He sat up in bed. “I know about faking it.”
“My life came at a very high price and it’s just hard to live up to it.”
Instantly he reached out and set a hand on my shoulder, tracing a circle on my skin with his thumb. “My life has come at a high price too. Every day of it.” He brushed one lone tendril of hair back from my face, our eyes locking. “So many days trying to find some fucked-up meaning in it.”
The revelation left me breathless, and I waited and waited and waited for more, saw there was more in his eyes, but he got up and grabbed his clothes.
“I’m glad to be wanted here, Melanie,” he said, shooting me one of his many winning smiles.
When he started getting dressed, I turned away to the window and clutched my arms around my stomach, trying to ease the ache there. Ugh. Hate that he’s leaving again. Hate that this could be goodbye.
I wanted to ask if I’d see him again, but before I could, he spoke from the door.
“Stay safe, princess.”
I forced myself to answer, “Bye, Greyson.”
How can I know so little about someone and yet need him so much?
He hasn’t called, but this Monday morning I got another kind of call, and with it, an offer for my Mustang.
I ask Pandora as we settle in the office, “So what do you think, is it a good offer?”
Her answer is to ask me why I am selling my car.
Fuck. I try to think of anything but the truth, that it needs to go and I probably need to sell everything but the shirt on my back, and even then the math may not add up, but I just can’t tell her. “It’s impractical.”
“Dude, you live for the impractical.”
“It got flooded! It squeaks now.”
“Which is cute considering you squeak too.”
“Urgh, you’re impossible.”
“Melanie . . . stop buying shit and you wouldn’t need to sell your car. See this shirt? I do something that’s called washing it three times a week. I only need a couple of these and that’s it. See these boots? They’re my signature. I don’t need another pair of shoes.”
“This is not a shopping problem, it’s a different kind of problem.”
“What, like an addiction?” Her brow wrinkles with concern.
“I want to sell it, that’s all,” I mumble.
“Want to sell, or need??” Perceptive dark eyes suddenly probe into me in silence. “I have an idea. Sell the necklace your boyfriend gave you.”
“Pfft! Don’t think so!” I wave that off with one hand, then I become somber. “I want to sell my car, and I need your advice. Is that a good offer, Pan?”
“I’m a fucking decorator like you, I don’t know shit about cars. Ask your dad. Hell, ask your precious boyfriend.”
“You know what? I will! I will ask him right fucking now! He will be delighted to hear from me.” I pull my phone out. “He even came to brunch.”
“Wow, you dragged him off to your parents’. Really,” Pandora says, then she clucks at me in warning.
“Oh, bug off, Maleficent!” I angrily cry, slapping her with a client’s newly upholstered pillow I was checking for quality.
I’m not going to tell her shit anymore.
I won’t even explain to her the complexities of two single people doing . . . what are we doing?
We’re having sex, that’s what we’re doing.
But I don’t want it to be just sex.
I don’t know how many secrets Greyson keeps, but he has a secret room, and he refuses to talk on the phone near me, both of which are odd. Still, I have a secret of my own, so it’s not exactly fair to feel this way. I would love to tell him, and only him, about mine. Yet at the same time I pray he’s the last man to ever know.
How to relate to a guy you’re dating or sleeping with or whatever, a guy whose respect and admiration you want, that you asked—that you begged—a group of mobsters for more time because you owe them more money than you thought you had? How to tell him that they lifted your skirt and told you they’d give you an extension—of their dicks—if you didn’t pay on time.
I want to puke remembering the night in the alley. I could never tell this to anyone out loud.
I check my text messages. He was the last who’d texted me. Eons ago when he visited my apartment, and I asked who was coming to visit, and he’d said Me.
I tell myself I don’t want to go through all the guessing games again. If he wants me, he wants me. Right?
But my cardinal texting rule niggles at me. Nowadays relationships are so much more equal.
I slowly inhale and text him, Will you be in town this weekend?
And to my surprise, he answers right away.
Yes.
My heart starts thundering. I text back, Any plans?
I planned to look up my princess.
Gahhhh. I love that too much.
She wants to cook you dinner. Will you come?
I will. And so will you.
I grin in delight. Sexy cad.
8 pm Friday?
I could not be happier when I tell Pandora, exaggerating, “He’s coming into town this weekend just to see me.”
“Yoohoo for you.” She sounds bored.
? ? ?
DURING THE WEEK, I bury myself in work and in getting some of my personal belongings shipped off to an eBay store so I can liquidate, and fast. My closet suddenly seems huge since I only kept one pair of sneakers, one pair of pumps, one pair of sandals, one pair of Uggs, and one pair of rain boots. I also went down to only three pairs of slacks, two pairs of jeans, a small assortment of tops, and the most basic dresses. My accessories were the most difficult to part with. But I kept the most colorful ones to ensure I could continue wearing three colors daily, even if the splashes of color mostly come from my accessories.