Page 49 of He Has Pluck

“Let’s go to a hotel.”

I drive a few blocks to the hotel I drive by every day, conveniently located near the bridge to Boston, and drag her inside as she continues to prattle nonsense, making plans for our future and finding a new apartment downtown as if we’re in some kind of relationship. I ignore her irrational wishful thinking, wondering when she came to the conclusion that I was the kind of guy she could railroad into a relationship where there is none.

Thank fuck they have a room, and as soon as we get in the room I hand her the key card and drop her bags in the closet.

“Sit down, Brenna.” My voice is serious, but I dial back my impatience and irritation with her because she’s not a bad person, and maybe she does have some feelings deep down that I don’t want to hurt. She sits.

“We’re not in a relationship. We’re not going to get a place together. You can stay here tonight and catch a bus back to Portsmouth, tomorrow.”

“But…I thought you’d be glad to see me…” She trails off, and her eyes glisten.

Fuck. I’m not sure what to say next, but I am sure I don’t want to make her cry.

Her face screws up into a sad frown. “You have someone else—the woman that Smitty person was talking about. And that reporter Juliette, when she asked me about players tom-catting around, she was talking about you, wasn’t she? You have a new girlfriend.” She stares at me, half accusing, half resigned, as if she knew I was too good to be true. I feel like a big shit though I honestly never led her to believe we were continuing our relationship. I search my mind, replaying my departure to figure out if I misspoke, or somehow misled her, but I told her goodbye, not see you soon.

“I’m sorry,” I finally say and she nods.

“Who is it?”

“What?”

“Who are you seeing? A model or an actress or someone?”

“No, I…” I almost say I’m not seeing anyone, but then realize that would be a bald-face fucking lie. I take a deep breath. “I’m seeing a filmmaker. She’s an award-winning videographer and photographer.” It’s the first time I’ve admitted to the relationship with Juliette to anyone—including myself.

Brenna snorts. “Of course, she is. And I bet she’s gorgeous, too.” She tears up, and guilt, misplaced or not, tightens my chest because the last thing I ever want to do is hurt a woman. It’s why I’ve avoided relationships all this time. Until now with Juliette.

“Don’t cry, Brenna. I’m sure you’ll find someone special, someone who appreciates you. You’re a damn pretty young woman with a lot going for you.”

She snorts again. “Sure. Not enough to keep you interested.” She sniffs, and the tears disappear. “But it’s nice of you to say so.”

“Besides, you weren’t really interested in me either,” I say. “I’m too moody and broody for you.”

She laughs, and it’s genuine. “Maybe you’re right. I for sure would never fit with the kind of guy who could live in a place like that… house.”

“I know, right?” I laugh. Then I give her a light hug. “Goodbye, Brenna.”

She doesn’t stop me when I turn and walk out the door, leaving her on her own.

* * *

When I return to my room, I throw myself on the bed, wondering if I can stand spending the night here alone and check my texts again. My attempt to put Juliette out of my mind was totally blown up by Brenna forcing me to look harder at that relationship.

There’s nothing from Juliette. My chest tightens. Without waiting a beat, I send another text.

Me: what r u doing? We shd talk. Call me or com ovr. Im alone.

Her:

No dots indicating activity. Nothing. I wait with the phone in my hands, but after ten minutes, I snort a humorless laugh at my pathetic self and toss the phone on the floor. I lay in the dark and try to figure out what the hell I’m doing because this is so not cool, not where my head needs to be.

I need to let her go. Fuck. Even thinking the words twists my insides from my gut to my throat and makes me want to puke.

“Fuck.” Forcing myself to get a grip, I pick up my phone, and lying in bed, I distract myself with playing survivor.io on my phone. It’s after eleven when I get a ping. I swipe my phone and check the message. It’s from her.

Her: WTF? I don’t care.

Shit. She’s angry when I thought she’d be cool. My heart hammers, rising in my throat, and I don’t know how the fuck to feel. Is she jealous? If she is—which is hard to fucking believe—why does that make me feel like I just won a mysterious prize? I have no idea how to respond to her. I type something apologetic and erase it. Fuck. What do I tell her? I start typing again, but before I finish, another message from her pops up.