yes.”
He glanced around awkwardly. “Are you ... do you need help with your car?”
