Page 27 of Half-Hearted
Alexis
The half-hour rideto my apartment was entirely silent, though I could feel Joel’s tentative glances darting in my direction every few minutes. He kept sucking in short breaths like he was getting ready to speak, but he never actually ended up saying anything.
It was new and strange, the silence, the heavy tension charged with years of bottled-up, unspoken truths. Two months ago, you wouldn’t have been able to pay to keep us this quiet while we were together.
The string of emotions and memories that trailed that thought needled at my eyes, but I squandered the sensation with a deep, stabilizing breath, refocusing my attention on the orange sunset and neatly kept shrubbery skipping past my blurred line of vision.
I kept my eyes open, unblinking, waiting for the unshed tears to dry. The one thing I wasn’t going to do today was cry in front of him.
I’d embarrassed myself enough already.
“I’m going to get changed first,” I mumbled when we walked into the apartment. I loved this dress, but the strapless bra I had on underneath was starting to dig painfully into the left side of my ribs.
Plus, I was hoping that a few minutes alone would help detangle my thoughts and get them somewhat in order. It didn’t, but the black leggings, tank top, and sports bra I opted for made me feel slightly less uncomfortable. In the physical sense, at least.
Joel was seated on the tan leather couch when I wandered back down the stairs, eyes fixated on the fingers he had loosely intertwined on his lap.
I took a seat on the armchair to his left and slipped my hands under my thighs, trying to calm the anxious galloping in my chest while I waited for him to say something.
“This place is nice,” he eventually said, gaze surveying the oversized living area.
I chewed the inside of my cheek, fingers digging into leather. How many times had I invited him over after moving in? And how many times had he diverted and suggested we do something else instead?
Those were the signs I should have been paying attention to.
“I guess.”
His eyes wandered back to me, a disbelieving twitch hooking the corner of his mouth. “Youguess?”
I knew what he was thinking. I should have loved this apartment. It was technically perfect. A big penthouse located in a prime, central location that had every amenity I could ever dream of wanting or needing. Not to mention it was beautifully decorated by one of the top interior designers in the country, just like every other apartment my grandmother kept around for family use.
And it wasn’t that I wasn’t grateful; of course I was. It was just… this place didn’t really feel like a home to me, whatever that meant. I didn’t need two floors and four bedrooms all to myself. And the place was so massive, the ceiling so high, that even small skitters tended to echo.
I may or may not have bought a few baseball bats and placed them strategically around the apartment the day after moving in, following a long, sleepless first night. Ethan had found one the last time he was in town and teased me a whole lot about it, saying that it was “near impossible” for anyone to break into this place. And then he’d spent a solid thirty minutes showing me how to swing it for maximum KO damage.
I missed that crabby, temperamental gargoyle. This was his apartment, too, technically, since it was open for family use. He usually stayed here whenever he was in town.
But Joel didn’t need to know any of that, so I just shrugged in response.
“I guess it’s no eight-bedroom chateau on Bridle Path,” he muttered, referring to my parents’ old house. “Or awaterfront.”
There was an edge to his tone that I didn’t appreciate, even though I couldn’t really decipher it. “And what exactly does that mean?” The question snapped out in a much more accusatory tone than I’d meant. But I wasn’t going to apologize for it.
He eyed me for a few moments. “I don’t understand why you’re so mad at me.”
I swallowed thickly, trying to relax. My foot had started to bounce, but that was more nerves than anything else. That’s what I told myself. “I’m not mad.”
“Coulda fooled me.”
“Is this part of your one hour? Are you timing it, or should I?”
He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “Do you need to yell at me? Will that make you feel better?”
“No. What I need is for you to say what you need to say so we can… I just want to get this conversation over with.”
There was another thoughtful pause. “Is that how this is going to go? I talk, you watch the clock without engaging? And then what? You’re going to ignore me for another six weeks? Months? Years?”
That hadn’t been the plan when I got into the car with him, no. But I was starting to regret agreeing to this whole thing in the first place. I wasn’t ready to have this conversation with him yet. Everything was still too… raw. I felt too exposed.
