ChapterSeven
CHLOE
Another hiccup of tears wracks my body as I sit at the breakfast bar in my folk’s apartment. The ready meal I’ve microwaved sits on a plate in front of me. I’m not sure why I bothered.
Following this afternoon’s debacle with Blake, my appetite is as good as non-existent. If I tried to eat the lasagna, I’d be physically sick. Even looking at it has my tummy roiling in a nauseous mix of hurt and shame.
If I hadn’t undone the buttons on his shirt, things could have stayed as they were. But I’d wanted it so bad. No, not IT, him. Good old-fashioned lust had taken over my brain. Why on earth had I ever dreamed a guy like Blake would want to kiss a nobody like me? I should have questioned it, but I didn’t.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
I bang my head slowly on the marble top of the breakfast bar, hoping to knock some sense into myself. I’d behaved like a dumb kid downstairs. I should know better than to think anything like that was going anywhere.
I’d talk with one of my girlfriends, but thoughts of going into the nitty gritty of what happened, and another flash of shame floods me. There isn’t a chance I can share this with anyone. If word were ever to get out that one of the senior librarians had stooped to being taken on a workbench, her reputation would be in tatters.
No, not HER reputation, MY reputation. Women like Sylvia Chamberlain were always on hand to make sure of that.
My forehead is still resting on the wonderfully cool marble when a text alert pings on my phone. I reach out to the side to grab it without lifting my head. I mentally cross my fingers that it’s from Nina, and that she’ll be in to help me tomorrow.
Without Blake’s help today, I’d have been in big trouble, with Mom and dad too far away to come to my rescue in time. Now, of course, I need rescuing in a different way completely, and my folks definitely can’t help there.
On reading the message, I sit bolt upright. The text isn’t from Nina; it’s not even from my parents. I have to read the message three times before I come to any conclusions. Firstly, how did Blake get my number, and secondly how on earth does saying sorry make things better?
Sorry for what?
Sorry for his actions?
Or just sorry it was me?
I stare at the message until my eyes glaze over, and I’m still none the wiser. Does he expect me to respond? Should I respond? I haven’t felt this out of my depth in years. I’m still dithering over what I should do when another text pings its arrival.
This one is also from Blake, and now I’m more confused than ever.
BLAKE
Next to my van, I catch my reflection in the tinted windows. “You stupid, freaking idiot.” I lean in to avoid looking at myself any longer. I then bounce my head on the panel above the window and repeat this, hoping it sinks it.
I should never have moved that fast on Chloe. She wasn’t a Sylvia. She wasn’t anything like the women I usually hooked up with. I should have taken my time. Should I even have tried in the first place?
Inside the back of the van, I put my foil-wrapped burger on the board that covers the mini sink.
Jeez, I can’t leave things like this. Thoughts of hurting Chloe are killing me, and if my mom ever heard about what I’d done, she’d help. An apology is in order and while I’d rather do that face-to-face, I’d probably be slapped for my trouble, and rightly so.
Damn it all to hell, I should never have asked about that blasted fin.
The burger forgotten, I dig my phone out of the pocket of my shorts. A text when you’re breaking up is unforgiveable, but an apology? Surely that’s okay?
My fingers fly over the keys, and I’m just as quick to delete the text. A second attempt follows soon after. The right tone is everything, even though I’m not sorry at all for what happened. Hell, I can still taste her on my lips.
The burger has gone cold before the text is good enough to send. Unable to face food, I slide the door open and biff the burger into the trash can at the edge of the parking lot. I hate it when the van stinks of stale takeaways.
I check my phone again. She still hasn’t replied. Has she even seen it? I check back and read the message I’d sent her. Freaking auto-correct, how in hell will she take that?
I can’t leave it like that. If I do, I won’t get any sleep. I’ve got to be up early to catch the turning tide. I’ll be using one of my back-up fins, which, while not ideal, is better than not surfing at all.
Despite wanting to move things forward with Chloe, I can’t lose sight of the money up for grabs the following weekend. Taking out one of the major prizes will make a huge difference in how comfortable my life is for the next six months.
I could even spend more time in Coogan’s Break than I’d originally planned to. As this thought takes hold, I have to admit to myself that I don’t want to leave. If there’s even an outside chance with Chloe, I have to take it.
On sending the second text, relief doesn’t materialize. If anything, I’m more anxious than ever. Even worse is that I won’t find out until the following morning if phase two of my apology has worked.
The idea of working through potential outcomes the entire night has me reaching for one of my smaller boards. If I can thrash myself enough with an evening session, I might just get some sleep.
