“Yeah, you may want to ask Xavier Henry if he’d recommend the fake relationship thing.” I laugh.
“Considering I just got an invitation for their wedding, I think it worked out alright for them.”
The pit in my stomach deepens. I asked to work the event and told Ophelia I’d be there, coordinating all the behind-the-scenes stuff to give her the perfect night. It’s not a stretch to think that Cal would be invited, but I certainly wasn’t thinking about that last night. That I’ll have to see him again, outside this room.
What will it look like?
Will I still be able to pretend that he doesn’t affect me?
I get up and go to the bathroom. The jury’s still out on whether falling back into bed with Callaghan Entay was a mistake, but at least I learned one lesson from the first time.
A quick glance in the mirror confirms I look like a raccoon since taking off my mascara last night certainly wasn’t a priority. I dab at my eyes with a tissue, but it’s only making matters worse. I need makeup wipes. Damn, when did I get to be so high maintenance?
When I come out of the bathroom, I squat by the edge of the bed, digging through my bag for some clothes to throw on. As much as I’d like to lounge around in the complimentary robe and slippers, I should probably get dressed. Callaghan’s up with a pair of shorts on and nothing else.
Holy hell. He looks even better in the daylight.
He’s rubbing his shoulder again.
“Okay, so fess up. What’s up with the shoulder?” I ask. I’m pulling out my toiletry bag and finding my makeup wipes. “It hurts. Pretty sure I separated my AC joint. You got any ibuprofen in there?” He nods toward my bag.
“No.” I haven’t taken any since my kidneys decided to go rogue. Thanks to my categorization as having chronic kidney disease, there are a whole bunch of medications I can’t take anymore.
“Seriously? How can you not travel with any?”
“Why don’t you have any?”
“I took the last that I had last night before I went to the reception.” He looks down. “I, uh, didn’t realize I’d gone through the rest of the bottle.”
That makes me stand up. “How much are you taking? Are you in that much pain? What does the doctor say? That’s super bad for your kidneys.” High doses of NSAIDs can reduce blood flow, causing damage. Not to mention they’re processed in the kidneys, therefore making them work overtime while reducing their nutrients.
“The doctor hasn’t said anything because I haven’t been to him. I know what I did. And I don’t care about my kidneys. I just need the pain to stop.”
His words are like a slap across the face. I inhale sharply and try to remind myself that he doesn’t know. He’s not saying them on purpose.
It doesn’t matter. My mind begins to whirl, the intrusive thoughts that signal a panic attack forming. This cannot be happening right now. I have to get out of here.
“What?” Callaghan asks, registering that something has abruptly shifted in the room.
I shake my head. “It’s nothing. If you want, I can run to the store to get you some.” I pull on a sweatshirt and leggings. “In fact, let me go do that. It’ll be better. I need some air.”
Without stopping to hear his protest, I shove my feet into my Uggs, grab my phone and coat, and all but sprint out the door. Yes, some cold air will do me good.
And space.
This is too much. Too much too fast. There’s too much history. Too much baggage. At least on my end.
Whether I want to admit it or not, I’ve always felt that if Callaghan hadn’t left—and I hadn’t almost died—we could have been something. I’m not sure what he’s thinking now, but he’s not treating me like a one-night stand.
On the other hand, he once walked away from me and never looked back. He freely admits that he did it and justifies his actions as necessary. Which means he’s more than likely to do it again.
And it will hurt so much more this time.
Not only that, but how could I possibly get involved with him when I’m hoping that it’ll be my job to report about him? On the other hand, he could probably give me a lot of inside info that could catapult me to the front of the line.
Even thinking about that makes me feel gross. I’d never use him for his status. I’m not like his ex-wife. Plus, the stubborn side of me doesn’t want his help. I want to do this on my own.
My phone is in my hand, directing me to the Duane Reade three blocks uptown when it buzzes with a text message from Gunther.
