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And make the rookie mistake of thinking she’d fallen in love with me too.
But even though I’ve royally screwed up when it comes to understanding what love is, I’d like to think I at least know respect.
And I need to respect the woman’s wishes. So I say something that’s true to my feelings while giving her the distance she seems to want.
Graham: Thank you. The pleasure was truly all mine. I loved every second of being with you.
Past tense. Loved. Was.
I hit send and immediately bring my thumbs back to texting position. Because this sucks.
There’s a painful ache in my chest. It’s no longer empty. It just fucking hurts, and I want to say so much more. I want to tell her that I’m not ready for this to end, that I don’t want it to end at all. Ever. I want to promise her that I can make all her dreams come true, and that there’s no need to make it on her own.
Or, God forbid, make it with some other guy.
The thought makes me sick. Physically ill. Sour inside. To think of some bastard with his hands on my CJ.
But she’s made her position clear. So I simply text—
Graham: I’m here whenever you need me, Butterfly. Anytime. Anywhere.
CJ: Thank you. That means a lot to me, Graham.
She means a lot to me. She means more to me than she’ll ever know.
I don’t know how long I sit silently at my desk, numb and more alone than I’ve felt since my best friend died, but eventually, my inbox dings.
The ads are here.
The new mock-ups are perfect, so I send my approval and then return to the collection of walls where I will sleep tonight.
It doesn’t feel like home. Not without her.
25
CJ
I’m awoken Sunday morning by Stephen King sitting on my pillow, purring as he chews on my hair.
“No, gross,” I murmur, pulling him under the covers with me for a snuggle instead. “No chewing, buddy.”
But when he starts gnawing on the sleeve of my flannel pajamas, I don’t have the heart to stop him. I don’t have the heart to do much of anything except lie here and feel low.
So low.
“I miss him already,” I whisper to Stevie, my fingers gliding through his fur. “I don’t want to go back to being friends. I can’t.”
Stephen King meows, and I wish I knew what it meant. Deciding I’m not going to get solid advice from a cat—any cat, but Stevie is an especially lost cause—I call Dylan.
“I’m sad,” I whisper when he answers. “In the dating despair pit.”
Dylan grunts. “This is about that dick for brains you’re dating, right? Now, you give me his number. Better yet, his address. I’ll make him regret the day he—”
“No, no,” I say, cutting Dylan off before he can plot Graham’s murder. “It wasn’t like that. I broke my own heart. It’s my fault.” Tears well in my eyes for the hundredth time since last night. “I knew better than to fall for him, but I did it anyway.”
“Why should you have known better? Is he married?”
“No!” I say, brows snapping together. “I wouldn’t date a married man. No. He just…doesn’t have time for a relationship.”
“Fuck that. If he had half the sense God gave a domesticated turkey, he would make time. You’re worth it.”
“Domesticated turkeys are dumber than wild turkeys.”
“Yeah, they are.” Dylan sighs. “I’m sorry, kiddo. Getting your heart ripped out sucks. No way around that.”
I sniff. “I wish I could turn back time and undo it all.”
“No, you don’t. You’re braver than that.”
“You’re right. The fallout is awful, but the rest… It was like flying, Dylan. The absolute best thing I’ve ever, ever felt.”
“You need me to come out for the weekend? Take you to one of those terrible musicals you like? Get you drunk, and we can throw darts at this guy’s picture?”
I smile. “No. I’ll be okay.” Dylan starts to offer again, but I know he hates the city in the spring—and just about any other time—so I insist, “Seriously, I’ll be fine. Just hearing your voice helps. A lot. Thanks for being there.”
“Always,” he says. “I’m always here for you, cous. No matter what.”
Always here for you . . .
That was what Graham said . . .
And last night wasn’t the first time he said it.
A fragment of memory tugs at my mind. It repeats, urging me to listen.
Only I’m not sure why. But it’s loud, and insistent, so I pay attention as it demands I go searching for something that must be found. I thank Dylan, hang up, and roll out of bed before Stephen King can get his teeth on my socks, headed for the closet where I keep all my most treasured things.
26
Graham
That was the worst night’s sleep of my life. And I’ve slept in a coach seat on a red-eye across the country. Hell, I’ve hit the sack on the floor of my office for an hour of shut-eye after working all night.
