“I never said that!” I say, trying to keep calm. “I don’t regret what happened, Meghan. I just…can’t date you. And if I can’t date you, then we can’t do that again. And if we can’t do it again…we shouldn’t have done it, to begin with. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have ever led you on to begin with when I don’t date employees.” I was rambling at this point, but I needed her to hear it.
“So you’re trying to say that you’re glad you fucked me, but you never want to do it again because you shouldn’t have done it, to begin with?” she yells. “What kind of fucking games are you playing?”
“No!” I say. “That’s not what I said. It’s not what I meant to say, anyway. Meghan, I…I really like you. A lot. I think you’re smart and beautiful and kind…and perfect in every way!”
“Then why am I a mistake?” she asks in a sarcastic tone.
I get a text from the new supervisor I hired telling me there’s a disturbance in one of the hallways and asking if he should go check it out. I almost laugh. I’m the disturbance… I text him back that it’s fine, I’m on it, and return my attention to Meghan. “You’re not a mistake. But I made a mistake in not being upfront with you and telling you that we can’t be a couple because I don’t date employees. That’s all I’m trying to say.”
“Oh, okay,” she says. “If that’s all you’re trying to say then fuck off!”
I am ready to bang my head on the door, but I decide to try one last time. “I’m so sorry, Meghan. I never meant to hurt you. You’re a great waitress and an amazing person. And I’m sorry for being a fucking asshole.”
With one last look at the door, I turn to go, convinced there’s nothing I can say at the moment to make her understand. She just needs to take some time and cool off for a bit. Then, maybe in a few days, we can talk about this.
The sound of locks being undone has me stopping in my tracks. She pulls the door open, and I can see that she’s been crying. Her eyes are puffy, and tear streaks stain her beautiful cheeks. Her hair is messy, and her shirt is misbuttoned. I’ve never seen anything so goddamn gorgeous in my life.
“So… what do you want, Hunter?” she asks me point blank. “Work and life situations and histories, all of that bullshit aside, what do you want? Do you want me?”
I look at her, still mesmerized by her beauty, my mouth dropping open as I try to process her question. The simple answer is yes, but nothing in life is ever simple.
I stand there for a beat too long, and by the time I’m ready to speak the truth, that I do want her, she slams the door in my face and shouts, “That’s what I thought! Get out of here, asshole!”
“Meghan! Goddammit!” I kick the door in frustration and turn to go. I’ve really fucked up this time, and it has nothing to do with sleeping with her. Speaking to her seems like it’s only making both of us more and more frustrated, so with my heart in my throat, I turn and walk away, hoping I can find a way to fix this.
If I have to give Meg up completely, I might not ever recover.
CHAPTER18
MEGHAN
Ihear Hunter walk away, and I immediately collapse on the floor of my apartment, pulling my knees up into my chest as I wrap my arms around them, my head resting on my legs as I sob and sob and sob.
My heart feels as if it is being wrenched out of my chest, and I can’t quite get enough air into my lungs. That sensation reminds me of when we were making love last night—or when he was fucking me, anyway—which just serves to make me cry harder.
I didn’t love him. I didn’t know him well enough or long enough to love him. This isn’t one of those stupid-ass movies where the two people lock eyes across a dance floor and know they’re meant to be together. We’re not fucking Bonnie and Clyde or Romeo and Juliet or Tristan and Isolde. We’re not… anything now. But we could’ve been.
We could’ve been any of those couples. We could’ve been better than any of them.
I do realize that all of the couples I’ve just listed ended up with tragic deaths to mark their demise, so perhaps I should think of less star-crossed lovers to compare us to, but it doesn’t matter.
We’re not Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez…the second time around.
I can picture Hunter’s face in my mind, smiling at me, the way he looked when he kissed me, how his body gleamed in the dim light while we were having sex, and every time I see him, I collapse under another wave of grief. I feel so fucking stupid for ever thinking he would want to be with me anyway. He’s the rich owner of a successful club and apparently has the underbelly of LA in the palm of his hand. Who the hell am I? Just a waitress at his club who clearly wanted to get laid last night, so he obliged.
Some of the things he said to me keep playing over and over in my head, like a TikTok video I haven’t swiped away yet. He doesn’t date people who work for him. He doesn’t get involved with employees. That was the mistake—not me.
But when he got out of bed this morning, wiping the joyful grin right off of my face, it sure the hell felt like he was saying I was the mistake, that it wasn’t just because I work for him that he didn’t think we should fuck around but because he didn’t want to be with me.
It’s really hard not to take this shit personally. It’s really hard to see a guy you really like practically fall all over himself getting out of bed just to get away from you and then say, “Oh, but it’s not because there’s anything wrong with you, baby. It’s just your job that’s the issue.”
Well, if he keeps this shit up, it won’t matter because I won’t want to work for him anyway. I meant what I said about calling in. I’m not leaving this apartment until I get my shit together, and something tells me that’s going to take a while.
The carpet in this apartment is pretty thin. I should probably complain to the landlord about that. My hips are sore from sitting on it for so long. After an hour or so of lying on the floor, oscillating between crying fits and five-minute breaks where I pretend I know how to breathe again, I pull myself to a sitting position and then eventually, like a baby deer on fresh legs, to standing.
I’m not planning on going far. I head to my bed. I can still smell him all over me and really wish I could take a shower just to wash off his scent, but for now, I kick off my shoes and climb beneath the blankets, burying my head beneath my pillows with my blankets pulled up over the top of that. I theorize I can lie here like this for a good ten hours or so before I have to get up to eat or get some water. Maybe to pee… For all intents and purposes, this bed is my new home, and I’m not going anywhere unless I have to.
Eventually, the tears start to run down my cheeks again, and I start hiccupping and wallowing, and even though I’m doing everything I can to try to get myself together, it’s just not working. I am a mess in every way imaginable, and I can’t stop thinking that loser, John Wilcox, in high school told me I’d never be good enough for anyone is probably right.