“Look, Emma,” he went on before I could respond. “We really need to talk. You need to know something.”
“What?” In the silence, I could feel my palms beginning to sweat.
Brett spoke slowly and carefully. “I love you, Emma,” he said. “I always have. I always will. I just got scared.”
I didn’t know what to say. I drew a deep breath.
“Brett, you threw me out,” I said after a moment. “You slept with one of my best friends.” I looked up and saw Poppy staring at me.
Are you okay? She mouthed the words at me. I nodded and looked down.
On the other end of the line, Brett sighed. “I know,” he said. “And I can never tell you how profoundly sorry I am, Emma. It was incredibly stupid and wrong.”
“No kidding,” I muttered.
“Please, Emma, let me make it up to you,” Brett pleaded. “Come home. This is where you belong. Let me show you how sorry I am. I love you.”
I paused. It was everything I’d thought I wanted. But I was fairly certain that it was too little, too late.
“I’ll have to call you back,” I said. I broke the connection before Brett could respond.
As soon as I hung up, Poppy announced we were going straight to Bar Dix for pitchers of sangrias and a conversation about Brett.
“Maybe he deserves another chance,” I mumbled once we’d ordered a pitcher and begun drinking. I was half hoping that Poppy wouldn’t hear me. I drowned my response—and apparently my self-respect—with a swig of sangria, wishing that the buzz would start to set in. No such luck.
“Another chance?” Poppy repeated carefully. She took a sip of her sangria, never taking her eyes off me. “Haven’t we been over this, Emma?”
I looked down at the table and thought about it for a moment. I knew I sounded crazy. And I knew that Poppy—in all her one-date-and-leave-’em wisdom—would be the last person in the world who would understand where I was coming from. I supposed she was right. But sometimes, unfortunately, there’s a difference between what your brain tells you and what your heart feels.
I sighed. “I know you think I’m crazy,” I said finally. I took a big sip. “It’s just that it’s hard to throw away three years without looking back.”
“You didn’t throw them away,” Poppy said slowly.
I fumbled with my words, trying to explain. “I know. But can I just walk away from him, just like that? He says he made a mistake. Do I refuse to give him a chance just because he screwed up once?”
Poppy shook her head. “He didn’t just screw up, Emma. He slept with your best friend after unceremoniously chucking you.”
I could feel tears prickling at the backs of my eyes. “I know. But he left her. It only lasted a few weeks. Maybe he was just confused. Maybe I pushed him into getting engaged. Maybe he wasn’t ready and he freaked out.”
“Freaking out makes guys do a lot of things,” Poppy said firmly. “It doesn’t make them move into the beds of your friends. Not if they’re decent guys, anyhow.”
As Poppy studied my face, I could read pity in her big green eyes.
It made me sad. I didn’t want her to feel sorry for me. But on some level, I knew she was right. I was acting pathetic. Still, I couldn’t stop myself from feeling like maybe it was my fault that Brett had gotten scared away, had gone looking for something else with Amanda. After all, obviously there was something he wasn’t getting from me if he was so quick to move on to her. Obviously there was something lacking in me. Or had I simply been too obsessed with work? Or too concerned with dragging him down the aisle?
“Look,” Poppy said after a moment. “Are you happy? Here, I mean?”
I only had to think about it for a second. “Yes. I am.”
“Happier than you were in Orlando?”
I stopped for a moment. Was I? It was hard to compare. My life here was so different than it had been back home. My job in Paris was stimulating and exciting but at times infuriating and nerve-racking. But wasn’t that better than a nine-to-five job that was the same thing day in and day out? My social life in Orlando had been stable and secure; I was with Brett constantly, and I had my three-peas-in-a-pod girlfriends. Here, with Poppy as my social planner, I was going on interesting dates and spending my free nights sitting in cavelike bars sipping sangria. I had to admit, I was having fun.
“Yes,” I said slowly, realizing it for the first time as I said it. “I guess I am happier here.”
“Has he even taken a few days off to come over and apologize to you in person?” Poppy asked. “To try to win you back?”
“No,” I answered in a small voice.
“And you want to leave this life you love behind to give a second chance to someone who hasn’t exerted any more effort than picking up the phone?”