“Yeah,” I lie to save face.
I’m not sure what changed his mind about us, whatever we are and were going to be, but I guess it was my craziness last night and realizing how his normal way of thinking works for him. Relationships are too much work, too much of a distraction, too much responsibility. He doesn’t want that and it’s probably very clear I’m not at an easy point in my life.
He takes my hand and lifts me off the bed and onto my feet. I jerk at the hem of his shirt that I wore to bed in an effort to feel less exposed. Less bare. Less vulnerable.
Instead of pulling me close like has become our habit, he studies me. It’s not the amused or even warm look I’m used to seeing. It’s peppered with a loneliness that seeps into my bones.
“The last few days have been some of the best days I’ve ever experienced. I want you to know that,” he professes. “You are such a special person, Brynne. I’ll always be grateful for the day you lost your phone.”
I feel his rejection, or what I take as his rejection, and the obnoxious level of misery that accompanies it is devastating. My lip quivers and I bite down on it, hard, to keep myself from crying. I won’t cry in front of him. I won’t cry for him. I won’t belittle myself like that.
“Brynne . . .”
“I need to pack my things.” I bow my head and step around him and towards the ensuite. I’d rather just grab my stuff and get this over with rather than listen to him apologize for changing his mind about everything.
If we get home and he wants to see me again, I’ll work that out. But it’s not a theory that’s holding water at the moment, and I have other things I need to concentrate on. Like not having a nervous breakdown.
I grab a clean outfit from my suitcase and stumble into the ensuite and change. I wait for his hand to fall on my shoulder, the sound of him following behind me. Neither comes.
I get cleaned up, focusing on each step. Brush teeth. Remove shirt. Slip on dress.
Stepping back into the bedroom, it’s vacant. His suitcase is gone, his briefcase that sat all week when he wasn’t at work on the dresser is missing.
The bed is rumpled from our bodies just a few minutes ago. I walk over and let my fingers grab a handful of the sheets and remind myself of what this was. A reset button. A rebound. Even if I allowed myself to believe this had potential for more, it doesn’t now.
I can’t blame him.
We don’t know each other well enough to expect loyalty. He doesn’t owe me anything and delivered on his promise of a fun few days. He’s allowed to change his mind, especially when his decision to see me again clearly was made under too much sun and too much alcohol.
I gather my courage, and tuck the rest of my belongings into my suitcase. Latching it closed, I pull it into the living room. He’s sitting on the sofa, his fingers flying across his phone. He glances up when he hears me.
“Are you ready?” he asks wearily.
I nod.
“Brynne, let me explain—”
“There’s nothing for you to explain,” I say as nonchalantly as possible. “We both need to get back. I get it.”
The air is thick and it stirs between us. Any other time it’s felt this way, he’s leapt through the space and kissed the shit out of me. But this time, he doesn’t.
He starts to speak but, before the words eke out, he blows out a breath and turns away. He grabs his bag and tosses it over his shoulder and turns to me again. “Leave your suitcase here. The bellboy will come and get it.” He gives me a quick once over. “Do you have everything?”
“I do.”
His bottom lip clenched between his teeth, he leads me to the door and I follow, giving the suite a final glance.
The car coasts along the highway, the palm trees drifting back and forth in the breeze. It’s a picture-perfect California afternoon, one songs have been written about and people have envisioned as they migrate here from all over the world.
I watch the trees zip by from the rear passenger’s window. Fenton sits beside me. Just as he’s done from the moment we exited our suite a few hours ago, he barely says a word. I get the feeling often that he’s going to say something, that he wants to say something, but it never happens. And each time his mouth opens and closes, my spirits tumble just a bit more.
Although he said we’d see each other after we got home, I know that’s not happening. I feel it. I can see it in his beautiful grey eyes.
I feel his touch, his fingertips brushing across the back of my hand. My throat tightens at the contact and I squeeze my eyes shut, relishing the feeling. Still-shots from the last few days fire off in my mind, images of the way the corners of his lips nearly touch his eyes when he laughs, the way his jaw ticks when I’ve riled him up, the way the smirk skirts slowly across his mouth right before he says something ridiculously sexy.