Page 122 of Playbook
I think I agree, but I feel like I’m wading through mud. Everything sounds far away, like I’m not really present.
My phone rings as I’m taking a seat on a barstool in front of the island. I must have left it there last night when we got home.
“Are you gonna get that?” London asks. She sets the bag of bagels in front of me.
“No. It’s probably spam.”
The call ends and a second later it starts up again.
“Want me to check?” she asks.
“Yeah. Please.”
It’s only when she’s stepping over to get closer to see the screen that I remember another key detail from last night. Oh shit.
I hop up from the stool as London says, “It’s Sabrina.”
My head sways, so does the rest of me.
“I should…” Fuck. I need to answer it, but this is going to be awkward.
“Who’s Sabrina?” she asks.
“She’s the girl from the bar last night.”
“O-kay. Why is she calling?” Her brows are marred in confusion.
A totally reasonable question, but I can’t think of how to explain.
“I’m sorry,” I say to her. “I forgot. I thought you’d be at work.”
Not the right thing to say.
“Oh my god.” The color drains from her face. “Is she someone you’re interested in? Are you seeing her? Or planning to see her after you and I are done?” The hurt on her face makes me think of Chris and how he jerked her around. Of course, I’d never do that to her. But I can’t seem to make my brain function enough to figure out what to say or how to explain.
“Brogan?” London’s voice is filled with that fire I love.
“No,” I say. “It’s not like that.”
The ringing starts up again. London glances at the screen, and by her expression I know it’s Sabrina calling back.
London walks over to the couch where her purse is lying, picks it up, and puts it on one shoulder. She’s assuming the worst and honestly, I can’t blame her. Nothing I’m saying or doing is right.
“Please don’t go,” I tell her.
I blow out a breath and then my feet move toward her without thought. Thank fuck, because my thoughts suck.
I’m barefoot as I hurry after her down the stairs and outside. The sidewalk is cool from the morning.
“Wait, London.”
She pauses and glances back at me.
“I’m sorry. I need to explain. Just give me one second.”
She turns to me and waits.
“Last night at the bar I got drunk because Sabrina showed up. I wasn’t expecting to see her. She’s been texting me and trying to contact me for months, but I thought…” I trail off. A lump has lodged in my throat. “Sabrina isn’t someone I’m interested in like that.”
