“Wonderful. Thank you for asking. My wife is planning a summer vacation, and it’s created some excitement. We are ready for some sunshine.”
“Aren’t we all?” I smile at him. “Have a good night.”
“Same to you, Mr. Johns.”
Quickly, I head toward the mail room to collect my package and punch in the code to open the box. I know what it is before I open it—a limited-edition exclusive box set of the James Bond collection in anniversary covers—it’s the perfect distraction from basketball and her. There is only so much television or sports a guy can watch.
I move the box to the side, and my heart sinks when I spot the envelope that lies underneath.
Fuck.
Red ink stands out in large letters on white paper.
RETURN TO SENDER
Underlined twice.
At lightning speed, mucus forms a ball at the back of my throat as I try to swallow the heavy feeling in my gut.
We are done.
I lean both hands on the desk and lower my head, my wrists taking all the weight, and find myself struggling to hold back the emotion.
Toughen up and get the hell over it.
Or fight.
I’ve never laid down in a game and accepted a loss before the final siren.
It was the wrong time to send it. There weren’t enough weeks or months that passed for her to heal.
She needs more time.
It’s the least I can offer her.
Then I remember what my mother used to tell me when things didn’t go my way. It’s also fitting for love. “Sometimes good things fall apart so better things can fall together.”
I don’t care if it takes weeks, months, or years.
I’ll wait.
That’s how much Charlotte Hendricks means to me.
3
CHARLOTTE
Three years later…
Does wishingharm on someone make me a bad person?
Not in a physical way, only the pain of humiliation he inflicted upon me. Suffer, like I have. I shouldn’t feel revengeful because the douchebag has been dead-to-me for years. Despite all the advice from my friends on how to get over him, today has opened a raw wound of my broken heart. Years have passed, and yet no scars formed since I never healed from the hurt.
We had a chance, and he blew it. Now, every time we play his basketball team, I’m back to feeling like I’m not worth it. Looking at him, I can’t handle the pain. Whoever said out of sight,out of mindlied. I’m sick to my stomach, a lump sitting at the back of my throat.
It’s notjust another game. I want to win—no, annihilatethe opposition tonight because the victory, in some weird way, will help. Revengeful happiness. If looks could kill, the visiting team would be lying on the hardwood as my laser glare beams through my office glass window to the court below. Not the team, justhim. I’m full of bitterness, and it’s only the pregame warm-up. Just being in the same building as Brandon Johns, I’m hit with waves of emotion changing from anger to disappointment and now revenge.
The Chicago Stingers’ tallest player dunks the ball, yet I’m not focused on him or how he’ll rip through my team’s defensive plays. I down the last drop of champagne from the crystal glass, my gaze not wavering from one particular player.
