It would be senseless to tell her the truth. She’d seen my reaction when she looked my way tonight. She knew me, knew that I was shit at keeping my emotions to myself. But telling her that, admitting it, would only make her feel bad.
Hell, I’ve always been selfish when it came to Aly.
Ransom: No. I miss you. I want to see you.
It was a full four minutes before she responded. If I knew Aly, she took that long to weigh her thoughts, trying to figure out which ones she should keep to herself. Which ones she didn’t mind me knowing.
Aly: Maybe we can have lunch Tuesday between practice.
It was a good thing she couldn’t see me. My smile was wide, ridiculous and if she saw it, she’d call me a smug asshole. I closed my eyes, more relieved than I had a right to be and tried to weigh my own thoughts. They bordered on stupid. Reminding myself that she wouldn’t want me there, in her small condo, was harder than it should have been. Still, not thinking about anything but that driving urge to see her, just for a second, took away my rational thought. It made me stupid and senseless.
Ransom: I can come to you now…just to talk.
My chest felt tight and my heartbeat went a little fast as I waited for her response. If I went there to see her, how long would I stay? Would I be able to keep from touching her? Would she let me kiss her this time instead of taking something that wasn’t mine anymore? Jesus, my thoughts were wild and random and impossible to keep focus on. The seconds lengthened, stretched along with that stupid grin on my face until my phone alerted again and I read her message.
Aly: I’m not home.
She wouldn’t be, would she? It took a minute and the control I had on my patience broke, nearly severed as the grip on my phone tightened. I could have cracked the screen. I could have flung the damn thing into the lake because I’d gone blind with jealously. Aly had gotten engaged tonight. Why the hell would she be at home in that tiny thousand square foot condo when her man, heap big lawyer, according to my mom, probably had a sick ass place in the best part of the city? He looked like the sort that would spoil her, as much as Aly would let him.
“I’m a fucking idiot.” There was no one awake to argue with me, though I doubted anyone would. I’d let her walk away and though my folks and siblings had maintained they had my back, I got the feeling that they hadn’t been happy with me for four years. Hell, I hadn’t been happy with myself.
It took a few minutes, but I was finally able to collect myself, stop the internal whining long enough to respond to Aly.
Ransom: No big. Tuesday at two. I’ll pick you up.
My phone clattered against the wrought iron table and I didn’t bother checking if I’d managed to keep the screen crack free. It didn’t matter to me. Instead, I picked up my half empty bottle of Abita and downed it, closing my eyes when the breeze slapped against my face. I tried like hell to keep my mind clear of imagining what Aly was doing, but it was no good. My thoughts were focused, my imagination vivid and I hated myself for what came into my head—Aly’s laughter. Ethan touching her, holding her. Worst of all: her falling asleep next to him, tucked against his chest. My brain wouldn’t venture to anything more than that. I couldn’t take a visual of them naked, of Ethan’s face hidden against her beautiful skin, her fingers tugging on his hair.
To me, it wasn’t worse to imagine them fucking.
In love was worse.
Aly loving someone who wasn’t me and meaning it with her heart.
“Fuck.”
The Adirondack chair across from me skidded against the patio and toppled onto its side when I kicked it and for a second, I forgot that I wasn’t in my Miami condo, that it was pushing two a.m.
It took minutes, maybe it was hours, but that glass door leading inside slid open and my mother approached, her hair mussed but pulled back into a low bun and one of my father’s oversized Clayborn-Prosper University—our alma mater where my father ran the defensive line—hoodies draped over her tiny frame.
“You trying to wake everyone up?” But she didn’t appear to be angry, and even as she scooted next to me, moving my legs so she could sit at the end of the lounge chair, her movements were calm and relaxed. It was an effort—to steady her irritation so that I wouldn’t know just how pissed off or happy she was, whatever her mood was at that moment.
“I’m sorry.” I wiped my face, slumping into my chair again and Mom pulled her legs up, covering her knees with the hoodie so that only the bottoms of her cotton sleep pants and the purple on her toe nails were visible.
She didn’t speak at first, but touched my wrist, giving it a squeeze as though she knew I needed the silence. “She doesn’t love him.”