Page 78 of My Real Love Affair

He was right. Melody had been careful with me. She’d built walls and made rules because she knew better than to trust guys like me. And what had I done? Validated every fear she ever had about Bancrofts. About playboys.

“I need a grand gesture,” I said, thinking out loud. “Something big. Public apology? Self-criticism on social media?”

“That’s the worst idea I’ve ever heard.” Rodney was definitely going to throw up now. His whole body was tense. “Dude, if this girl matters to you—and I mean actually matters—you can do way better than some Instagram post.”

“Like what?”

“You’re Austin fucking Bancroft. You have access to everything. Private jets. Yachts. Islands, probably. Whatever ridiculous shit rich people do to prove they’re sorry.” He looked at me with watery eyes. “Put your money where your mouth is. Show her you’re serious.”

“How?”

“I don’t know! I’m about to vomit. I can’t be your romantic advisor right now.” He waved a hand weakly. “Just think about what she actually wants. Not whatyouthink she wants. What she actually cares about.”

“Her career. Her platform. Helping other women.” I was pacing faster now, ideas starting to form through the hangover fog. “She wants to make a difference.”

“Great. Start there.” Rodney made a gagging sound. “And close the fucking door so I can puke my guts out in peace.”

I left him to his misery, my mind spinning.

What did Melody actually want? What would prove to her that I was serious? Last night had been a mistake—a stupid, drunken mistake that meant nothing.

I pulled up Instagram on my cracked phone screen, scrolling through the posts about me and that blonde. The comments were brutal.

Poor Melody.

Once a player always a player.

She dodged a bullet.

Bancrofts never change.

Everyone thought they knew what had happened. Thought I got bored and moved on to the next pretty face. They were certain the whole relationship had been a joke from the start.

Technically, they weren’t wrong. I wouldn’t classify it as a joke, but it had been planned.

I opened my text thread with Melody, staring at her message. My fingers hovered over the keyboard. What was I supposed to say? Sorry I’m exactly the disaster you thought I was? Sorry I got drunk and let some random woman dance with me because I was trying to convince myself I didn’t have feelings for you?

Sorry I’m falling for you and I have no idea how to handle it?

Instead, I typed:Can we talk? Please?

Sent it before I could overthink.

Delivered.

Read.

No response.

I tried again:I know how it looks. But it’s not what you think. Let me explain.

Delivered.

Read.

Still nothing.

“Fuck!”