Page 25 of Fly Back to Me
Ever.
When I dangled the lace fabric in front of her, making sure to expose the fresh tags, Jenna lashed out with the responses I expected to hear before she even spoke them.
“I like the way I feel in it.”
“How do you know I wasn’t going to wear it for you?”
To which I tossed the garment on the couch and stormed off to The Grind to roll off some steam. Steam that was blown in the direction of a woman who had no business being treated the way she was.
She was right.
I am an asshole.
My elbows plant on the table, hands interlocking as my lips rest atop them. The cool metal of my ring grazes my skin, and my heart jolts for a single beat.
I’m worthy to someone.
Someone who knows not one single detail about me or my life. More so than someone who’s known me for three goddamn years. As deep as I’ve been swallowed into this dark hole, at least there’re rays of light I’m beginning to see at the top.
My eyes eventually glimpse to my left. Long, slender legs wrapped in black suede, only a few inches exposed between the hem of her beige skirt and rim of her boots. Champagne hair falls from her knit beanie, cascading over her shoulders through soft and styled curls. Her shiny lips poke out from the shorter locks that frame her face, almond-shaped hazel eyes now dancing along the picture window in front of her.
Maybe I should’ve taken notice of her sooner. Not that my behavior would have been excused if she wasn’t as attractive, but this just tacks on another miserable notch to our exchange.
A sigh escapes me, my fingers scrubbing through my hair tosnap my mind back to what it should be focusing on.
I type up the email to my supplier, catching up on other inquiries right after. As my hand peels from the keyboard to draw another sip of coffee, a subtle blur of beige and black shifts in my periphery.
I keep my head directed toward the screen, eyes drifting to the side every now and then to catch her shuffling on her plaid coat. She tugs her long, soft locks out from under the collar, then swipes her handbag off the tabletop to pad over to the entrance door of the café.
Stop her.
Apologize to her.
Say something.
Or just tell her you’re a fucking moron.
The last one would definitely suffice.
But my lips never part, and my legs never carry me over to her. Instead, I release my coffee cup, resting an elbow on the table as my thumb vaguely lays on my bottom lip.
I discreetly pivot my head over my shoulder, sneaking a peek at her. Her chin slopes up to the “Hello Board” fastened to the wall, as if she’s mesmerized by this new phenomenon.
My brows knit, her fascination lost on me. Has she never seen one of these boards before?
She steps forward, and my gaze inadvertently dips to the sliver of creamy skin between her skirt and boots. The pitch in my stomach flicks my attention back up, only to find her extracting a Post-it and pen from the mounted holder.
Her arm shimmies as she scribbles her message onto a small, neon pink paper. And once she takes a thumbtack out of the container, my eyes carefully trace her path.
Then she disappears behind the glass double doors.
Just like that.
I rotate my head forward, two palms sifting through my hairas I emit a bated breath. My hands are glued in place for a few seconds, body sinking against the built-in bench where I stare pointlessly at my MacBook screen.
My mental checklist blurs, my focus thrown for a brief minute. But as soon as I’m granted another distraction, my gaze slides to the text message that pops into view on my phone.
Jenna: I don’t want to fight.
