“Now it’s my fault you’re always at work instead of spending time with me?”
It was his fault I had to work so much since he’d been stealing from me and lying about our finances. Anger warred with grief as I thought about how I worked myself to the bone for him to spend my hard-earned money on other women.
With a fake smile, I lowered my voice to keep from being the gossip du jour. One of the retirees scooted closer, so that ship already sailed.
“It’s over, Beau. We’ve had some good times, but our relationship has run its course. Don’t ruin what we had by saying things you’ll regret.”
His face morphed into the same expression he wore the night I discovered his depravity: abject sadness and an endearing, aw-shucks look.
It was powerful and might have been effective, but those receipts and emails hardened my heart against his subterfuge. How many times had he used that on me, and I didn’t realize it was a mask to hide the ugliness beneath?
When his cajoling didn’t work, Beau switched to personal attacks. He recited a litany of my past failures as a girlfriend, roommate, and person, and declared no one would take care of me like he did. I tuned out his voice when he brought up my disastrous sex skills, though anger and shame held me in its grip.
A calloused hand landed on my bare back, and my stress levels plummeted.
“I knew it,” Beau sneered. “There’s more between you. Men and women can’t be friends. How long have you been fucking him?”
“Just because you’re incapable of seeing a woman as anything other than an object doesn’t mean we’re all built that way,” Jake responded.
A shiver ran up my spine as his gravelly voice caressed my ears.
Damn it, nipples, now is not the time.
“Is he bothering you?” Jake leaned closer. I got a whiff of his clean, manly scent. Industrial soap, a little sweat, and his unique smell. No colognes or scented soaps designed to trick a woman’s senses. It was all him.
“I’m talking to my girlfriend,” Beau interjected. “No one invited you.”
“Ex-girlfriend,” I said.
As Jake’s raised eyebrow, I nodded.
“We broke up.”
“Ah.”
He drew out the word to acknowledge my unspoken message. His easy acceptance of my decision to go against my lawyer’s advice sent relief through me. I said a mental thank you to Neil for alerting Jake to get him here at this exact moment.
“Ah?” Beau mocked. “That’s all you have to say?”
“Beau, go home,” I said in a tired voice. “Better yet, call someone to come get you since you’re drunk.”
“I’m a better driver drunk than you are sober,” he railed.
“Yes, yes. You’re the best at everything, and I’m the stupid girl who can’t see your brilliance for what it is. Regardless, we’re through. You need to call someone to come get you, or go sleep it off in your car.”
Inwardly, I shook, but I sounded calm and confident.
“We’ll come by in a few days to get her things, and they’d better be in the same condition as when she left them,” Jake added.
“Or what?” Beau snapped.
“Or you’ll replace everything.”
Jake’s calm in the face of Beau’s ugliness highlighted their differences more than anything, but their appearances were also markedly different. Most people around here wore jeans and t-shirts for everyday wear, unless they were at work. As a bartender slash web-designer, I leaned into the expectations of artsy weirdo.
But men’s clothing here fell into one of two styles: dress jeans or work jeans. Neil was the exception.
Jake wore his usual scruffy jeans, faded and molded to his muscular thighs with frayed hems, a plain t-shirt soft from repeat washing that accentuated his well-developed chest, worn-in cowboy boots with scuffed heels and a dull patina. His short dark hair was swept off his forehead, and his neatly trimmed beard emphasized his lean cheeks.
