Page 72 of Wait With Me
I shake my head in disbelief. “If I’m so open and accepting, then why hide your real name? You had so many chances to tell me. Do you know what an idiot I feel like for calling you Mercedes all this time? Every time we slept together. I feel like a fucking joke to you!”
“You’re not a joke, I am!” She steps down one step so she’s eye level with me and reaches her hands out to grab my face. “I liked you so much. All this time I liked you as more than a friend with benefits. I’m the joke because I thought I could be cool and casual Mercedes with no strings attached, but that was the biggest lie of all. I’m plain old boring Kate Smith, and I’m totally fucking falling for you, Miles.”
Her words have me yanking my face out of her embrace and dropping backward a few steps. I don’t care if she’s falling for me. I mean, look what happened tonight. She’s worse than Jocelyn. She’s going to rake me over the coals, and after going through all that shit for a second time, there will be nothing left of me.
I turn and look away from her emotional, tortured face. “I told you I don’t want drama, Kate. My ex did that to me over and over, and I’m done with that shit.” I look back and point up at the door at the top of the stairs. “I’ve never punched another guy in my life, and I just fucking broke that dick’s nose.”
“I’m sorry!” she exclaims, grabbing the railing and squeezing so hard her arm begins to tremble. “But I’m not perfect. I’m going to have drama in my life. And you can’t give me a zero-tolerance policy for drama because of your freaking baggage!”
I shake my head, refusing to hear any more. My mind is full up of bullshit tonight, and I can’t take another second. “I’m out, Kate, Mercedes, whoever you are. You can keep your drama and your lies. Keep living your life as your author name, your real name, with your boyfriend or ex-boyfriend. Gay, not gay. Whatever.”
“Miles, please—”
“No, I’m done.” I point at the area of space between us like it represents everything that’s happened since the moment she ran into me in the alley of Tire Depot. My tone is deep and final when I add, “This…is officially the end of our story.”
And then I turn my back and walk down the stairs away from the girl I thought I fucking knew but was, in fact, writing fiction the whole damn time.
You know that point in a romance novel where the girl bares her heart to the guy, and he tells her that he’s loved her since the first moment he laid eyes on her?
That’s not how my story with Miles went.
In fact, my story with Miles went from an epic love story to a tragic women’s fiction. Because what do you call a love story with no happy ending?
Fucking pathetic, that’s what.
There are two black moments to my story with Miles Hudson. And if I thought black moment number one—when he rejected me outside of Walrus Saloon—was bad, it’s nothing compared to black moment number two.
Make a note to never write another fight scene outside a bar in any book ever again.
I stare at the blinking cursor in my manuscript and will my fingers to begin typing. I shift uncomfortably in the beach chair on the back patio of Lynsey’s townhouse, just trying to find a sweet spot that’ll help things start clicking into place.
It’s useless.
I’ve tried every spot in Lynsey’s home to find my writing mojo again, and nothing is flowing. Nothing. And the fact that I can see Dryston’s stupid face upstairs in the window of the bedroom that I once had my mojo in makes me vibrate with rage.
I ended up giving Dryston the townhouse so he’d stop threatening legal action against Miles for punching him in the nose. It was a no-brainer because Miles would never have punched Dryston if it wasn’t for me. But now I’ve spent the past two weeks struggling to find my vibe while living with Lynsey. As far as roommates go, she’s great. But she doesn’t inspire me the way Miles did. Not even close.
Hell, I even went with Lynsey to the hospital cafeteria one day to try to find a new vibe. When that didn’t work, I tried hanging out at the bakery by Dean’s office.
Nothing worked.
Because I already found the place that I vibed in.
Tire Depot.
But I burned that bridge. Miles hasn’t returned any of my calls or texts, and that’s all there is to it.
In my mind, I am having a Rita Hayworth moment. She was a stunning, old Hollywood actress who said men would go to bed with Gilda, the beautiful icon, and wake up to the reality, a lot less glamorous version of the dream.
Mercedes Lee Loveletter is Gilda. Kate Smith is reality.
I wasn’t brave enough to find out if Miles would accept less than Gilda, and now I’ve ruined my chances of ever knowing for sure.
I slam my laptop closed and let out a mighty growl just as Lynsey and Dean come striding out onto the back patio with drinks in hand.
Dean smiles down at me as he hands me a margarita. “Drink up, it’ll help.”
I take the glass from his hand and watch Lynsey stride over to her tiki bar to set an enormous full pitcher of margaritas down. She looks at me excitedly and says, “We’re brainstorming!”
