But then he moves in like he’s going to kiss me, and whatever is going on inside of me makes me hold up a hand.
“Alone.” I hear the word come out of my mouth, and I’m sure it’s me, but I’m breaking my own heart, and I don’t do that kind of thing. None of this makes sense. Not from the minute I saw Caleb until Walker kissed me, and then the sex and now this fight.
Everything since then has been my body and brain acting in contradiction of one another. My body is aching for more of him, more of his touch, his kiss, his body on mine, sorting out the confusion.
He crosses his arms and stares at me for a second. “Is this because of him?”He jabs a finger toward the bar, and I don’t have to ask about whichhimwe’re talking about. He’s pointed to Caleb and anger burns inside me. How dare he?
My mouth falls open because I can’t believe he’s implying—no, flat-out stating—that he thinks I’m the kind of woman who would have sex with him while I want Caleb. More unbelievable is that seeing Caleb has triggered emotion I don’t know what to do with. Seeing him in all his cardigan splendor makes me feel unworthy, like I’m less than what I really am. I don’t know how to undo that. And right now, I can’t think about it. I have to deal with a very angry Walker who seems hellbent on saying the exact wrong things. Not that there are necessarily right things to say.
I shake my head and sigh. “No. This is about you.” My heart is breaking. “And about me.” I’m not a person who takes all the blame and the guilt for myself, but I didn’t really go out of my way to assert myself in this relationship. Not enough for him to know that I’d be insulted with vague accusations that question my feelings for him. I look at him and shake my head. “I need time, Walker.”
“What doestimemean?”
I don’t really know. I know that I love being with him. I love the sex. Really love the sex.
“It means I need to sort some things out in my head, and I need some space while I do it.” I move closer, stand on my tiptoes to kiss his cheek. Everything is coming at me at once. His cologne, the gravity of the situation, the idea that this might be the last time I ever look into his eyes or kiss him. I almost falter. Almost ask him to forget it all and stay with me, at least to hop back into the truck with me, but then I think of what happened inside and why and the things he’s said since then. “It means I’ll call you tomorrow.” The finality of it, of the tone more than the words, causes an ache inside of me.
He nods and turns. I watch him walk around to the driver side of his truck and start it. I stay in the lot until I can’t see his tail lights anymore before I walk back inside and sit at the table with Maisie and Molly.
And here it is. Not even twenty four hours after we make dating official, we’re on the rocks. And it’s breaking my heart.
CHAPTER 16
WALKER
I don’t know what the fuck just happened. One minute we were in the truck, the next she “needs space.” I turn onto Market street, toward Big Bill’s sports bar. It’s one of those twelve TV places that has waitresses in skimpy shorts and half shirts, TVs that play every sporting event televised from around the world, and twenty nine kinds of craft beer.
But when I pull into the lot, I don’t get out of the truck. Big Bill doesn’t have anything I want inside there. What I want–or morewhoI want–is sitting in a bar across town probably kissing her ex’s black eyes better.
No. That’s not fair. She didn’t even glance at him. Jealousy is stupid and I know that, but knowing it didn’t stop me from acting like a barbarian, from punching the cheating bastard in his face.
When I pull out of the parking lot, the radio’s playing some sappy love song–some modern day crooner singing about getting his girl back–and now that I’ve noticed this isn’t my usual Aerosmith/AC-DC playing station–I can’t imagine how it got changed to elevator music. But of course I know already. It had to be Belle. She’s the only other person who’s been in the truck besides me.
I click it off. As frustrating as this last half hour has been–and it’s been like having my guts ripped out through my throat–I also know that seeing Caleb did something to Belle, something between us was different. And instead of asking her about it, I went full neanderthal. And then I accused her of still wanting him. Asshole and neanderthal is not a good combination. Especially where women are concerned.
And the kiss that she seemed to like while it was happening then objected to after was possibly a bad move. I can admit that. But that prick who cheated on her needed to know she’s moved on, that she isn’t pinning for him, that she has someone who cares about her and her happiness, someone who wouldn’t dream of cheating on her because all I can see is her.
I think about her when I shouldn’t. All the time, if I’m honest. I can’t stop. I want her in my life. And even if I don’t deserve her, she deserves more than that prick. Period. Even if she decides she would rather it be someone beside me.
But dammit. It better be me. It’sgoing to beme.
I just hope I didn’t blow it with her. The urge to call her is steering this runaway train I’m on, but I ignore it. She has to cool off, and we both have things to figure out, things we have to figure out about ourselves and each other and things we have to figure out about being together. I don’t know what she wants this to be. Hell, I don’t know whatIwant this to be, either. All I know is that I’ve never felt about anyone the way I feel about her.
After a few minutes, I drive out toward the lake. Belle and I haven’t been here together so there are no memories of her here, but I can see her in the reflection of the moonlight on the water. I close my eyes and lean my head back against the seat. See her then, too.
There isn’t much I wouldn’t do to have her here with me right now. I want to hear her voice and feel those soft, light touches against my skin. Sometimes, when she touches me, I don’t even think she realizes she’s doing it. It’s natural. Like an instinct. Like Mom used to touch Pop. Nothing sexual. It’s the affection that comes after a relationship is…relationship?
Woah. I don’t know if I’m ready enough for a fully committed relationship. It’s a lot of responsibility. A lot of someone needing more from me than just my dick. No one has ever really needed me before. I don’t know if I’m up to it. I don’t know a lot of shit. And it’s fucking with my head more than I want to admit. What if I fuck it all up? I could lose her. If I haven’t already.
Outside the window an owl hoots. Could be saying, “who-who” or it could be, “fool-fool.” I can’t tell.
She’s definitely right about what I did in the bar. It was immature. Some serious high school bullshit. And I don’t need any kind of special sign to tell me I’m an idiot either. Not neon or any other other kind.
Although, I wouldn’t be surprised if I turned and one is flashing over my head because she’s right. I was showing off and I don’t like what that says about me. But I don’t know any guy who wouldn’t be beating his chest with pride over having a woman like Belle.
The ex being there to see it was a bonus–planned, and truthfully, the only reason I went to the bar in the first place. But that fact doesn’t do anything to strengthen my case, so I’m not going to admit it out loud. Ever.
I can’t just sit at the lake all night. Not alone.
