Page 24 of Fly Back to Me
It’s almost like unrequited love. So much of my heart belongs to this person, and yet I’m unsure if I’ve ever crept into their mind even once since our paths crossed. I still have no idea if he’s read my letter or opened the gift box. An ignorance so cruel that some days I just want to scream into the void.
Has he been graced with my spirit the same way? Maybe then I’ll find fulfillment. But at the same time, I have a grave suspicion even the smallest truths won’t ever be enough.
After another half hour, I’m approaching the front door of The Grind when clusters of neon colors invade my line of sight. My eyes skate to the cork board mounted beside the entrance of the café, brows dipping as I read the dispersed written messages.
Don’t forget to smile today!
The Grind slaps.
Shake it off.
Hey girl, send me those digits …
I’m no photographer, but I can picture us together. ;)
A soft laugh escapes me when I notice the banner above the frame—“Hello Board.”
So, I do the only thing a girl would do in this situation. My hand reaches out, plucking a Post-it and pen from the secured holder, and I leave my mark behind before exiting through the glass doors.
Chapter 11
Cade
“You’re a realasshole,” she spits out.
My eyes loll away, and I tread the distance to where I parked my belongings on a corner table. As I lower myself on the built-in bench, I swipe the napkin over my hoodie a few more times. It’s at least damp instead of drenched now, so I toss the crumpled paper next to my MacBook on the table.
I raise the lid of my laptop as I sip what’s left of my coffee, the bold flavor hyping me up for some work correspondence. As dreadful as the paperwork and bookkeeping side of the business is, it’s a heaven-sent distraction for me from the internal hell I’ve been living in back home.
When the light from the monitor springs alive, my fingers drag along the tracking pad until I’m opening my Gmail account. I tap on the email thread between me and my supplier, replying with questions about ingredients for a new East Coast IPA.
My brewery has quickly shaped itself into my second home—appreciation and employees being a package deal whereChrome Pipes Brewing is concerned.
I used to think appreciation was innate when it came to the people you were closest to. The people you cared about most. Loved most. Lately, it’s my bartenders and barbacks who’ve been filling the voids Jenna and I have abandoned over the past few months.
Jenna.
The distance between us lengthens over each passing day, her sex drive almost completely nonexistent. My gut clamps down, the mere thought of our predicament crushing my heart just the same. There are so many pieces out of place, spread across every floor of the house we live in.
And that’s just it.
Jenna and I live in ahouse. Not a home.
Unfortunately, I think the biggest piece that’s out of place for Jenna is me.
She’s cheating. I know it.
If consistent longer hours at work and a cold shoulder wasn’t enough to convince me, I sure as hell am persuaded after this morning’s incident.
What did I expect? She’s an overnight nurse working with doctors and surgeons who probably wave their wealth in her face so she can’t miss it.
Three years of romance demoted to roommate status. I can take responsibility for my part in the demise of our relationship, but I’d never think—not even for a split second—to be unfaithful.
Jenna is a different story.
They say that one’s intuition is usually on target about these kinds of things. That if you sense your partner is being disloyal, chances are you’re probably onto something. As much as this doesn’t bode well for me, I’m lucky there’s no ring on her finger to fuel the chaos. Like this morning, when I found the black lingerie set stuffed in her top dresser drawer. A set I’ve never hadthe pleasure of seeing on her before.
In fact, Jenna has never worn lingerie.
