His hands. God . . .
Who knew having someone wipe pie off my face could make me feel things like that? I haven’t sizzled that way in so long.
So, so long.
I stop in the shade of a liquor store awning, my fingers hovering over my lips, suddenly thirsty. I need something cold and clear to wash away the panic and confusion.
And the anger.
How could he do this? Announce he’s moving thousands of miles away in two weeks like it’s not a big deal?
God, he’s such an asshole.
Except that he’s not, but I don’t want to think about tough love or me possibly being a big baby coward or the look in Jesse’s eyes when he promised I didn’t have to tackle the list alone.
I duck into the organic food co-op next to the liquor store, my skin prickling as the air-conditioning blasts over my head when I pass through the door. It’s frigid in here. Clearly the owners haven’t gotten the memo that it’s not blazing hot outside. By the time I reach the drink case beside the juice bar, I’m shivering. Every hair on my forearms is standing on end, and my nipples are poking through the strawberry-stained fabric of my shirt.
So, when I turn around and see none other than Chad, my rehab boyfriend, and a pretty brunette I can only assume is Bethany, the ex he dumped me for, I not only have pie stains on my shirt, but I’m drawing extra attention to breasts that Chad once described, in a disappointed voice, as “not quite a handful.”
What a dick he is.
But what did I expect? Not all guys named Chad are awful, but not-awful Chads are definitely the exception, not the rule.
Bethany, I see, has way more than a handful. Her naturally bouncy and bountiful chest barely fits in a tiny crocheted top that leaves nothing to the imagination. She’s got the curvy thing going for her, no doubt, and she’s probably a nice enough person. But as she and Chad canoodle while they unload their groceries, giggling and touching each other for absolutely no reason except that they’re hot for each other and don’t care who knows it, I can’t help comparing the two of us.
Why am I always the girl left un-chosen?
Sure, my boobs are small, but so what? Boobs aren’t everything. I’m as attractive as Bethany. And I have many other good qualities—I have especially nice lips, if I do say so myself. And I’m fun too. Most importantly, I’m a good person. I care about people—really care. I try to be thoughtful and compassionate to everyone who drifts into my orbit, and I’d do anything for a friend, family member, or significant other. I’m loyal to the bone.
But so far, none of the men I’ve dated seem to see that.
Or to value it.
I’m always second best, the girl who’s easy to leave, the woman they date until the one they really want comes along.
Maybe Jesse’s right. Maybe you do need the list. Maybe it’s just the thing to get you out of your rut and on the path to making your dreams come true.
“Or to figuring out what my dreams are,” I murmur.
They’ve been packed away for so long I can barely remember what I put in those boxes. And there are worse ways to spend my vacation than hanging out with a gorgeous man who wants to help me live my biggest, boldest, best life—even if he is a sneaky leaver who’s departing New York in two measly weeks.
And it would be sort of like spending time with Claire again.
It would be bittersweet, but still . . . sweet. And even sweeter to share the experience with someone who misses her as much as I do.
Ducking behind a cereal box display, hiding my pie-covered self from Chad and Bountiful-Boobed Bethany, I pull my phone from my purse and shoot a text to Jesse.
* * *
Ruby: Okay. Maybe we can do this. We can at least try. On one condition—if I want to stop, we stop. That’s it. No peer pressure. No guilting me into doing things I’m not ready for.
* * *
Glancing around the cereal boxes I hit send, fighting the urge to gag when Chad snakes his hand down the back of Bethany’s shorts.
We’re in a place that sells food. This is a no-touching-your-girlfriend’s-bare-butt zone. Or at least, it should be.
Or am I being a prude?