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How well do I know AJ? Sure, I know how to play her body like a professional athlete, but what about that other shit Carrie spewed? The affairs? I have a hard time imagining AJ being the homewrecker Carrie made her out to be. And how the fuck does she know so much about AJ anyway?
She’s knows people, that’s how.
When Carrie wants something, Carrie gets it, by any means possible.
I’ve seen her use PIs to find out details of those in her industry. Hell, I’m certain she was behind half the incriminating photos that were constantly leaked to the media. No, there were never any affairs, on my part, but I always looked like the bad guy.
And Carrie always came out smelling like a fucking rose.
Like now. Best interest at heart? I smell ulterior motives.
A knock sounds at the door behind me. “Hey, everything okay?”
I clear my throat and turn to face AJ. “Uhhh, yeah. Sorry about that interruption.”
“It’s okay. I made dinner, if you’re still hungry,” she adds, pointing down the stairs.
“Actually, I’m not hungry anymore.”
“Oh, okay. I can put it in the fridge and we can heat it up after we get back tonight,” she says breezily, though my own heart feels like it’s beating out of my chest.
I realize she’s talking about going to the hospital. She’s going to meet her new nephews tonight, and asked me to go with her. Of course I fucking said yes. I want to go. Or at least, I did want to go before Carrie showed up and fucked with my head again. I should throw on some shoes and head out the door, but my feet are rooted to the hardwood.
“Why don’t you go ahead and see your family,” I suggest, averting my eyes so I don’t have to see the pain I’m sure is there. It hurts me to say it, but I need a little time to just think. I need to run, to clear my mind, and to think.
“Oh, okay,” she says.
Even though I don’t look, she stands beside me for a few heart-pounding moments before heading to the bathroom to collect her things. I hear her scoop up her toothbrush and whatever other girly things she brought and had on my vanity. I’ll completely ignore how good it felt stepping out of my shower earlier to see it there mixed with my shit. It was too nice, too comforting.
She steps out of the bathroom, her bag thrown over her shoulder. She glances around, searching the room to make sure she has everything. I want to tell her to leave it all, to come back later, and stay one more night, but I know I can’t. Not right now.
“I guess I’ll talk to you later,” she says, her sweet voice laced with uncertainty. She’s completely leaving her statement open for me to add to, but like the stupid fucker I am, I keep quiet.
“Yeah,” I reply, scratching my head. “Have fun at the hospital.”
She doesn’t reply, which is like a neon sign with a bullhorn blasting how badly I’m messing this up. When I glance up, it’s like a punch in the gut. No, I think I’d rather take a straight hit with a two-by-four upside the head than see that look on her beautiful face. And, of course, the fact that I put that look there is another reason I need to step back and think. Because if I go all in with this woman, I’ll vow to never witness a look like this ever again.
If you ever get the chance again, dumbass.
She doesn’t speak as she turns and slips out of my room. Her footfalls echo down the stairs and into the foyer. I stand right where I am because I’m not strong enough to watch her leave. The fear that I might not ever see her descend my stairs or feel her presence in my house makes my chest feel like someone is carving out my heart (with a butter knife).
The door opens and closes, and my feet finally move. I head down the stairs and to the front door. I pull it open just as her car is turning and driving down the lane. Taillights glowing, I watch her turn onto the road and out of sight.
I just fucked up.
Bad.
I know it, but I’m not sure if I’ll be able to fix it.
