With a chuckle, he shakes his head. “Stories are easy, my friend. Everything works out in the end. There’s no Happily Ever After guarantee in real life.”
My stomach twists. I knew that was coming, and still, it stings. “True, true. But I have to try.”
“And that is what you need to focus on. Trying.”
We keep up a fast clip. “I sent her an apology note last night.”
“That’s a start,” he says.
“But it’s only a start?” I ask, though I know the answer.
He cuts his gaze my way, holding up a thumb and forefinger. “You’ve got a long way to go. Maybe start with groveling.”
My eyes widen.
Holy shit.
That’s it.
That’s exactly what I needed to hear. “Your pen is genius,” I say.
He cracks up. “Drinks are on you.”
I salute him, then cut the run short and head to a bench at the end of The High Line. Panting and sweaty, I sit, open my phone, and start at the beginning of our story.
I read every letter Bellamy and I exchanged, from the first one after my party to the one late last night. I savor every word about the Joker and Batman, spinach in teeth, schadenfreude and its arousement cousin, her crush on Coco, my love of her lips, and the ones when she told me what she did for me.
She fixed my business problem.
She saved my ass.
And I repaid her by fucking up the entire night.
TJ was right. I don’t just need to apologize. I need to grovel big time. Because these letters tell me everything. But there’s one revelation that stands out above all the rest. The thing I denied vehemently.
I love her.
I don’t want to lose her, no matter what.
With a renewed purpose, and the start of a plan, I head home and take a fast shower, then I sprint to the chocolate shop where we started.
Thirty minutes later, I head up the steps to Bellamy’s place in Chelsea, a whole new fleet of nerves parking in my chest. Maybe a squadron.
I backed down last night, but I won’t back down now. When I reach the top step, I press her buzzer, and I wait.
I wait a minute, buzz her again.
Wait some more.
She doesn’t answer. Finally, I unlock my phone and call her.
“Hey,” she says, but there’s reserve in her voice.
“Hi. I’m at your place,” I say.
“Oh. I’m not there.”
“I figured as much. But I was hoping to see you. And to apologize again.”
There’s a pause, then panting breath. Music comes next—pop songs—and the grind of equipment. “I’m at the gym. And you apologized last night. It’s fine. I said it was fine,” she says.
And the hurt.
Dear God, the hurt.
Bellamy Hart has never been good at masking her emotions, and she’s shit at it now.
This gives me hope and steals some hope away.
“I’m so sorry. I want to talk to you, though. Is there any chance I can speak with you in person?”
I hear a heavy sigh from her, and I don’t know if it’s due to the workout, or the request.
“I’m on the StairMaster. I’ll be done in an hour. I can meet you at Doctor Insomnia’s on Seventh Avenue.”
I get the message. She’s not cutting a workout short for me this time.
An hour later, I spot her outside the coffee shop, chatting on the phone, a soft smile on her face.
My heart thunders. I can’t believe I nearly lost her.
Slow down, cowboy. You don’t have her back yet.
And maybe I won’t ever, because the smile slides off her face when she comes inside and beelines for me. No coffee, no drink, nothing.
She’s all business as she grabs a seat. “Hey.”
“Hi.”
Awkwardly, I push the box of chocolate caramels across the table. The idea that seemed brilliant an hour ago feels remarkably short-sighted now. Chocolate won’t make up for being a top-notch asshole.
“I got you your favorite chocolates to apologize,” I say, since that’s what I rehearsed, but it sounds awful out loud.
“Thank you, but like I said, apology accepted.”
The chilly professionalism in her voice scares the fuck out of me. Is she going to leave? My heart jackhammers at the thought.
So, I try again—with words, this time, instead of sweets. “I should have done a million things differently last night.”
“Okay.”
“I shouldn’t have sabotaged your evening.”
“You’re right. You shouldn’t have.”
“I was off all day. By the time the party began, I’m pretty sure I was spiraling.”
I expect her to fire off something caustic and justified, but Bellamy doesn’t punch below the belt. “It wasn’t your best moment.”
That’s a generous assessment, and I shake my head. “I shouldn’t have busted up your evening like I did. I was eaten alive by jealousy, and I feel like such a shit for letting that happen.”
She frowns. “I don’t care about you ruining an introduction. That’s not what truly hurts. Don’t you get it?”