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15
Stassi
I wake with a stomachache the next morning.
Part of it’s the noodles. I ate way too many of them. But part of it is also my insufferable neighbor.
I roll over in bed and look over at the copy of Doctor Zhivago. I’d wanted to throw it straight in the trash, but the book nerd in me couldn’t do that.
It’s a first edition! Signed!
I bet anything Alec knew that. He knew that I’d have to hold it dear. He wanted to plant a reminder of him, front and center in my life so that while I may be able to close the blinds and ignore him whenever he walks outside, I can’t ignore what’s right in front of my face.
Grabbing the book, I shove it deep under my bed.
But damned if it doesn’t start to feel like the beating heart in that Edgar Allen Poe story.
Maybe I can give it to someone? Return it to the bookstore and give him his money back?
It’d be the right thing to do. But until I can get to Portland, I need to keep it somewhere.
Pulling it out, I stalk around the house, looking for someplace to keep it. Eventually, I settle on the unused cabinet above the refrigerator. It’s not used because neither of us can reach in there. I have to drag a chair over to the fridge in order to access it. Then I shove the book in there and wipe my hands together.
Done.
As I’m standing at the coffee machine, congratulating myself for having disposed of the Doctor Zhivago threat for the time being, I look over at the front door and notice a white triangle sticking out from under the front door.
I hop from the chair, contemplating it like a foe I need to take down. As I get closer, it looks more and more like the thing I feared it was.
A note. I can see the lines on the paper. It’s folded in half, and whoever wrote it pushed too hard because I can see the imprint of the words inside. A single word is written on the outside.
Stassi.
Oh no.
I do as I usually do when I receive an Alec note. I freeze. My fingers shake.
Then I grab it and tell myself I will not care, no matter what he says. He does not matter to me. I am rubber. Whatever he says will bounce right off me.
Roses are red, violets are blue
I can’t stop thinking of the other night, up for round two?
Yours Cruelly,
Alec
PS—My number is 555-262-8825
Contrary to what I’d hoped, the words do not bounce off me. I absorb them fully, like a sponge, unable to keep the heat from creeping into my cheeks and … other places.
Crumpling the letter in my palm, I toss it in the trash and go to grab my coffee.
“What was that?” Mad says, sweeping into the kitchen in her bathrobe, hair wrapped in a towel.
“What was what?” I say casually.
“You were killing that paper. And you’re all red,” she says, marching over to the trash and lifting the lid. “Let me guess. It’s from McDreamy or McSteamy or whatever he calls himself?”
Before I can argue, she fishes it out and reads it. “Wait. Round two?”
I wince.
“Round two implies there was a round one. You slept with him, and you never told me?” She’s pouting now, horrified that I’ve broken the best friend code. “What’s wrong with you? Was he that bad?”
“No. He was that good.” I slump into a chair at the kitchen table, wanting to cry. Because now I’m thinking about it. And up until now, I’d been doing pretty well at moving past it. Now, it’s right there in my face.
“What? Then what’s the problem?” she shouts at me. “You’re crazy for not wanting to have some fun with him! Why wouldn’t you? Because Dangerous Lesions is so much better?”
I stare into my coffee. Mad was never much of a reader. “Liaisons.”
“Whatever! You know what you are? Boring.”
I look up. “Harsh.”
“Yes, but it’s no way to live life, always playing it safe. You’re not willing to take a risk, because you know what I think? You’re afraid of happiness.”
She’s right about that. I won’t take risks, but not because I’m afraid of happiness. I’m pretty much convinced happiness just won’t happen, for me no matter what I do. Look at Jonathan. Look at my last ex, Mason. With each of them, I thought I’d found true, everlasting happiness.
I was wrong.
And odds are Alec Mansfield isn’t going to be the one to break the chain. He’s already put new dings in my poor heart, a heart already so fragile from being broken and patched up again. If I let him get any closer, it’ll never recover.
“You don’t understand. Having fun with this guy is like playing with fire.” I push away from the table and stand. “Anyway, I don’t want to talk about this anymore and I have to shower.”
