Once I realized that all women were the same, I decided not to bother getting close to any one in particular. There was no sense in it.
So why in the hell does Jada Stanley take up so much of my mental energy?
I slammed my notepad down on my desk, the force rattling the pen holder. Black ballpoint pens hit the floor and rolled in every direction. There was probably some brilliant analogy that could be made from that, but Max wasn’t around to explain it to me.
I rubbed my temples, trying to get some clarity.
She’s not different. Not enough to change anything. Not enough to make promises.
Not enough to make an exception to the rules.
“I’m that girl.” I heard that roll through my mind a million times and each time, I wished it were true. I had almost talked myself into going through with it anyway in hopes that it would end this ridiculous fascination I had with her. But I couldn’t because I knew that she was talking in the moment. Even I had done things in the heat of the moment that I wished I could take back.
Letting her do that to herself was unacceptable, even by my standards. It took every ounce of strength I had to walk out of there. I didn’t talk to Max the entire trip to his house, trying to wrap my head around what had transpired, trying to figure out what I was feeling.
Because fuck if I knew.
I figured if she really wanted it, she would call me. Or she would at least make some sort of indication that she meant what she had said. But that call never came.
Sighing, I sat up and flicked the cursor on my laptop to work on a bid. I needed to buckle down and focus.
The monitor sparked to life … and the orange in the background reminded me of Jada’s dress.
I lay back in my office chair and blew out a breath through my teeth. I needed to release some steam so I could actually be productive.
I picked my cell off the desk and scrolled through my texts. A quick fuck would do me some good.
Yeah, that’s what I need. That’s my problem.
I tapped my phone against my chin, trying to think of the last woman I was with. They all blended to together.
There was only one face that was clear.
Out of nowhere, something Jada once told me crossed my mind. I pulled up the search engine on my computer.
I just can’t let well enough be.
I grabbed my phone and dialed the number Google gave me.
I need to Google “therapy” while I’m at it.
A cheery voice introduced answered the phone.
“Hello.” I cleared my throat. “This is Cane Alexander. I’m not sure how to do this, but here’s what I need …”
JADA
I was on fire.
Thursday had begun with a post-crying hangover. Once the tears had started the night before, they didn’t want to stop. I knew that was going to come eventually. Even after my divorce, I didn’t cry a lot. I reasoned then that it was because I cried so much during my marriage, but apparently there were still tears inside to release.
And release they did. It was very cathartic to just let go, even if I was on the kitchen floor by myself.
I felt purified of the past with Decker, as well as the past with Cane. Decker had left scars that I knew I would carry with me forever. But Cane—I chose to believe his intentions were honorable and my pain was simply a by-product of two people trying to force something that just wasn’t meant to be.
It didn’t really matter. He walked away. There was no sense in worrying about it.
I left the house earlier than usual on Thursday morning and stopped by a little bagel shop for a coffee and a cinnamon raisin bagel with cream cheese. The girl working in the shop was sweet and we had a nice, easy conversation while I picked the raisins out of the bread and enjoyed my coffee. She told me about her love life and I offered her some advice like I knew something about the topic.
I said goodbye and made my way to my Jeep. I got in the driver’s seat before I noticed a little piece of blue paper stuck beneath the wiper. I reached out the window and grabbed it, pulling it inside.
The writing on the blue post-it note was jagged, slashed across the paper. It appeared to have been wadded up at some point or, most likely, crammed at the bottom of a book bag of a hung-over Arizona State student.
I glanced around the parking lot, but it was empty. Figuring someone got the wrong car, I wadded it into a little ball and tossed it into my cup holder.
I got to work early and dug in, catching up from my lack of enthusiasm from the days before. By two o’clock, I had skipped lunch and had nearly cleared my desk when Alice came in.
“Hey, sweetie. Do you have a minute?”
I looked up. In her hands was a large bouquet of the most beautiful orange tulips I had ever seen.
“Those are gorgeous,” I said in awe, wondering who had sent Alice flowers.
“These were delivered for you.” She peeked around the foliage and smiled smugly.