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“But Dais, Levi trusted me to manage this. To protect him. I let him down. I let Henry down too, because he’s Levi’s agent. And I let Wyatt down because he’s Levi’s best friend. I wish I could just fix it. Turn back time and just leave all three of them alone. Continue glaring at them every time they come by the office. For however long I’m employed there, anyway.”
I laugh weakly.
Daisy flicks me, which she knows I don’t like, and I push her hand away like a petulant brat. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but fucking fix it. Fix the whole thing. Go talk to them. Tell them how you feel.”
I shake my head slowly. “What if they don’t want to see me, or hear what I have to say?”
“I think they will. And if for some fucked-up reason they don’t, well, screw them. It’s their loss. You’re a good catch, Amalia. You just don’t know it.”
“Ha, that’s laughable. My mother always makes me feel like I’m covered in scales.”
Daisy smacks her forehead. “Your mom is a bitch, okay? Straight up. Sorry. That’s a bad thing to say about someone’s mom, but it is what it is.”
I laugh. She’s right. And she’s not telling me anything I don’t already know. It’s just that I want to believe Mom is on my side. Doesn’t everybody want that?
I sigh. “They’re such good guys. They have their quirks, like Wyatt with his vegetarianism, Henry with Jeopardy, and Levi with his weird socks. But they’re also smart, thoughtful, caring, funny. And sexy as fuck.”
“Well, you’re not too bad yourself, you know, and it’s not like you don’t have your own quirks, Miss Plum. Like all that black shit you wear around your eyes. That’s now making you look like a raccoon.”
I grab Daisy’s hands and she snuggles up to me on the bed, throwing an arm around me. “You’ll get another job if need be, an even better one. And we’ll see what happens with the guys. It’s not over yet, at least in my estimation.”
I wipe the last of my tears away. “I don’t know, Dais. I have so many regrets.”
“Honey, if you don’t give it a shot, you’ll never know. And that’s something to really regret.”
50
AMALIA
Daisy actually Uberswith me over to Wyatt’s place, where it’s as safe a bet as any that the guys are hanging.
She even waits in the car for me to punch in the building code, as if I might try to slink away the moment she’s no longer looking. When the heavy front door clicks open, I give her a little wave, and she throws a big thumbs-up my way. The car pulls away from the curb, but she continues to watch me out the back window until I’m inside and we can’t see each other anymore.
Now that I’m in Wyatt’s lobby, I step back from the three side-by-side elevators, each dedicated to a private apartment. They are not marked in any way, so unless you know where you’re going and have the code as well, you’re not getting anywhere—unless you take the huge service elevator, which you need a code for, too.
Naturally.
This kind of security and privacy are what money buys in New York. I have neither. I can hear my neighbors arguing andhaving sex, and if you really want to get into my building, a bobby pin would probably jimmy the lobby door.
I decide to quit procrastinating and enter the code for Wyatt’s elevator. I take a good look around, figuring this might be the last time I ever experience this kind of luxury, and let the elevator whoosh me to the top floor. The doors open silently, and I hear some game on the TV, and the guys, who are here just like I thought they’d be, are arguing over who the teams’ top players are.
I kick my sneakers off, even though I don’t plan on being at Wyatt’s for long, and pad across the floor, so far unnoticed. I find Henry yelling and gesturing at the TV with one hand and holding a beer with the other. Wyatt’s trying to get him to move out of the way, and Levi’s sprawled on the sofa, feet up on the coffee table, with his hand halfway down the waistband of his jeans in that strange way that guys do.
I’d take a picture if it wasn’t a creepy thing to do. This is how I’d like to remember them, chilling and being themselves.
But my barging in here, uninvited? Probably not a good idea.
The last person they want to see is me, the person who started the whole Ryder Night shitshow. But I deserve to say my piece, and the best way to do that is here, with all three of them.
I’m trying to get my feet to propel me forward, to join the guys in the living room instead of spying on them like a weirdo, but my feet are strangely frozen in place. I’m terrified they’ll lay their sights on me and tell me to get the hell out and never come back.
And the more I think about it, were that to happen, my heart wouldn’t just be broken. It would be shattered.
These guys made me feel special. Smart. Pretty. Important. Interesting.
They made me realize there are nice guys out there, and even better, nice guys who might like me, want to hang out with me, and even have a relationship with me.
While my feet are cemented to the floor below me, my stomach ties in knots, like one giant, burning mess, and if I don’t get my shit together, I’ll start heaving again just like I did at work.
