The bartender brought my drink, and since I was still able to remember a portion of my life I had no desire to recollect, I promptly sucked back half the glass.
Then I turned to look at Roman—well, two Romans. “You never did say I told you so.”
He shook his head. “Nope. Won’t say it if you don’t take my advice and figure shit out with Emerie either. Not much on rubbing bad choices in people’s faces.”
“Sometimes the choice is made for you by circumstance.”
Roman chuckled. “That’s crap, and you know it.” He paused. “Remember Nancy Irvine?”
It took me a minute to reach back into the depths of my alcohol-marinated brain. “Chicken pox girl?”
He tilted his beer in my direction. “That’s the one.”
“What about her?”
“Remember the pact we made never to go for the same girl?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, after you move to Atlanta and leave Emerie heartbroken because you’re too stupid to try to figure out how to make it work, I’ll be there to comfort her—among other things. Payback’s a bitch.”
“Fuck you.”
“What do you care? She’s just pussy to keep you busy. Not worth your trouble.”
As if on cue, my phone lit up with Emerie’s name, indicating a text had arrived. I grabbed it and my drink from the bar and stood.
Wobbling on my feet, I leaned in to my friend. “Fuck you.”
Then I stormed off to find the hotel elevator.
Chapter 41
Drew
If I could have just cracked open my skull and let a few of the little trapped drummers out, I might have had a chance of getting up off my couch.
It was a fucking miracle I’d gotten onto the plane at all. Would never have happened had it not been for Roman, who dragged my hung-over ass from that hotel room this morning at six a.m.
Now it was noon. I’d been home for more than an hour, and I finally grew a set of balls and responded to Emerie.
I texted back.
Yeah. Balls. Sure.
And I lied.
It wasn’t the first time. Certainly wouldn’t be the last.
Drew: Sorry about last night. Was sick as a dog. Food poisoning. Bad sushi, I think.
The little dots started jumping around immediately.
Emerie: Just glad you’re okay. I was worried. What happened in court?
Admitting the truth would mean dealing with it, and I wasn’t ready yet.
Drew: Judge adjourned handing down his decision until next week.
Emerie: Sigh. Okay. Well, maybe that’s good. He’s really giving it attention.
I couldn’t be a dick when she was trying so hard to remain positive.
Drew: Maybe.
Emerie: When are you coming back?
That was when I started to feel like a real shithead. It was one thing to hold off telling her about the decision. In my head I could justify that as avoiding hurting her, but sitting upstairs lying to her when she was probably downstairs answering my phone…that was just being a coward.
That realization didn’t make me any less of an asshole though.
Drew: Probably get the last flight out tonight. It’ll be late by the time I’m back.
Emerie: Can’t wait to see you.
I finally said something that wasn’t a lie.
Drew: Yeah. Me too.
***
There was a mirror in the lobby that reflected the hallway leading back to the private offices. I halted when I caught sight of Emerie—so fucking beautiful. So sweet and honest and everything good. My palms began to sweat as I stood there watching her. Her door was closed, and she was writing something on the whiteboard, probably something positive about making things work that would make me feel like an even bigger scumbag when I read it.
I’d spent the last twenty-four hours thinking of how it should go down, what would hurt her the least. There was no reason to tell her what had happened in court. She believed relationships could endure anything if two people worked at it. There was no doubt in my mind she’d want to try staying together while we’d be separated by almost nine hundred miles. At first, it might even seem to work. But eventually shit would start to fall apart. It always does. We probably wouldn’t even realize how bad things had gotten until it blew up in our faces. Emerie had just settled into her life in New York, letting her live it was the right thing to do.
So all I could seem to come up with was getting it over with quickly. Don’t drag this shit out and try to do the long-distance thing—because that will just waste more of her time. She wasted three years of her life hanging on to that asshole Baldwin; I wasn’t about to lead her on like that. Fast and complete detachment—like ripping off a Band-Aid. The sting hurts like a motherfucker, but then when you let the fresh air in, you go from covering up a wound to healing.
She capped the marker and took a step back, reading whatever she’d just written. A slow smile spread across her face, and the headache I’d finally just gotten rid of rushed back with a vengeance.