She frowns. “Oh.” Then she clears her expression, putting on a small smile. She’s a good actress, but I’m pretty sure it’s fake—like this whole week has been. “I’ll be here,” she says.
I can barely hear her because I’m already walking away.
* * *
Thirty minutes later, I’m a little less annoyed thanks to some air and a walk, but I’m not any happier. Hell, I’m both sadder and angrier, mostly at myself for falling for a woman who’s so clearly unavailable.
Whotold meshe was unavailable.
But my stew of feelings doesn’t matter. This is not my birthday. This is not my party. I need to get my act together so I can handle the rest of the night.
When I trudge up the steps to Ellie’s parents’ home and push open the door, I catch sight of Ellie pacing in the kitchen, phone pressed to her ear, her back to me.
“Great. Email me the details,” she says.
There’s a pause.
“Yes, Sidney, I think it can help other women learn from my experiences too,” she says.
She’s talking to the producer of that documentary about her ex, and my frustration ramps up again.
Then she says goodbye and turns down the hall. “I said yes to the interview, Mom.”
Like James Bond, I creep across the hardwood and listen in to her private conversation with her mother. It’s like sticking my finger in a fire, but I do it anyway. I need to know where she’s at. I want to be certain that my instincts in the car were right.
“Are you sure, sweetie?”
“Absolutely. I was just protecting myself when they first called. Not dealing with the past. But this is how I can put it behind me. That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out this past week. How to put it behind me. And this will give me some closure.”
“Then I support you,” her mom says.
“Thanks, Mom. These last few days have given me a lot of clarity.”
That seals the deal. This last week was everything we’d agreed it would be—a week and nothing more. I’m the fool who got caught up in her.
I close my eyes and slump down.
* * *
Somehow, I make it through the rest of the evening. But when the party winds down, and Ellie’s grabbing her things to leave, she pulls me aside by the front door.
“Hey. You don’t seem like yourself,” she says quietly, then she adds, “Maybe we can talk on the way home?”
Her voice rises with hope.
But no fucking way.
I can’t be alone with her in the car when she breaks my heart again.
Like I’m on the field, and I’ve been swarmed by the secondary and have to scramble to get away, I think on my feet.Fast.
With a big, fat yawn, I say, “I’m exhausted. I’m going to crash at my parents’ house. But hey, this was fun. Glad you got to take your good guy challenge this week. Glad it worked out for you.”
I drop a careful kiss to her forehead, and I get the hell out of there before she can slice off another piece of my heart.
SUNDAY
No Caramel Lattes for You. Or Pancakes Either.