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I barely survived him the first time. I won’t survive losing him twice, but the scars will deepen.
“Please, Lark. I know it’s a lot to ask, but I’m asking anyway. Give me one more chance to make this right.”
Nothing about this makes sense. Why aren’t my fight-or-flight instincts kicking in? I’m not flighting or fighting. I’m leaning in, wondering if we spend some time together . . .
“Not today. I’m in no position in life to take . . .” I wave my hands in front of me. “This on, to take you on. If you want another chance, then you find me in a year, and I’ll listen. That’s all I can promise.”
A wry grin spreads his cheeks, and he says, “And I can promise you that you won’t regret this decision. I’ll see you in one year.”
I lick my lips and raise my chin. “And if at that time, I never want to see you again, then you’ll walk away, and that’s it, right? No showing up unannounced or sending me gifts. No contact at all. Agreed?” I hold out my hand.
When he takes it, that chemistry we always shared ignites once more. “Agreed.”
I pull my hand back and take one last look at him. “Okay, see you in a year.”
“See you then.”
A rogue thought comes to mind, so before I leave, I ask, “How will you find me?”
“Don’t worry about that.” He winks. “I have my ways.”
That my panties still exist is a whole other issue after seeing his cockiness return.
I walk away, but turn back to say, “You sound like a stalker.”
He shrugs. “What can I say? Some women bring it out in me.”
Grimacing, I ask, “Women, as in plural? Not a good start.”
“Woman. Only you, sweetheart.”
I hate that I’m smiling, but ironically, I don’t feel so much hate for him as I walk away.Oh God, what have I done?
One year later . . .
I don’t know how many times I was told the pain from heartbreak would pass. It didn’t, even when I foolishly believed it had. It would come roaring back into my life when I least expected it.
A plate of carbonara.
A silver Maserati parked on the street.
A bottle of soda like I once bought him at the convenience store.
Years later, I’m still living in misery.
The blind date sitting across from me isn’t helping to prove my case otherwise. I ask, “So are the stocks up or down? And what does a bull market mean?” I’ve successfully kept Scott talking about his true love—money—through a round of cocktails. But now that we’re ready to order, I’m having second thoughts about dating a stockbroker.
Do I even want to have dinner with him?
I mean, I’ve asked about him on purpose, to get to know him and see where his loyalties lie. In the last forty-five minutes, I’ve learned that they won’t lie with the unlucky lady that ends up being his girlfriend. She’ll be secondary to his passion for greed.
The server arrives tableside to take our order. I open my mouth, but then Scott says, “She’ll have the house salad. That’s a small, right?” I’m going to need a paper bag before I hyperventilate.How dare he!My face feels like I dipped it on the surface of the sun.
“Yes, sir,” the server responds, his eyes shifting to me in concern as if he realizes I’m about to explode.
“Perfect.”
Scott adds a lobster pasta dish for himself and then tells the server to hurry, citing a game on later that he wants to watch.Is he kidding with me right now?There’s no punchline other than the mockery he’s making of my appetite, so I think he’s serious.
