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“I’m no longer interested.”
“Bullshit.”
I shrug as I try to act casual. “I’m serious.”
Antony sits back in his chair. His assessing eyes hold mine. “Someone is going to swoop in and steal her from right under your nose, you fucking idiot.”
“Don’t care,” I fire back.
“We’ll see about that.”
“She’s not after a relationship anyway,” I tell them.
“Until she finds someone else to be her friend and he falls desperately in love with her. You’re a fucking idiot, man.”
The conversation turns to Blake’s work, and my mind goes back to her.
Always back to her, and I’m fucking sick of it.
I need her out of my system.
I sit at my desk and stare into space. The week has been long and depressing.
Every night before I fall asleep I tell myself that tomorrow I am going to go over to Juliet’s and apologize and beg to see her . . . but then tomorrow comes, and I just don’t.
Why am I like this? Or what could possibly be wrong with me to make me such a selfish prick?
Why do I torture myself the way that I do?
All I want to do is see her, to hold her in my arms and tell her that I missed her.
That shouldn’t be hard. It should be the most natural thing in the world.
Logically I know that, so why can’t I do it?
I open the top drawer of my desk and rustle through it, and I catch sight of what I’m looking for at the very bottom, buried under everything. I pull it out and stare at it in my hands.
A A R O N S T E V E N S
P S Y C H O L O G I S T
I’ve had this card for years. He’s supposed to be the best of the best, supposed to be able to fix anyone.
Call him.
It won’t help. What could he possibly say to make this all better?
Call him.
With shaky fingers I dial his number and wait as it rings.
“Aaron Stevens’s rooms,” a woman answers, and when I hear her voice, I immediately hang up the phone.
Fuck.
I drag my hands through my hair. I don’t need that shit. I’m fine. I just need to stop thinking about her, that’s all. If I’m not near her, then she can’t make me feel this way.
Onward and upward.
