GEORGE WAS RIGHT, strategizing about the Posen interview had kept Laney’s mind busy enough to keep thoughts of Jackson and Bryce at bay for the rest of the afternoon. The problem was, it was only seven o’clock and she was walking down a busy New York street with nothing to keep her mind from circling around the two men. Normally, she’d stop by NightCaps and have a drink with Jackson, and then she’d meet Bryce, if he wasn’t working late, and if he was, then she’d hang out with Jackson longer.
Or she’d go home with Jackson.
She stopped in middle of the sidewalk, causing a collision of complaints behind her as people walked around her, turning and scowling over their shoulders.
Go ahead and scowl. Nothing you do will make me feel any worse than I already do!
There in the center of the busy sidewalk, with throngs of people moving past, oblivious to the war going on in her heart and her head, she contemplated her life. What the hell was she doing? What did she really want? How had she gone from wanting no commitments to wanting one from Jackson? Jackson, the least likely man on earth to ever commit.
Her phone rang and her heart skipped a beat with hope that it was Jackson. She pulled it from her purse and felt a sinking in the pit of her stomach at the sight of Bryce’s name on the screen. She sent the call to voicemail and headed home.
She wasn’t desperate to be married so why wasn’t she cutting Bryce loose?
She rode the elevator up to her one-bedroom apartment. Jackson had offered to help her pay for a bigger place, but Laney loved the character of her cozy apartment. There were aged hardwood floors throughout, and she loved that the bedroom door was built on an angle off of the living room and that one of the living room walls was brick. She dropped her purse by the door and walked to the living room windows, which were nearly floor-to-ceiling and overlooked the busy street. Her apartment might not be glamorous, and it might not have a guest room, but the only guest she ever had over was Jackson, and they were always in the same room together anyway. When he was watching a movie, she was right next to him, and when she got the flu and was stuck in bed for two days, Jackson stayed right beside her, reading to her and telling her stupid stories to take her mind off of being sick.
She went into the bedroom, which was barely big enough for her bed. She kept her dresser in the closet and hung her clothes in the foyer closet. She undressed at the foot of her bed, remembering how Jackson had held her when the chills had gotten so bad that she couldn’t stop shivering. He didn’t care that he might get sick—which he did, two days later. He only cared that she felt safe and warm.
She put on a pair of sweatpants and grabbed a T-shirt from the drawer. She looked down at the oversized shirt and sighed. Jackson’s, of course.
She walked into the bathroom and washed her face, remembering that bout with the flu. She’d thrown up and missed the toilet, and Jackson had cleaned it up without complaint, and the next time she got sick, he held her hair back. Bryce had never even spent the night at her apartment. He said it made him feel claustrophobic.
She could live anywhere with Jackson. That much she knew. But what good was knowing that when he was fighting what she knew in her heart was the right thing for both of them? The only right thing for both of them.
She went to the freezer in search of mint chocolate chip ice cream, comfort food. The ice cream container was on its side. Another Jackson reminder. He tossed the damn thing in the freezer as if it were a basketball. It was one of their running jokes. And another reminder of how different Bryce was from Jackson. His freezer was practically alphabetized.
Ice cream for dinner. Sweatpants.
Perfect. I’ve given up on life.
She shoved a spoonful of ice cream into her mouth, and as her eyes dropped to her silent cell phone, the silence of the apartment amplified and pissed her off. Erica Lane did not give up on life. She was not a quitter.
Laney picked up the cell phone and pressed Bryce’s speed-dial number.
“Erica. Did you get the flowers I sent?”
His first question was fishing for a thank-you? Oh, hell. I never did say thank you. She’d left the flowers at work, too. If that didn’t tell her how little they meant, then the emptiness in her heart at that very moment did.
“Yes, they’re gorgeous. Thank you.” She heard the flatness of her tone and wondered if he did, too.
“Club 21 sound good to celebrate this weekend?” He sounded so confident, so damn happy, that she knew he hadn’t picked up on her tone.