“I’ll call,” she whispers against my lips.
“Promise?” I ask hopefully.
“Promise.” And then she’s walking back into the bar, back to her friends, back to her life. And I’m standing in the cold, watching her go, praying that this time, goodbye doesn’t mean forever.
When I walk back inside, the girls have gone, and my brothers are all watching me with varying expressions of concern.
“Well?” Ford asks.
“She needs time,” I say simply, sitting back down.
“And you’re giving it to her?” Wilder asks.
“Yeah.”
“Even though it’s killing you?” Mason adds quietly.
“Yep.” I take a long drink of my beer. “Because she’s worth it. She’s worth waiting for.”
“You really have feelings for her?” Everett observes.
“Yeah,” I admit. “I really do.”
“Then she’ll come back,” Ford says firmly. “Give her time to figure out what she wants. If it’s meant to be, she’ll come back.”
I want to believe him. Want to believe that love is enough. That timing will work out. That she’ll call. But all I can do is wait. And hope.
16
SLOANE
The thing about heartbreak is that it doesn’t happen all at once. It’s waking up in Riley’s guest room and forgetting where you are for three seconds. It’s reaching for your phone to text someone and then remembering you’re learning to find yourself again. It’s every love song on the radio, suddenly feeling personal.
It’s been two weeks since the pub.
Two weeks since I kissed Jax goodbye in the cold and promised to call when I figured my shit out. Spoiler alert, I have not figured my shit out.
I’m staring at my laptop. Another marketing job. Senior Manager at some tech startup that probably has a ping pong table and calls their employees rock stars. The job description uses the word synergy three times. I close the laptop.
“That’s the fifth time today,” Riley calls from the kitchen. She’s making coffee, which is basically her love language. “You open a job listing, stare at it like it personally offended you, then close it with extreme prejudice.”
“These jobs are soul-sucking.”
“Then stop applying for them.” She brings me coffee, plopping down beside me. “What do you actually want to do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Sloane.”
“I don’t!” My voice comes out more defensive than I intend. “I used to know. I had plans and dreams and ideas. But somewhere along the way I just ... stopped.”
Riley’s quiet for a moment. “You need therapy.”
“I don’t.”
“Yes, you do. You spent nine years with a man who made you feel like shit. That’s textbook therapy territory, babe.”
She’s right. I hate it, but she’s right.
