“Silas,” she says again when she plonks her empty glass on the tabletop.
“Yes?” My gut is officially revolting. This is a disaster. Not only has she not said it back, she looks like she might puke or pass out. My ego is forever dented.
“I…ah…don’t know what to say.”
My head is bobbing up and down, mostly because I don’t know what to do to save this situation.
“Tell me how you feel?” I hold a hand up, hoping she doesn’t notice it’s shaky like a leaf. “I know you don’t feel the same way, but maybe just tell me where your head’s at? You’ve been quiet this week.”
Betsy licks her lips and it’s not in a sexy, flirting way. It’s anoh shit, how do I let this man down easyway.
“Silas.” Her voice cuts off and then her face transforms into a mask not unlike the looks she gave me on day one in Heaven. Angry. Closed off. Like she has to protect herself at all costs.
She scrapes her chair back and suddenly she’s standing, tossing her napkin on the table. She storms out of the restaurant without a single word. Normally, I’d go after her, at least offer her a ride home, but it’s the twin tracks of tears that ran down her cheeks that has my ass stuck to my chair in shock and not a little bit of horror.
I’ve never told a woman I love her—besides Mama—but leave it to me that the one time I do, the woman goes running out of the restaurant crying.
Fuck.
I whip out my phone and text Deuce.
Me: Hey, you around?
Deuce: Just closed up the shop.
Me: Can you find Betsy? She should be running out of The Velvet Throne right about now. She’s upset and needs a ride home.
Deuce: On it.
Deuce: And then you owe me the story.
Me: Just get her home, okay? Then meet me back at the restaurant. I have a bottle of champagne that needs to be finished and I’m in the mood to order another.
Deuce: Shit. I see her. Damn. She’s crying, dude. See you in fifteen.
The first bottle of champagne is empty by the time Deuce arrives and takes Betsy’s empty chair. He holds his hand up and the server immediately brings us another. Deuce loves a sophisticated drinking session. I just need alcohol to obliterate the entire conversation I had with Betsy.
I’m sure I’ll be a sad sack tomorrow, regretting all this champagne, but for tonight, I just need to forget her pretty face.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Betsy
“He’s a good guy.”
That’s what Deuce said to me as I climbed out of his car and ran into Nana’s house like my hair-sprayed curls were on fire. It’s what’s been bouncing off the walls of my skull the whole night as I lay in my bed, angry, sad, and confused. I didn’t even bother changing out of my yellow dress. It’s now wrinkled so badly I bet the queen of proper outfits, Mary London herself, couldn’t get them out. I watch the first hint of daylight hit my window.
Before I can talk myself into acting like an adult, I roll over, grab my phone, and text Silas.
Me: Sorry, not feeling well. I need to take the day off.
He doesn’t answer, probably because he now hates me. I’d hate me. The man has done nothing wrong, per se. It’s me. I’m the problem. Always have been. All you have to do is look atmy track record and see that I have a commitment problem. A bad attitude. A negative outlook on life that has become a self-fulfilling prophecy. I know it, and yet I can’t see how to stop it. It’s like I’m on a freight train going full steam in the wrong direction, powerless to hit the brakes.
“I wonder if this is how Mom feels,” I whisper to myself, the weight of the question hanging in the still morning air.
“Betsy?” Nana calls from down the hallway.
I throw the covers back and adjust my dress. “Morning!” I call back, trying to sound normal when I feel the exact opposite.
