Page 70 of His Hot Mess

I jerked my hand away, resting it on her thigh. Sadie’s eyes pinged open. A bead of sweat ran along her perfect temple. I wanted to catch it with my finger, to smooth the hair back from where it was sticking again the skin of her face.

Then there was another thud, this one making the door rattle in its latch. Both of our eyes went to the door handle, waiting for it to turn.

It couldn’t be locked. There was no way Lucy would have locked it behind her. Someone could burst in right now and see us like this. Someone would.

At least my pants were on this time. Barely.

Then a burst of laughter outside—from several people—sliced through the tension in my chest like a needle in a balloon. I let out the breath I was holding.

I looked back to Sadie. She was looking right at me. Something was off though.

Of course it was.

She began lifting my hand off her thigh. I hadn’t realized it was still there.

“No,” she whispered.

I took a step back as she slid off the table, straightened her clothes.

“Not like this,” she said. It was then I realized that hadn’t been a bead of sweat on her skin. It was a tear.

And then Sadie Fulham pushed past me, straightening her hair with her palms as she moved toward the door.

“Sadie, wait,” I called, but she was already gone.

* * *

I didn’t knowmy phone had been ringing until I pulled it out of my pocket to check the time.

7:30 pm on Friday night.

Four missed calls from Graydon, and a string of texts.

Two missed calls from Mom.

I forgot how mom and I had ended things yesterday. I’d hung up, abruptly, when I’d realized it was time for me to go to Sadie’s. I told her I had to run to a store opening. She’d been confused. Concerned.

Then I’d hung up.

Shit.

I took a swig from my beer. Seven-thirty on Friday evening was a perfectly reasonable time to be downing beer, nursing a broken heart, and holding a broken life in the form of a photo album in one’s hand. All at once.

I’d call Mom back later, when I wasn’t having a pity-party for one.

I thought I was done with those, but apparently not. I’d been under a dark cloud after slipping out the back door of Sadie’s shop into the alley yesterday. I’d gone the long way around to get my truck, lest I run into anyone I’d have to talk to. And after dropping my truck off at home, I’d promptly gone for a five mile run around Sapphire Lake—despite the fact that it was ten at night. And pitch black. I’d pushed myself as hard as I could go with only starlight as my guide.

It had been good. Really good. The thud of my feet on the trail and sound of my breathing was rhythmic. Therapeutic. When I checked my time, I saw I’d hit a personal best.

I’d ended my run at a strip of beach I could see from my cabin up on the hills. There was a fire pit off to one side I’d used a couple times in the summer, tucked behind a moon-shaped strip of sand. I turned and looked up to the hills. It was cute, my cabin. It sat nestled in trees, lit up by moonlight.

I liked it there.

I liked my life.

So why did I keep messing it up?

Maybethiswas my personal best. Maybe I was born to be heartsick. Loving women who didn’t love me back.

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