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And he’s right—it is. I very nearly didn’t come at all.
When he asked me, I was shocked. He’s not oblivious enough not to have realized that I’ve been doing my best to limit my interactions with him all week after what happened between us in that New York hotel room.
So when he asked me to come, my first instinct was just to turn him down, tell him to forget about this whole ridiculous fake fiancée situation, and let him deal with the fallout on his own. I don’t owe him any more than that.
But Pete’s back on my case—with a vengeance. I’ve blocked him on all social media, blocked his number, done everything I can to deter him, but he just makes new accounts, buys new burner phones, and I’m pretty sure he’s been hanging around outside my apartment.
The very thought of it sends chills down my spine; he’s not that stable at the best of times, but he’s really taken the craziness up a few notches recently. It’s not yet to the point that I’m fearing for my safety, but I just can’t deal with his bullshit right now.
So a trip up into the mountains to get away from all that crap actually sounded quite good. Maybe if Pete sees that I’ve moved on, truly moved on, it might motivate him to leave me the hell alone.
I mean, yeah, the circumstances surrounding it all are . . . less than ideal. But Brock looked so pleased when I agreed to go with him his face lit up like a kid’s at Christmas. Every time he smiles, it melts my heart, but I know that I need to stay strong. I can’t act on these feelings.
We’ve been driving for a couple hours now in almost total silence, and instead of staring out of the window and drumming my fingers on the dash, I decide to talk to him.
“So what happened with your ex?” I ask.
He looks surprised and glances sideward at me. “Huh?”
“Your ex. You told me before that wedding party that the bride was your ex, right? What happened with her?”
He’s silent for a few moments, debating how much to tell me, probably. “We dated for a couple of years. We were in love, planning to get married, kids, the whole nine yards. And then I came home early from work one day and found her in bed with another guy. My cousin.”
“Ouch,” I say. “That’s kind of . . . well, not kind of, that’s really gross.”
Brock’s eyes remain on the winding road, but his expression is strained as if the memory of the event still haunts him.
“Tell me about it,” he sighs. “Turns out she’d been putting on a front for me the whole relationship. The woman I thought I loved? She didn’t exist at all. The real Rosa was a manipulative liar, willing to do anything to get what she wanted.”
I grimace. “So what did you do? Did you kick his ass?”
He gives me a quick look. “No, I didn’t. He’s my cousin.”
“But . . . he was fucking your fiancée. That’s as good of grounds as any for an ass-whooping.”
He laughs, easing some of the tension. “Yeah, you’re probably right. But nah, the two of them just scurried out like rats, and I pretty much hadn’t seen her since, until the other night.”
“Damn,” I say. “That’s cold. Of her, I mean. No apology?”
“Nope. Rosa isn’t really the apologizing type.”
“Sounds like you dodged a bullet to me,” I say. “She sounds like a piece of work.”
“That she is,” he says. “And ever since, I’ve had trust issues, if you’d believe that.” He smiles a thin smile. “I’ve just been burying myself in work, and I guess at least that has paid off. It’s been hard for me to feel anything for any woman since, except . . .” Brock trails off, then casts a glance at me.
I feel my face redden, and I turn my gaze outside at the trees flying past. Is he talking about me? About us?
Brock coughs. “Well, anyway, I try to be completely honest with anyone I do meet. That means my relationships, if you could even call them that, tend to be short-lived. Most women run a mile when they ask you where the relationship is going and all you can reply with is something along the lines of ‘I don’t know, but I don’t feel like making a commitment right now.’”
I can’t help but feel a little bad for him and angry at his ex for putting him through that.
“But that’s my history,” he says after some silence. “What about you? What’s the deal with that Pete asshole who keeps following you around?”
I take a deep breath. “Oh, boy. Are you sure you want to go into that? It’s hardly Romeo and Juliet.”
