Page 41 of The Boyfriend Effect (Frisky Business 1)
It’s not until I’m brushing my teeth and staring at my own reflection that I remember Scarlett’s jarring words from earlier this evening. They vibrate through me with every pulse of my electric toothbrush.
There is no universe in which Hayes would commit, not even to a catch like you.
How many times did I stand here, envisioning the domestic fantasy of Hayes and me brushing our teeth together before bed? How often have I imagined sharing the same space, the same life with my brother’s best friend?
Something in my stomach churns violently. I hurriedly spit out my toothpaste, awaiting the inevitable rush of sickness. But nothing comes. It’s just my own stress, wreaking havoc on my body. All over one guy.
A small voice in my head cries, “He’s not just any guy! Hayes is the only guy who’s made you feel this way.”
I silence the voice of the romantic little girl inside me that should have died when I first got my heart broken back in college. Staring at myself in the mirror, my mascara running, toothpaste smeared across my cheek, I look completely lost. I’m not sure when I started crying . . . but there’s no stopping it now.
Somehow, I manage to wash my face, strip off my bra, and slip into an oversized cotton T-shirt. Snuggling under the covers, I imagine a version of myself on the other side of all this drama. It’s the only thing that lulls me to sleep.15* * *HAYESNothing could have prepared me for this moment.
When I texted Maren to meet me for coffee on Sunday afternoon, I knew what I had to do. I knew why I had to see her.
But sitting here across from her, watching her pull the sleeves of her sweater over her palms, watching her run her fingers through her long chestnut-brown hair—that’s a whole other story. I don’t know if I can do what I came here to do. She’s too sweet, too innocent. What I’m about to do will break her.
But that’s exactly why I have to do it. Because the longer this goes on, the harder it will be to end it, and ending it is the right thing for both of us.
So, why is it so damn hard for me to get the words out?
I drum my fingers on the table and watch the ripples in my black coffee. Maren smiles weakly on the other side of the wooden slats, her hands wrapped tightly around her latte mug. The smell of warm cinnamon rolls wafts by, fresh out of the oven, and a slow, soulful song plays softly over the speakers. I chose this place for a reason. It’s warm, comforting. Anything to soften the blow.
“I’ve never been here before,” Maren says, half to herself, her gaze trailing along the mosaic behind me. “It’s nice.”
“Best-kept secret in the city.” I try to sound casual and cheery, but it comes off forced and canned.
Maren smiles in response, but this one doesn’t meet her eyes.
She knows. I can’t keep the thought from bouncing around in my head as panic spreads from the pit of my stomach all the way to my toes. If I don’t do it soon, I’m afraid I’ll lose my nerve.
“So, uh, Maren, I wanted to talk to you about something.”
She flinches at the sound of her name. I’m not the only one who noticed I didn’t call her “dove.” She nods for me to continue, her mouth flattened into a tight line.
“I wanted to talk to you about what happened between us. It was a mistake. One we can’t repeat.” I say the words quickly, my voice flat and emotionless.
It’s like all the air has been sucked out of the room. Like I’m the one who sucked it all out.
Maren stares at her latte, her hands still wrapped tightly around the mug. So tight, her fingertips are starting to turn white. “Okay,” she says without looking up.
“I’m sorry if—”
She stands abruptly, her chair legs scraping against the floor. “I have to go.” Before I can stop her, she turns and bolts out the door and makes a left, heading straight for the train.
I sigh and scrub my hands roughly over my face. Customers around me are murmuring, but I can’t bring myself to care. I feel like I’ve just been socked in the stomach with a baseball bat, but also like I was the one who swung the bat.
Way to go, Hayes. You’ve hurt Maren.
Back at my place, I find Rosie sitting at the kitchen table with a book in her hands. She smiles and peers over her reading glasses when she sees me, the corners of her eyes crinkling softly.
“You look like shit,” she says. We’ve never been the kind of family to mince words with each other.
I sit down across the table from her and say nothing. She stares at me, her thin eyebrows raised on her wrinkled forehead.
