My breath catches. “What?”
“You know what I mean. So if you walk away now, then… I’m done.”
My stomach drops and anger sweeps hot through me. Then I turn and stomp off the dance floor, away from him—away from another stupid mistake.
22
Iblame myself.
I never seem to learn, do I? I have my dating rules for a reason—because I have no inner guidance system, because I can’t trust my own judgment. Then Myles comes along and I just throw them out the window.
And now everything has fallen apart.
It’s been six days since Myles told me he was done with me. Six days since the end of our friendship, and whatever else had been quietly blossoming between us, pushing up between the cracks toward the sunlight, sprouting hopefully. And even though I was the one tearing it up by the roots at every chance I got, now that I haven’t seen him for a week I’m feeling all… I don’t know. But I don’t like it.
“I love your hair,” a customer says as I pause at the top of the stairs.
I raise a hand absently to my cotton-candy-pink bob. That’s right; I dyed my hair pink. After that fight with Myles I just felt the intense need to do something different, to make some drastic change. It was either that, or a tattoo I’d probably end up regretting. Maybe I’ll do that next.
“Thanks,” I mumble in response. I turn to Hayley. “I’ll be downstairs if you need me.” Then I step down into the basement, where I’ve been all day, stress-sewing.
It’s a lot emptier down here now. It used to be both storage and an extension of the shop, but now it’s a quiet place for me to put my EarPods in and sew when Hayley is working upstairs. I get a lot done when I do that. I’ve got two whole racks of new items down here now.
We haven’t heard about the East Village Market Collective yet and I’m a little anxious. And as for the website, well. I guess a tiny, naive part of me had hoped that maybe Myles would stay good on his word and finish that. But I haven’t heard anything from him all week—when before our fight he was sending me updates every day. So obviously, when he said he was done with me, he meantallof it.
I’ve tried not to think about what he said to me on the dance floor—that I was freaking out because we slept together. Mainly because… ugh, he was right. The only reason I went on the date with Stefan was because I was feeling so wrecked after sleeping with Myles. But I couldn’t bring myself to admit that, so I lied to him. And myself.
I do that a lot, I’ve noticed—I lie to myself. Myles was always calling me out for lying on dates, but it turns out I lie tomyselfjust as often. I couldn’t admit that I was freaking out about Myles—about how amazing the sex was. Because it was; it was raw and satisfying and hot. But if I’m daring to getreallyhonest with myself, it was less about the sex, and more about the way it felt when we were in bed together. It felt real and vulnerable—and I didn’t like it. Or rather, I did like it, a lot. But I didn’t like that it was withhim. If you’re going to let yourself get vulnerable with a guy, well… I don’t know. A guy like him just doesn’t seem like a good bet.
And he’s helped to make that pretty clear, now. Because if he can be “done” with me that easily, if he can give up on all the promises he made me just like that… that’s all the proof I need.
With a heavy sigh, I stand, pulling the dress from the sewing machine. It’s been a long day, but—
“Ahh!” I leap back, my heart lurching in my chest. Myles is standing right in front of the sewing machine, looking at me.
Jesus Christ. I didn’t hear him come down, and he’s—
Wait, what is he wearing?
I pull my EarPods out. “Hey.” Taking a deep breath, I try to calm my stammering heart as I trail my eyes over his outfit. He’s in black jeans and a white button-down shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows with—get this—a skinny black tie. His hair is styled messy, his jaw is still scruffy, but it’s his version of dressed-up.
And, well. He looksgood.
“Hey.” He gives me a tentative smile. “I love your hair.”
I frown, saying nothing. What is he doing here?
He brings his hand out from behind his back, holding a bunch of wildflowers in all kinds of gorgeous colors, wrapped in pink cellophane.
Oh.
My stomach clenches into a fist as I realize he must be going on a date. And he’s taking flowers, which surprises me. He didn’t seem the type. But I don’t know why he’s stopped in here first—unless he’s doing this to get back at me for my Stefan date. Perhaps he’s come to rub my nose in it, or—
“These are for you.” He steps forward, holding out the flowers.
Oh.
I take the flowers from his outstretched hand. In spite of myself, my pulse ticks up hopefully.
