I turn to walk away when he says something after me.
“Brooklyn.”
A cold shiver runs down my spine and I slowly turn back to face him. “Excuse me?”
He smiles broadly. “My fiancée . . . her name is Brooklyn.”
I stop dead in my tracks but keep my stoic expression in place.
“She live out here?”
He nods. “Yeah, for now. She did live with me in Chicago, but, uh, she got a job out here and that’s when she dumped me.” He laughs but he’s clearly in pain. “Yeah, she said she just wanted to start over someplace new and that was it. She left me and the ring and moved out here to Colorado to work for some brewery. I must be crazy, right? Chasing her all the way out here after she did that? Especially since she’s been ignoring all my calls and texts, even though she called me first.”
I nod slowly, though my head feels like it weighs a hundred pounds right now. The sound of rushing water fills my ears and I reach out to stabilize myself with the back of the stool. I look over at Danelle, who’s busy drying glasses. Thankfully, she’s not paying attention to what’s unfolding right now.
“Guess we can’t explain the dumb shit we do for love,” I mutter as I tip my hat toward him again then fly out of the bar and into my truck.
I punch the steering wheel several times, the horn beeping in a staccato pace with my movements. I have no idea what to do.
I open my phone again and reread the last text from Brooklyn, trying to search it for some clue that she’s been lying to me. Is she lying? I’m trying to recall all the things she told me about her past relationship. She never mentioned that she was engaged or lived with the guy, and she certainly never told me she was still dating him up until the day she moved out here. She did tell me she wasn’t running from anything.
I type out a few messages, mostly variations of go fuck yourself or don’t bother coming over tonight, but I don’t hit send. I don’t actually feel that way. I’m angry and hurt, but more than anything, I’m scared. What’s going to stop her from doing the same thing to me?
Instead, I simply type out one message then hit send.
Me: Neal is at the bar looking for you.
She reads it immediately, because the screen lights up—she’s calling me. I don’t answer. Instead, I turn off the phone and toss it into the center console, peeling out of the parking lot of the bar to head home.
She’ll be home in just a few hours and I have no idea what’s going to happen.
I standin the shower longer than necessary—the steam billowing around me as the hot water scorches my skin.
Tears threaten to fall and maybe they already are, but I pretend not to notice as the water pelts my face. I want to scream and punch the marble wall.
I feel like a fool. I ignored all those little voices in the back of my head that told me to limit this to what I’d promised myself it would be: just sex. But the moment that thought manifests in my head, I push it aside, because I don’t regret loving her. I want to love her, and I want to be with her, but I don’t know how I can trust that she’s not just young and naive, rebounding with me and thinking it’s happily ever after.
I finish my shower and dry off. I start to head downstairs when I hear a pounding on the front door.
“Tyler, please open up! It’s me,” Brooklyn’s voice is muffled.
I pull the door open to see her tear-stained, panicked face in the doorway.
“I’m sorry, I swear,” she says, her lips trembling.
“For what?” I ask coldly.
“For everything. I didn’t go to the bar—I came straight here. What did he say?” She reaches for me but I take a step back.
“You don’t owe me an explanation.” My words sting, and she steps back and drops her arms.
“What do you mean? Why don’t I?”
“Because what’s the point, Brooklyn? He already told me enough.”
She reaches for me again, mascara-stained tears running down her cheeks. “Please tell me what he said. I can explain things . . . he’s a liar!”
I scoff. “That’s rich, coming from you.”