Page 32 of Misadventures in Blue
Jace
I almost didn’t believe it when I saw them through the window. The restaurant they were at is in this fancy mixed-use development thing—the same complex that houses the bakery that made my niece’s cake. I volunteered to pick up her cake so my sister could focus on getting everything else ready, and then I saw Cat’s car—with the license plate number I couldn’t help but memorize the first time I saw it.
I thought I’d pop in and say hi because that’s where I’m at right now. I’m at the point where two hours away from her is bone-cutting agony, and I needed a fix. I’d just pop in, fake a smile to whatever martini-drinking girlfriend she was with, and then lean in to kiss her cheek. I’d smell her hair and her skin as I whispered what I was going to do to her later tonight. Where I was going to fuck her. How hard she would come.
But there
was no martini-swilling girlfriend.
Instead, she sat across the table from Kenneth—fucking Kenneth—who looked handsome as always in his “only the best from JoS. A. Bank” way. And they were talking. And smiling. And drinking wine.
And the rightness of them in there tore through me like a shotgun blast. Because of course Cat looked like a movie star with her expensive clothes and soft blond hair and those high heels that give her feet that glamorous, Barbie-style arch. And of course she looked like she belonged there with a man who knew what kind of wine to order, what kinds of arts events and charities to make small talk about.
Fuck.
And she lied to me about it.
Double fuck.
I should have left immediately. I should have stepped away and shelved this for a later discussion, but I didn’t. I stayed and watched for another ten minutes, jealousy and hurt pounding through my veins. I stayed until my sister called and asked me what was taking so long with the cake.
It wasn’t a surprise that I wasn’t much in the mood for a party after that. I went, gave little Abigail her cake and her present and a big hug, and then decided to go home.
Which was when I got her text.
I really need you tonight.
I leaned my head back against the driver’s seat and tried to talk myself out of it. I could cancel. I could tell her I wasn’t feeling well, or that my sister needed help with the babies, or even that I saw her out with another man and didn’t feel much like fucking tonight.
Which would be a lie. I want to fuck her now more than ever.
I want to feel her body pressed against mine. Feel her mouth moving over my own. I need to reassure myself with thrusts and moans and searching fingers that I’m not imagining what’s between us. That she is still mine.
No. No fucking. Not until you’ve figured this out.
So I’m at her house because she asked and because it needs to be figured out. Even though the thought of figuring it out sends fear bolting through me like jagged sparks of lightning.
What if we figure it out and that is the end of us?
I pace through her sleekly renovated bungalow until I can make sense of my feelings. Until I can admit to myself that falling in love somehow turned into being in love without me realizing it, and now I have to deal with it. I have to admit to myself that us ending would destroy me.
She has to know.
But I won’t be a dick. I’m here because she asked me to be. I’ll tell her I know about Kenneth, and then I’ll tell her how I feel. The choice is hers. I’ve been here before, after all, with Brittany and her reverse harem of jackasses who worked in cell phone stores or did car detailing or whatever it was that kept them here and available and not off fighting a war. I survived that with a woman I thought I might marry. I could definitely survive this.
Even if it doesn’t feel like it.
Even if it feels like I already love Cat an infinite amount more than I ever loved Brittany.
Face it. You’re in way deep. Deeper than you’ve ever been.
When Cat walks through the door, I don’t mean to scare her, but that’s what happens. I speak, and she spins in a sharp turn, her hand dropping to her hip as if she’s reaching for her duty weapon.
Shit. I’m a dirtbag. I take a step back, my hands in the air like a suspect.
“Christ, Jace,” she says, her hand falling away from her hip and her posture going from alert to its usual straight-backed poise. “You frightened me.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, and I mean it. “I didn’t mean to…loom.”
