And . . . that was okay. It would suck, but what I knew deep down was that I couldn’t lose Eden. I couldn’t lose my friend, couldn’t not have her in my life in some form.
Even if it wasn’t the form I wanted.
Life sucked sometimes.
A man bucked up and moved on and accepted the licks thrown his way. Then he made the best of it.
Just like I was going to.
Because Eden was worth it.
And even if I didn’t get everything I’d hoped for out of our night together, I still got to keep her in my life. I still had her as a friend. I was still important enough that she’d texted first.
After everything had gone down, she’d reached out.
I could reach back.
Which was why I texted her back:
Only if you promise to give me your recipe for guacamole.
Silence. Then,
You know that’s never going to happen.
I knew a lot of things I wanted weren’t going to happen, least of all was getting my hands on her delicious dip recipe and so I sent:
Make it for me sometime?
Her reply came in a few seconds.
Sure.
But no word of when that would be, no suggestion of days and times. I had the feeling that was intentional. No, I knew Eden well enough by now to recognize it was intentional.
More distance.
But distance I was going to let her have.
Somewhat.
I’m still bringing pizza by tonight.
The “. . .” indicating she was typing immediately appeared, but I already had my next reply primed and ready. Because, yes, I could pull back, yes, I wouldn’t pressure her for intimacy she couldn’t give.
But I would be her friend.
We’ll run over your lines, gorge on extra pepperoni and olives, but then I have to go home early because I’m meeting a potential tomorrow.
Lie, but I wanted to give her an out, and she didn’t need to know that my plans for the following day included sitting on my ass doing absolutely nothing.
Especially when my response made the “. . .” of her response stop then start, then stop and start again.
Especially when it made her reply.
Come over at 7.
Another buzz a heartbeat later.
Don’t skimp on the garlic cheese bread.
Yeah, I could give her outs and space and understanding.
But I couldn’t give up on being in her life.
Even if it was only as her friend.
Six
Eden
I was a coward.
I owed him an explanation.
I was a coward.
I—
Had pretty much been going around in circles since I’d first picked up my cell earlier that day to call him.
I was going to dial his number. I wasn’t going to text but actually speak to him and explain that I’d had a horrible ex and that he’d hurt me, and I was still fucked up and broken and damaged.
And that it wasn't him.
That it was me.
It’s not you, it’s me.
Ugh. That sounded about as good this time around as it had all the previous times I’d gone through this loop in my brain.
So, I’d chickened out. And I’d texted instead, promising myself I’d just blurt the explanation via text and then turn off my cell.
I’d done neither.
Minimally, I’d apologized, which was the single good thing I’d done that day, but the explanation hadn’t come, I hadn’t been able to stop my replies, and by the end of it, Damon was coming to my house, bringing me pizza, and we were rehearsing my lines.
And then he was going home.
He’d spelled that part out clearly.
I deliberately ignored the fact that Damon leaving made a pang shoot through my heart.
I was well aware of my faults along with my past trauma and that it was influencing my present life. This wasn’t me thinking I was such a bad person and didn’t deserve happiness. Yes, I was damaged. Yes, there was a part of me that would never be fully healed. But I wasn’t a martyr. I’d gotten through to the other side. I had friends, and I had my career. That was enough.
I was also critically aware that I would never be able to lower my guard enough to give another man power over me.
I controlled the interactions.
I said when and where and then told them to get the fuck out.
Always get the fuck out.
They just . . . none of them had ever stayed or even tried to stay.
But none of them had been Damon either. I hadn’t known them well, hadn’t spent years with a weekly call, dinners when we were in the same town, clubs and dancing and drinking when we’d been younger and newly successful and the most exciting thing was being allowed into the VIP section. But though that excitement—partying all night, drinking myself into oblivion—had faded after a while, my connection to Damon hadn’t.
This is why I hadn’t allowed myself to do this.
This is why I shouldn’t have allowed myself to do it now.
Fucking biological clock and cute newborns and Artie and Pierce looking so lovingly into each other’s eyes.
It had melted my brain.
I’d agreed to the drink when I’d been vulnerable, and that had stretched to a meal and more drinks and then—
Damon in my bed.
Being more spectacular of a lover than I’d ever expected. I mean, it wasn’t like I hadn’t hoped and prayed he would be a fantastic fuck or imagined what it would be like to have him in my bed.
But . . . he was too close.
Then last night.
Had. Been. Incredible.
And also the stupidest thing I’d ever done in my life.
Circles?
See?
Now it was 6:56 P.M. and Damon was punctual, so he would be on time. Which meant I had exactly four minutes to . . .
Panic? No. To get my shit together? Yes. That.
“Forget the orgasms,” I muttered, moving to my closet and throwing on an oversized sweatshirt. Paired with loose jeans, a tank top and T-shirt, along with
