“Rowan, you okay?” His voice is muffled and distant, and yet it’s right there. “Talk to me. Unlock the door.”
He doesn’t care if I’m okay, he only wants to ensure I’m not a liability.
“Yes,” I call, squeezing my eyes until the burn subsides. I slip into clean clothes and gather my things in a hurry, shoving my toothbrush, mascara, and lip balm into my overnight bag before scanning the room one last time. Anything left behind will be thrown away, I’m sure. Rhett twists the doorknob, and I’m beginning to wonder who broke up with whom. “Be out in a minute.”
Ten hours ago it was just another Friday night bent over his bed, my wrists secured with his necktie as he helped himself to my body. Rhett stole his pleasure from me as if I belonged to him, and I did belong to him. I loved him.
Still do.
This morning over coffee, he told me I looked sexy in his unbuttoned dress shirt, hair tousled in my eyes and his lingering taste on my tongue. And then he told me we were over. Just like that. Like we were discussing the weather. His senate campaign kicks off soon, and he can’t have any casual relationships sullying his whistle-clean reputation.
I experience his words once more, letting them sink into the deepest parts of me all over again, and pressure builds in my chest. They were so abrupt; a zero to sixty ending for a zero to sixty beginning.
“You knew this would come to an end at some point, right?” he’d said, lifting a coffee mug to his full lips. His sandy hair was neatly combed and parted on one side, and his suit jacket rested on the back of his chair, neatly folded in half. He was going somewhere; somewhere I wasn’t invited because our relationship has always been below the radar for a myriad of reasons; all of which I assumed were temporary. “What we had was fun, Rowan, but now it’s time to work. Fun’s over. You understand, don’t you?”
The jostling handle quiets, replaced with heavy breathing on the other side. There’s a soft thump, as if he’s slumped against the outside of the door, then a moment later, the floor creaks.
“Your cab’s downstairs.” His voice is low, ice cold. “Meter’s running.”
So this is how it ends.
I give myself another minute to gather my composure, take a deep breath, and sling my bag over my shoulder. Twisting the knob until the lock pops, I brace myself for what lies on the other side.
Only it isn’t Rhett. He’s gone.
His bed is made. His room is cold. All traces of us have been removed, including the vase of red roses he’d given me three days ago.
When I reach the main level of his townhome, he isn’t there either. A taped note on the front door bears my hastily scribbled name across the front.
Rowan,
Forgive me for leaving. You must think I’m a terrible human being, but the truth is I’m just terrible at goodbyes.
Eighty-four weekends ago we were two strangers in a bar, trying to escape our fates like we had any say in the matter. What you saw in me, I’ll never understand. But I’ll tell you now like I told you then, you deserve more than what I can give you.
Someday you’re going to find a man who will make you forget I existed. And I’ll see you with him. And I’ll miss what we had. And it will hurt because we’ll be strangers all over again. But then I’ll smile because you’re happy, just like I knew you would be. And I’ll know that everything worked out for the greater good.
I wish I could give you more of me. I’m sorry.
Rhett
It’s bullshit. All of it. I crumple the letter and toss it on the foyer floor. Politicians and heartfelt apologies are a glaring contradiction.
But I can’t blame him for everything. Rhett Harrison was raging waters, and I dove in head first, knowing full well I couldn’t swim. I’ll let myself gasp for air. I’ll let myself feel the water in my lungs and the threat of looming darkness. Then I’ll thrash my way to the surface, choking and desperate to breathe, and I’ll be better for it. I’ll never let another man hurt me the way he did ever again. It’s going to take time, but I can do this.
I can seal my heart until it’s airtight.
But for now, I need to forget.
I need to forget the burn of his lips on my skin, the pull of my hair in his fist, and the countless breathless sighs when he almost told me he loved me, and all those moments I silently whispered it back, like a fool.
Rowan
There’s a dangerous glint in Keir Montgomery’s eyes, and finding myself in the center of his attention is exactly where I want to be. Spinning my glass between my thumb and forefinger, I glance away, removing my stare from his broad, suited shoulders and facing the bartender instead. From the corner of my eye, I observe as he moves closer to me, my intentional disregard luring him in like a magnet.
A moment later, his presence fills my periphery as he stands beside the empty bar stool on my left. I lift my crystal tumbler to my lips, pretending I don’t notice him when every fiber of my body is reeling. I’m practically sending out shockwaves over here, but my exterior is a crafted shade of calm.
“Excuse me,” his voice is carried through sensual lounge music and followed by the invasion of his old-moneyed cologne into my lungs.
“Yes?” Glancing up, I meet his gaze, blinking once as I stare at him through dark, painted lashes.
I pretend not to notice the swarm of Secret Service Agents flanking his sides. And now mine. I pretend his familiar face doesn’t register and that I haven’t seen his obsidian hair or crystalline blues in hundreds of photos before. I pretend not to know he’s the youngest son of the President of the United States. I pretend he’s just any other guy in any other bar in any other city.
And I pretend I didn’t come here looking for him.
“Is this seat taken?” He asks the question as if the answer doesn’t matter, as if he has no problem taking exactly what he wants even if it belongs to someone else.
My heart flutters for a fraction of a second, and my eyes flick from his wickedly handsome smirk to the seat and back.
“All yours,” I say, taking my time and swiveling my stool until I’m no longer facing him. Fighting a smile, I brace myself for the inevitable pat I’m going to feel on my shoulder any moment now.
Drawing in three breaths, I wait for a tap that never comes. The bartender hunches over, resting on his elbows as he yells above the music. The president’s son orders a drink. Whiskey. Neat. The restless stir of impatience floods my center, but I refuse to let it ruin my strategy.
All I need is one night with him. One night to feel alive. One night to feel desired again. One night to rebel against everything I ever thought I was.
Two weeks ago Rhett walked out of my life, and my heart has been screaming to forget him ever since. It hasn’t been as easy as I thought it was going to be. And that’s why I’m here.
I observe from the corner of my eye as the man fixes Keir’s drink at warp speed, delivers it on the house, and then stops short in front of me.