Fuck. This isn’t at all what I intended…or expected. But it might be what I need.
I circle back to the idea of a long distance situationship. Nothing too serious, of course, but some kind of regularly scheduled interaction—not even exclusively sexual in nature—with Sunshine. Someone who lifts the dark clouds off me for a little while. Who makes me laugh and forget all the shit that I’m dealing with on a daily basis. It could be a kind of therapy, except it would be much more effective than the psychiatrist I forced myself to see a few times after Rachel died, not that it did me any good.
Rachel.
Instantly, my mood deflates. I can’t believe I just sat here spinning out all these ridiculous fantasies for myself. As if Sunshine is somehow going to be the gigantic Band-Aid that fixes me and my entire broken life. Yeah. Brilliant plan, Argos. You selfish asshole. Like that would even work.
She’s a great fuck, we had a nice time together, end of story. I need to stop trying to drag things out longer and walk away before I get tangled up in something that could destroy both of us.
Easing my arm off of her and climbing out of bed as quietly as I can so I don’t wake her up, I gather up my clothes and get dressed. My chest is aching, and the weight on my shoulders suddenly ten times heavier than usual—because the tides of grief that had receded while I was off in fantasy land with Sunshine have now turned into a tidal wave. A tidal wave that’s crushing me.
This is my reality, I remind myself. My fiancée is dead, I’m a workaholic with no soul, and all I can do is try to live my life with as little outside interference—and pain—as possible.
But once I’m standing at the door, I hesitate. From here, I can see through the bedroom door, see Sunshine curled up inthe bed with the afternoon light pouring over her, turning her to gold. Her golden hair splays across the pillow in a tumble, her ripe lips slightly parted, the sheet pulled up over her but not quite high enough to cover the pink flash of her areolas. She looks like something out of a dream.
I don’t know how it happened, but the woman’s got a hold on me. It’s messing with how I see myself. Making me believe I could be more than the hard ass who people move out of the way for when they see me coming. That I could be the guy who teases and laughs, who shows up for happy hour, who arranges a midday skinny dip complete with champagne on ice and dessert afterward.
Except that’s not the real me. Sunshine doesn’t know it, but I sure as hell do.
Who am I kidding? I know I wouldn’t be good for her. I can’t be what she needs. I can’t even be what I need. I’m broken, cold, detached from the rest of the world, even if I might sometimes be able to act otherwise. Deep inside me is a barren landscape. I gave everything I had to Rachel, heart and soul, and now I have nothing left to give.
Darkness and anger descend on me, and my hands clench into fists. I grab the knob and pull the door open, stalking out of the room and down the hall as fast as I can. I don’t bother making sure the door closes softly. All I care about is reaching the elevator and getting the fuck out of here. The farther I get from this woman and the lies I tell myself when I’m with her, the better I’ll feel. I’m sure of it.
I’m halfway back to The Quattuor Club when my phone chimes with an appointment reminder and I’m suddenly hit with the realization that I won’t have time to shower before my dinner meeting with the new clients who just arrived. I’m going to show up smelling like sex.
Too bad I can’t muster up the energy to care.
9
BLAIR
A phone ringsshrilly on the nightstand, jolting me from my nap, and my eyes fly open.
Sitting up in a panic, I fumble the receiver off the cradle.
“Hello?”
“This is the front desk, just reminding you that your late checkout is in fifteen minutes.”
“Oh! Yes, um, thank you. I’m just on my way out.”
Thank God I packed up earlier.
Hanging up the phone, I check the time on the digital clock and my stomach drops. Shit. There’s no way I’m going to be able to meet my parents on time.
I glance around the room, but I don’t see Scowl. I quickly slide out of bed and pop my head into the bathroom, the sitting room, and the other bedroom, but they’re all empty. He’s gone already.
He left without saying goodbye.
Why didn’t he wake me up before he left?
Disappointment washes over me, but then I start to wonder if he felt the same way I do—wanting to keep only good memories of our time together and not end things on a sad note. The thought of us both holding onto the blissful moments, knowingwe’ll never see each other again, is so romantic that I almost text him to say as much, but then I mentally kick myself. I can’t text him. That’s not how vacation romances work. I have to let him go.
Starting now.
Acutely aware that I’m only making myself more late by the second, I burst out of bed and rush to the bathroom to take the world’s fastest shower. When I get out, I grab my phone and see several missed text messages from my mother. She’s going to be worried sick when I don’t show up on schedule. I need to come up with a good excuse.
An excuse that isn’t “I was having sex with a hot stranger I met on the beach.” That’d give Mom a heart attack for sure.
