“Looking to rip my heart out again?”
“That’s not it at all. I promise.”
God, I feel like such a sucker. “Fine. I’ll be there in thirty.”
“Thank you.” She sounds so earnest. “Really. You won’t regret it.”
I already do, but for some fucking reason I still love her too much to refuse. I don’t say anything, though. I just hang up and stride back into the apartment.
Joe is standing there, waiting in a ratty blue terrycloth bathrobe. “You less miserable now?”
I rub at my aching forehead, but nothing is putting a dent in this hangover. “Not really.”
“That Amanda?”
How much did I tell him last night? Honestly, I don’t remember a lot beyond twisting the cap off my vodka and snarling that I wanted some time alone. “Yeah. She wants to ‘talk,’ whatever that means. Sorry if I was an asshole last night.”
“You weren’t an asshole. You were broken-hearted. I don’t know this girl at all, but I know you love her.”
“It doesn’t matter if it’s not reciprocated.”
“Are you sure it isn’t?” he challenges. “Cam’s mother and I…”
“Split a long time ago.” Camden told me the stories. He was in seventh grade, and his dad left one night. Filed for divorce the next day.
“Because I was an idiot. One of my buddies intimated my wife was having a fling with the contractor remodeling our kitchen. He was there with her all day, alone a lot of the time. Whenever I’d come home, they’d be so deep in conversation they’d barely notice me. Sex had gone to hell. So I was convinced my buddy was right.” He scoffs bitterly. “Turns out, my buddy just wanted my wife for himself. Two years after our divorce, he married her.”
“You and Teddy were friends?” I can’t even picture that.
“From high school until the day I found out he was banging Brenda.” He shakes his head. “The whole breakup was my fault. I let my pride do my talking, not my heart. And I spent the rest of my fucking life in misery. Don’t repeat my mistake. Because the worst day of my life was getting a letter from Brenda just before she died of breast cancer telling me that she’d never once cheated on me and she’d never stopped loving me. I realized I’d pissed away fifteen years we could have had together.”
That really sucks. “I’m sorry. But I’m not here because I had too much pride. I’m here because Amanda told me to leave.”
“Sure, but she’s asked you to come back to talk. Don’t let your pride stand in your way.”
“It’s not. I said I’d be there.”
“You’ll go, sure.” He peers at me, and I see a lifetime of sadness on his face. He’d give anything for a do-over that’s never coming. “But will you really listen?”
It’s a fair question. I honestly don’t know the answer. Did I agree to go through the motions for closure? Pretty much. Would the conversation be any different if I resolved not to go in with a chip on my shoulder?
“I’ll do my best.”
He studies me, then finally nods. “I’ve spent the last twenty years alone because I was a dumb ass. And I’ve lived with so much regret… Do yourself a favor. If she wants to work it out, try. Or you’ll be like me—almost sixty, alone, and unable to commit to anyone because I buried my heart with the woman I love the day she died five years ago.”
Fuck. That’s rough. “All right. I’ll listen.”
He claps me on the shoulder. It makes my pounding head feel like it’s about to burst. “Good. Cam’s been lucky to have you as a friend. Now go take a shower. You look like shit. I’ll make coffee.”
I probably do look like shit. “Thanks. Got some ibuprofen?”
“Bathroom cabinet.”
“I appreciate it.” I also respect the hell out of him. He poured out his heart and gave me wisdom when he could have said nothing and let me fuck this up alone. “And I’ll make the best of my situation with Amanda.”
The pain tablets help soothe my head, along with a glass of water, a scalding shower, and a black coffee for the road. At the door, I wave to Joe then plop into his Mustang and head back to the villa.
Does Amanda just want to explain her rationale? Does she want to say she’s sorry for being unable to trust me—or anyone—after what Barclay pulled on her? Probably some combination of both. Sure, it’s possible she loves me, too, and wants to spend her life with me. I’d love that...but I’m not counting on it.
Other than Tuesday morning commuters, the drive is too silent. I’m too alone with my thoughts and the pictures dive-bombing my brain of Amanda and everything that went south between us last night.
I turn on the radio. The country station she found during our last drive fills my classic ride. I don’t know what song is playing. I don’t know who the hell sings it. But after a few notes I’m sucked in. And I swear whoever wrote this song is a fucking mind reader.
Just like the guy singing, I know I’ll be a mess the second Amanda walks into the room because it happens every time. It’s nothing new, but the way my heart aches and throbs, I expect it will be damn hard to hold my shit together.
Because whenever Amanda looks at me with those eyes, I’m speechless. If she wasn’t sure, after this morning she’ll have no doubt she’s my weakness. It started even before she said hello, and I’m convinced I’ll feel this way until the day I die.
When the vocalist croons again that he’s speechless, I turn the radio off. I’d rather deal with silence than be bombarded by maudlin shit that tugs at my heart.
When I pull up to the villa, I see a sleek gray Mercedes parked in front. Whose fucking car is that? Is Bruce here? Did he spend the night? Did she
