I can’t go down that road, though. You don’t hook up with a guy’s brother. You just don’t. If I were to take Hennessey up on his offer, it would be completely closing the book on Jameson and me, and I’m not ready for that yet, and if I’m being honest, I know I won’t ever be ready for that.
“Look, I get there was a thing between you and Jay, but if he really wanted, you he’d be with you and not sampling the badge bunnies at Port of Call.”
I flinch at his words and fail miserably at trying to hide the pain they cause. This is why I normally like Hennessey. He’s direct and believes the best way to care for someone is to be honest with them. He’s not a man who’s into handling anyone or anything with care. I respect his forthrightness but can’t really handle it right now.
“You’d be dating a girl whose heart belongs to someone else.” My confession sends a mix of emotions rushing through me, not a single one of which are pleasant or warm. Anger, sorrow, wanting, betrayal, madness, frustration . . . but it’s the constant emptiness that gets to me. It’s crippling how painful Hennessey’s words are.
If he really wanted you, he’d be with you.
As I unwillingly absorb the truth of Hennessey’s words, Jameson’s from the end of last summer play on repeat in my brain.
Don’t give up on us.
“Babe, I’m not asking you to marry me. I’m asking you to share a meal with me and maybe kiss me, and if I get you really drunk, maybe you’ll be cool with me feeling up your tits.”
“You need to go back to work,” I say in a panicked voice. My face is bright red—I can feel the telltale blush on my hot cheeks. “I’ll text you.”
“You’re going to say yes,” he says as he goes.
I don’t know that I am. It sounds so, so freaking appealing to have a guy pay attention to me. I just want Jameson to be the one to say this stuff and for him to be the one to make me blush. But he’s not. He’s out sampling badge bunnies at the bar. And I’ve been, apparently, leading Hennessey on to think there could be something more between us. All those times he’d do something flirty and cute, I just passed off as being how Hennessey relates to women. And I can’t lie and say that he’s not hot and that I haven’t considered that he’d be a good lay. Because I’m a woman with a decent libido and eyeballs and, despite how hung up I am on Jameson, I can see what Hennessey looks like. The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that maybe it’s time to move on.
Maybe I just need to fake it until I make it.
That’s how people get over things, right? You show up and fake it, and maybe one day you’ll feel it in your soul that you’re not faking it anymore, and you actually do feel something aside from the longing and pain and intense, crippling desperation of wanting someone you can’t have and have no idea why.
I turn back around in my chair to find that Jameson hasn’t budged an inch. The only change is in his expression. He looks how I feel—like total crap. How can he possibly look at me like this, like it physically hurts to be this far away from me, and yet do absolutely nothing about it? How can he ask me to wait for him, to not give up on him, and then just shut down and push me away?
Tears prick my eyes, but I refuse to cry over this. If I broke down and cried every time I got caught up in the stupidity of all of this, I’d never stop. I need to do something. My legs bounce restlessly, and I tap my foot against the floor. Jameson is still watching me, unmoving, and it’s just too much. Before I can think better of it, I fly out of my chair and rush down the stairs to the hallway and enter into the garage bay via the unlocked side door. By the time I see him again, he’s unfolded his arms from his chest and shoves his hands in his pockets. With a bravery I didn’t know I was capable of, I stride up to him and only stop when I’m close enough to feel the heat emanating from his body.
“Why did you cancel?”
“Couldn’t make it.” He doesn’t miss a beat. It’s like he’s been rehearsing this conversation ever since he ditched me.
“That’s not good enough,” I say and fight back the unease in my voice.
“It’s all I got.” He’s quiet even though his words are firm and no-nonsense. It’s like he’s trying to put on a show, like he doesn’t care. I know he cares, though. He has to. I refuse to accept the idea that he’s moved on. I don’t care who he’s fucking—okay that’s a lie—but I do know the difference between fucking and making love. I don’t know that I’ve ever really made love before. I just have to believe in my heart that it’s different, or that it would be with him.
“You know, it’s striking me that all you ever have is never enough. First it’s the girlfriend. Now it’s something else that I don’t understand and you won’t share. I must be some fool. I’ve been chasing after a man who’s consistently unavailable while ignoring a man who is always just here.” As usual, I’m saying more than I want to, even if I need to. I function much better when I get things off my chest. It’s the buildup of everything I never say that chips away at my sanity.