Page 43 of Make Me Sin (Bad Habit 2)
My face flushes with heat. I have to work to keep my voice down. “No, Eric. I didn’t fool around with him. I never cheated on you. I’ve never even kissed him.”
Surprise registers on his face. “You’re not with him now?”
I shake my head.
He stares at me intently. “Let me make sure I’m getting this right. You’re not together with him, you never fooled around with him while you were with me, and you never even kissed him.”
“That’s right.”
His jaw works. “So you just wanted to screw him.”
The acid in his voice makes me feel as if I’ve been slapped. “Eric!”
“You were just thinking of screwing him, while my hands and mouth were all over you.”
Believing I deserve to endure this—at least for a while longer—I stand glaring at him silently, my cheeks as red as the scarlet letter I imagine sewn on to my shirt.
“I think I deserve an honest answer, Chloe.”
Oh, really? Because I think you deserve a kick in the shin. “The answer is no. I wasn’t thinking of him that night. I don’t know what happened.” He looks relieved, for all of two seconds, until I speak again. “But if you want total honesty, which is what I’ve always given you, then yes. I’m attracted to him.”
He pales, then reddens. His lips thin to a line.
“But I never would’ve acted on it. I made a stupid mistake that night, and believe me, I regret it. I’ve been kicking myself over it for a month. But you didn’t give me the chance to explain, or make it up to you, which I think at the very least I deserved, seeing as how we were together for six months before that happened. You just completely froze me out. And if the situation were reversed, maybe I would have done the same thing as you and walked away, but at least I would’ve let you say your piece before I did.”
I fold my arms protectively across my chest, and stare in misery at my feet. I should walk away. Part of me wants to. Another part of me is glad I finally got to apologize, because what I did to Eric is one of the lowest things I’ve ever done.
No matter what Grace says.
“Hey.”
The softness in Eric’s voice makes me glance up. He seems taller than I remember. Maybe it’s because I’m slumped over so far in shame.
He looks away, then back at me, and I can tell he’s having a hard time deciding what to say. I don’t let him off the hook. I just stare at him, waiting, trying to ignore the old Vietnamese lady sitting at a table near the end of the hall, openly eavesdropping.
He blows out a s
hort breath. “I, uh . . . you’re right. I kind of freaked out.”
When I give him the stink eye, he relents. “Okay, I really freaked out. I’ve never felt that way before. I lost my mind. I just wanted to break something.”
I refrain from reminding him he did break something: my favorite vase. He also put a sizeable dent in my self-respect, not to mention the living room wall. I know it was a crap situation, but in retrospect I think he might have handled it with a little more maturity. Or at least a little less Raging Bull.
His voice grows even softer. “Especially after what I’d told you, not even two minutes before.”
I love you. It’s amazing how three such small words, when spoken together, can either take you to heaven or shoot you in the hooha with a high-caliber rifle.
“I know,” I whisper. “If I could take it back, I would.”
Watching his reaction to my words, the way his face softens, the vulnerability in his eyes, I’m having a ton of crazy mixed emotions. I still have feelings for him, most of which, if you made a list, would fall in the pros column. He’s (usually) thoughtful, kind, and polite. He’s (usually) sweet, responsible, and funny. He’s always charming. Until now, he’s always been upbeat. He’s the kind of guy parents love, because he’s easygoing, well-educated, and successful. He loves kids. He has a great relationship with his own parents, and has a core group of nice, stable friends.
In short, he’s good marriage material.
In the cons column, underlined in red, would be his jealousy. If I were more like Grace, I’d get it, but I’m not. Prior to the A.J. incident, I’d never given him any reason to distrust me, yet he often acted as if I had the male escort line on speed dial.
Just below the red-lined jealousy would be a big question mark after the word “beer.”
Because I’m pretty sure I smell beer on him right now, at eight o’clock in the morning, and I don’t know what to do with that disturbing fact.
