My eyes follow her as she storms off, then they fall to the crinkled ball of paper at my feet. I bend down, pick it up, and smooth it before climbing in my truck and driving home.
I’m barely out of the parking lot before regret starts to take over. I know I was a dick—she’s absolutely right. I didn’t need to be cruel under the guise of being honest. There was no need for that.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
I contemplate turning around and chasing after her, but I know she needs time, and I’m not about to make a scene in front of everyone left at the benefit.
When I get home, I grab a beer and walk up to my bathroom to start the shower. I pull the ticket from my pocket and smooth it out again. I can feel a smile pull at my lips when I see that she’s draw two little hearts by my name.
Hearts . . . something that should scare me, but instead tugs at my own heart. I feel my chest warm at the thought of her.
I picture the way she lets herself get fully immersed in her feelings—the way she lets her head fall back as her full, throaty laugh bellows from her chest. It’s not delicate or quiet and she doesn’t care. She doesn’t tamp down who she is, and that’s one of the things I love about her.
Love? My throat constricts as a moment of panic grips me. It’s not love, it just—respect, admiration, lust.
I strip out of my clothes and step into the steaming shower, letting my head fall forward as the water tumbles over my shoulders and cascades down my back. I feel old and tired. I know I’m only heading into my late 30s, but damn, I feel at least a decade older.
I keep replaying my words over and over in my head. My stomach sours as I hear myself telling Brooklyn I’m not your friend—a phrase I’ve heard myself say to her at least twice now.
I hate that I said it. The reality is, she’s been nothing but friendly to me. She’s been open and vulnerable—even allowed herself to be hurt by me—and I’ve been nothing but cruel.
She’s right, I am scared. I’m scared of letting her in, even though she’s already wormed her way into my heart. But what I’m more afraid of now is losing her.
I hate that I get excited every time I see her name pop up on my phone.
I hate that I get butterflies when I see her unexpectedly pull up at my ranch, even though I pretend she annoys me.
Mostly . . . I hate that I’ve hurt her for no fucking reason other than I’m too immature to recognize my own feelings for her.
I finish my shower and get dressed, walking downstairs to grab another beer. I pull back the curtain on the living room window and look across the field. There are no lights on in her cabin, so she must not be home yet.
“Fuck it.” I pull on my boots and coat and grab my beer, making my way across the field to sit on her porch and wait.
An hour later,I see headlights pan across the field as Brooklyn’s SUV makes its way down the long, winding driveway. She pulls her coat tightly around her body as she slowly walks up the stairs of the porch.
The shadows must conceal me, because she jumps when I speak.
“The redhead, Selma, didn’t break my heart.” She looks over at me, her hand jumping to her throat. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m sorry.”
She stares at me, not speaking, so I continue.
“It was a mutual decision between the two of us. Just wasn’t meant to be, is all.” I hold out my hands and shrug. I’m doing a shit job of apologizing.
“You still have feelings for her?”
I shake my head slowly. “No.”
“Is that all you came to say?”
I shake my head again. “No. Came to apologize.”
She unlocks the door and turns the handle. “Want to come inside?”
I stand and follow behind her. It’s my house and yet I feel so completely out of place. She flicks on a few lights and I look around the living space. I haven’t seen it since she moved in. She hasn’t decorated too much, but with what little she has done, it already feels and looks way homier than when I lived here.
“Beer?”
“Nah, already had two.”