I’m the only one who made that mistake. I’m the jackass who had this all wrong. I scoff, laughing at myself, but it’s not fucking funny. It's ironic. And it serves me right. Before her, I’d never been in love. Hell, I’ve never been in a relationship that lasted longer than a couple of months. Of course I’d fuck it up.
And make the rookie mistake of thinking she’d fallen in love with me, too.
But even though I’ve royally screwed up when it comes to understanding what love is, I’d like to think I at least know respect.
And I need to respect the woman’s wishes. So I say something that’s true to my feelings while giving her the distance she seems to want.
Graham: Thank you. The pleasure was truly all mine. I loved every second of being with you.
Past tense. Loved. Was.
I hit send and immediately bring my thumbs back to texting position. Because this sucks.
There’s a painful ache in my chest. It’s no longer empty. It just fucking hurts, and I want to say so much more. I want to tell her that I’m not ready for this to end, that I don’t want it to end at all. Ever. I want to promise her that I can make all her dreams come true, and that there’s no need to make it on her own.
Or, God forbid, make it with some other guy.
The thought makes me sick. Physically ill. Sour inside. To think of some bastard with his hands on my CJ.
But she’s made her position clear. So I simply text—
Graham: I’m here whenever you need me, Butterfly. Anytime. Anywhere.
CJ: Thank you. That means a lot to me, Graham.
She means a lot to me. She means more to me than she’ll ever know.
I don’t know how long I sit silently at my desk, numb and more alone than I’ve felt since my best friend died, but eventually, my inbox dings.
The ads are here.
The new mock-ups are perfect, so I send my approval and then return to the collection of walls where I will sleep tonight.
It doesn’t feel like home. Not without her.
Chapter Twenty-Five
CJ
I’m awoken Sunday morning by Stephen King sitting on my pillow, purring as he chews on my hair.
“No, gross,” I murmur, pulling him under the covers with me for a snuggle instead. “No chewing, buddy.”
But when he starts gnawing on the sleeve of my flannel pajamas, I don’t have the heart to stop him. I don’t have the heart to do much of anything except lie here and feel low.
So low.
“I miss him already,” I whisper to Stevie, my fingers gliding through his fur. “I don’t want to go back to being friends. I can’t.”
Stephen King meows, and I wish I knew what it meant. Deciding I’m not going to get solid advice from a cat—any cat, but Stevie is an especially lost cause—I call Chloe.
“I’m sad,” I whisper, when she finally answers on the fourth ring.
Chloe sighs. “Oh no. It happened? He broke your heart?”
“No. I broke it myself.” Tears well in my eyes for the hundredth time since last night. “I knew better than to fall for him, but I did it anyway.”
“Oh, babe, I’m sorry.” Chloe murmurs something to someone else on the other end of the line. Her man of the moment. Because she is not alone, nor alone with a cat. “Want me to come over with donuts? Or some of that gross green stuff if you’re on a health kick?”