When really I’d fallen a long time ago, all by myself.
Our conversation right now, our jokes—it all sounds so hollow, I can’t stand it. I finish my toast and grab a random shirt and some underwear from my suitcase and take a shower. I stand there under the hot water, and I think about last night.
It felt so perfect. Him and me, together. Like he wanted that as much as I did; like he felt the same overwhelming bliss, the same longing and satisfaction and passion and love . . .
But if he did, why would he go out of his way not to acknowledge it happened?
I could understand if he was having a panic attack—I know any movement forward could trigger that.The whole plan was based on trying to avoid causing him to suffer as much as possible. But I’ve seen him have panic attacks, seen him struggle to breathe, to talk, his face tight with pain.
This didn’t look anything like that. It looked like avoidance. Like dread.
I grab a thin white hotel towel and dry myself. Now that I’m out of the shower, I can’t remember if I even bothered to shampoo my hair or do anything other than stand under the water.
I wipe the steam from the bathroom mirror and stare at myself. I try to see the Su-Lin I felt like last night, with him.The Su-Lin who was beautiful and sexy and womanly and wanted. Desperately.Intensely. Who didn’t need perfect boobs like Jane Shaw or the perfect blond hair and full lips like Candace.
All I see is normal me. Cute, maybe. Little, definitely. But just me.
Who was I kidding, thinking I could measure up to his previous sexual experience? Candace was a heinous person, but after six years together—oh my god, how much sex must they have had oversix years?—she would definitely know what she was doing. She would know exactly what he liked in bed and exactly how to make him want more.
That was the problem, wasn’t it? He always wanted more from her. He always talks about that like it’s a bad thing, and in most ways it probably was—her being the Queen Bitch of Bitchland and all.
But it seems like the opposite—not wanting more,especiallywhen it comes to sex—could also be a pretty big problem in having a real relationship. And maybe in my stupid, impatient desperation to know if he could feel passion like that for me, all I did was prove to him that no, he doesn’t.
I wonder how many mornings they had like the one I’d imagined. Smiling and laughing and making love. Even though she was screwing his best friend and probably several others, even though she was so selfish and stupid that she took him for granted at every turn and didn’t realize how amazingly lucky she was to have a guy like Brendan.
I scowl at myself in the mirror; with this expression, I don’t look like me at all.
For the moment, I like that.
I finally manage to stop making faces in the mirror and get dressed. I don’t have the energy to dry my hair, so I put it into two braids. I put on the barest of makeup, just a little mascara and some lip gloss. I’m not sure I would have even done that, but we have the launch today.
That’s what I need to focus on.That’s what I need to direct my thoughts toward. Not the elation of last night; not the whatever-the-hell-this-is of this morning.
When I get out of the bathroom, Brendan is busy cleaning up the table—putting the unused bread back in the bag, sweeping crumbs off into his hand to drop in the garbage.
Not looking at me.
My deflated heart twists miserably.
I sit on the bed, the same bed we slept in last night, the same bed we—
No, stop. Don’t think about it. He doesn’t want to.
I tug on my chucks, though a mean little part of me wants to throw one of them at him, just to make him see me.
But even though he doesn’t want to look at me, and he definitely doesn’t want to talk about last night, he is aware of my presence, because he says, “So, is there anything else we need to get ready for the launch, you think?”
Just like the talking before I got in the shower, his tone is a weird, fake attempt at normal. Probably like mine, when I say, brightly, “I think we’re good. We probably just need to check in with Kira, make sure there’s nothing else she needs from us.” Kira’s our convention liaison, though I’ve only seen her once so far this week—we’re far from her biggest priority. I hop to my feet. “Actually, I can go do that now. I was thinking I would run down to the booth and check on Emily, too.”
I wasn’t thinking that. I actually have no idea what I would need to check on Emily for; the woman is way overqualified to be running a merch booth. But I need to get out of this room. I need to get away from him right now.
In four months, I’ve never felt like I needed to get away from Brendan before. It’s always been the exact opposite.
But I’m so deeply in love with him, and he doesn’t feel the same. He probably regrets everything we did last night, and I can’t handle being face to face with how badly I screwed everything up.
He looks over at me now, but I can’t read his expression. “That sounds like a good idea.”
The thought that he wants me to go hurts almost as bad as all the reasons I want to.
