“I’m out of wine and I’m not sharing my ice cream, so don’t even ask.” I swing open the door and then slam it shut when Quinton’s stupid handsome face greets me on the other side.
What the fuck?! Can’t this day just be over already?
“Ummm, Elle?” Quinton knocks on the door again. “If I promise not to ask for some of your ice cream, will you open the door again?”
I wonder how much it would hurt if I jumped out of my bedroom window? I’m only on the second floor. I doubt I’d die or anything. A pair of snapped ankles maybe?
But, as appealing as broken bones sound at the moment, I do the thing Brynn talked about in quadrant four on the whiteboard. I act like an adult and open the door.
“Hi. I’m so sorry. I thought you were someone else. I mean, obviously I didn’t think it was you. Why would I think it was you? And if I did think it was you I wouldn’t have offered you ice cream, I just wouldn’t have opened the door.” My eyes feel like they are going to pop out of my head and I slap my hand across my mouth. “That’s not what I meant! I would’ve opened the door, I just wouldn’t have offered ice cream.”
Stone-cold sober and still suffering from drunk mouth. What did I think was going to happen yesterday? I brought this on myself.
“Are you okay?” He sounds concerned, but even though his beard hides some of his amusement, it’s for sure still there. I’m pretty sure he’s about to laugh at me.
And maybe that’ll be the icebreaker before he tells me I’m:
A. Fired
B. Having charges brought against me
C. Facing a public shaming for my abhorrent behavior
D. All of the above
It will be like a trifecta of shame.
I ignore his question because I’m very obviously not fucking okay. I’m a literal disaster and I will not humor him. I refuse.
“Umm, so . . .” I look over his shoulder for a stern man in a suit lingering behind him with a restraining order and let out a sigh of relief when I don’t see one. Good sign. “Do you want to come in or something?”
“Yeah, that’d probably be good.”
“Welcome, then.” I scoot over and motion into my modest home.
He walks inside. Even in a Mustangs sweatshirt and matching sweatpants, his long, confident strides seem out of place in my little condo. Even though I really like his Afro fade, the orange beanie he’s wearing looks good on him. All of this makes me even more furious for kissing him.
Before last night, I could mask my appreciation for his physical attributes with a roll of my eyes or a quick question. He never would’ve suspected a thing. But now? Now every time I catch his gaze, he’s probably going to panic that I’m going to launch another attack.
I just started to accept my lust and I can’t even partake in it anymore!
Life is so unfair.
I lock the door behind him, making sure my eyes absolutely do not linger on the way his ass fills out the loose sweatpants, and hurry in front of him.
“Sorry it’s a mess.” I bend down to grab my shoes and then toss them into the spare room that I turned into my office. “I wasn’t expecting anyone.”
My house is not a mess.
This is a lie I picked up from my dad. No matter how clean our house was, he always apologized for the mess when we had guests. He cleaned every single day. “If you stay on top of it, it will never get out of hand,” he said. Advice, I should add, that also applies to the disaster that has become my entire freaking life.
“This is a mess?” He looks around the room, his eyes scanning my perfectly placed throw pillows and lined up remotes. “Seriously?”
“I haven’t . . .” I look around for something to critique. “Dusted. I haven’t dusted.”
“Yeah, the dust in here is crazy. You should get on that.” His sarcasm is well noted and not appreciated.
“Jerk.” I roll my eyes and shake my head, but my heart’s not really in it.
Awkward silence drifts between us. I know why he’s here. He knows why he’s here, but neither of us seem able to address the giant drunk elephant in the room.
But since I’m the cause of it, I decide to pull up my big-girl undies and face it.
“Listen—” I say at the exact moment that Quinton says, “About last night.”
“No.” I ball my hands into fists, my dull nails still managing to bite into the sweaty skin of my palms. “Let me, this is all my fault. I don’t know what came over me last night.” Lie number one. “I was drunk and not thinking clearly.” Half lie. “I just haven’t talked about my dad in a long time . . . Well, I’ve never really talked about him.” That’s actually the truth! Besides in therapy, I never mention him. “And I think between the emotions and the tequila I just blacked out a little bit. I honestly do not think of you like that at all.” Massive fucking lie. “If anything, you drive me a little nuts. I have no idea what happened, but trust me, it will never happen again.”
As soon as he leaves, I need to find the rosary Mrs. Rafter gave me and do some kind of praying because after all of that lying? I’m going to hell for sure.
“Okay, yeah.” His shoulders slump down, the relief he must be feeling that he no longer needs to worry for his safety leaves his body. The small step he takes back, though, lets me know he’s still not positive I’ll be able to keep my hands to myself. “I just wanted to make sure things would be good between
