He rolled his eyes. “Sort your shit out. You’re never going to get back in the game looking like that.” He waved his hand up and down my body as he winced. “This is New-York-Fucking-City. Women have standards.”
I collapsed on the sofa opposite him and pulled the furry blanket that Scarlett had left over me. All her stuff was still here, which gave me some hope that I’d see her again. It had been part of the reason I’d stayed home the day after I’d seen her at her office. In case she came for her things—and gave me the opportunity to convince her to give us a second chance. Now, I couldn’t face going out. I didn’t want to speak to or look at anyone who wasn’t her.
“What the fuck are you doing with that blanket? Have you reverted to your five-year-old self?”
“I’m cold.” Her scent lingered on the fabric, letting me imagine she hadn’t really left.
“Then do some exercise or put on a sweater. My God. Did Scarlett take your balls when she moved out?”
When she moved out. I hated those words. I leaned forward, and put my head in my hands. “What do I do, man? I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I think about her all the time.” There was no point in denying it to John anymore. My defenses were crumbling.
“Aww, shit,” he said. “I’m sorry. I can see you’re really cut up about it. I thought you were just sulking.”
I sighed. “I’ve never been in this situation before. Women don’t leave me.” I’d made sure they never got an opportunity.
“So now you care about someone and you just give up? Just like that?”
“What else can I do? I can’t force her to want to be with me.” I didn’t need shit from John on top of everything else. “All I know is that this hurts like a bitch.”
“I know. Unlike you, I’ve had my heart broken before. But you’ll get it. But first, I’m going to burn all your sweat pants.”
I chuckled and grabbed my stomach. I couldn’t remember the last time I laughed.
“Why don’t you get cleaned up and we’ll go hit some bars, talk to a few girls—you know you’ll feel better when you have some hot, naked woman in your bed.”
My stomach hurt for a different reason now. “The only hot, naked girl I want in my bed is Scarlett.”
“Then make it happen,” he said.
“I told you, I can’t make her come back to me.”
He paused and took a deep breath. “You’re Ryder-fucking-Westbury. You want her back, then you get her back.”
“It’s not that simple. I really hurt her. And now she doesn’t want me back. Says she’s bad at relationships.”
He jumped to his feet. “That’s good. Don’t you see?” He stared at me, grinning.
“That you’re being a callous bastard? Yeah, that’s clear.”
“Jesus, you’re touchy. I meant, obviously if she was that upset, then she cares . . . and it’s not too late.”
“She walked out. Told me it was over—that we were better off apart. I was an idiot. I served her with divorce papers. Well, I didn’t serve her, my law—”
“Look, I don’t care. If you want her back, get off your ass and go get her back.”
I shook my head. “You make it sound simple.”
He sighed as if I were the dumbest bastard on the planet, then took out his cell and dialed. All I could do was sit and watch. I knew the situation was hopeless.
“I need two flipcharts, some Sharpies and a lot of Post-its.”
“What are you doing?” I asked as he hung up the phone.
“We are making a plan.”
“A plan?”
“To get Scarlett back—assuming that’s what you want?”
“Of course that’s what I want. I love her, man.”
“Have I ever steered you wrong?”
He’d always been the most fantastic friend to me. “Well, there was that one time in Vegas—”
“Not funny,” he said, shooting me a glare that promised painful retribution. “So, the plan. Step one—get your smelly ass in the shower then dressed in pants that have a fly. Then we’ll get started.”
Twenty-Nine
Scarlett
“Thanks, just put it on the counter,” I told the UPS guy, pointing to the maple cupboard on the far wall of my office. He set his delivery down and held out his electronic pad to sign. Again. It was his fifth visit to Cecily Fragrance this week, and it was only Wednesday.
“Who sends a basket of DVDs?” Violet asked, poking through the cellophane.
“It’s better than the kale that arrived yesterday.”
“Someone sent you a basket of kale? That’s sick. Aren’t you meant to get champagne and truffles? Or dim sum? Has New York changed so much since Working Girl?” Violet sighed dramatically.
“You weren’t even born when Working Girl released. It’s not like the eighties were your glory days.”
“No, they were New York’s glory days. Now this place is all kale smoothies and working nineteen hours a day.”
I shut the door behind the courier and turned to find Violet tearing through the wrapper and taking out the movies. “Speaking of classic movies, these are good,” Violet said.
I knew what the movies would be. Casablanca, North by Northwest, An Affair to Remember. Our Friday night movies. I’d even managed to make him watch The King and I once.
“Who are they from?” Violet asked.
“Ryder,” I said, sitting back down at my desk. I hadn’t heard from him since I’d left him standing in my office almost two weeks ago.
She turned and I felt her glare on my back.
“Ryder? To say sorry?”
I shrugged. “I have no idea. I’m not interested.”
“Have you seen him?” she asked, wandering toward my desk.
“Yes, I told you that he came by and said he didn’t know the divorce papers had been sent to me.”
“But, I thought you hadn’t heard from him since?” She sat down opposite me, tapping the card she’d pulled from the basket against her knee.
“Yeah. That lasted for about a week, then I got an email. Then these deliveries started to arrive twice a day like clockwork.”
“Twice a day?” She held out the card to me. “What does that say?”
I didn’t want to open it. Every time I read one of the cards, I missed him a little bit more. “I don’t know.”
“Then I’ll open it if you don’t.” She snatched the envelope back and tore it open.
I tilted my head back and looked up at the ceiling.
“I miss Friday night movie night. I miss you. I love you. Your husband, Ryder,” she read. “Scarlett. Wow—you can’t just ignore this. What are you going to do?”
“Nothing, of course,” I said, turning back to my desk. “It’s over. He’ll get bored eventually.”
“Scarlett. He’s wooing you.” She splayed her fingers wide, holding out the card. “It’s like a movie or something. Why don’t you want him to?”
“It’s better this way. We’re both free.” I couldn’t spend the rest of my life waiting for him to leave, worried that he’d stop loving me.
“Hey, when did you get so cynical? He’s saying he loves you. And I imagine a lot of women have waited to hear those words from him.”
“Thanks for that, Violet.” But she was right. He’d soon be back to dating a million women.