The last time my heart got broken, it wasn’t pretty. But hell, at least this time around, I know the fucking drill. Booze. Workouts. Women. Anything to distract me from the gaping wound in my chest from Jenn’s betrayal.
And since I’ve already run eight miles on the treadmill, driven everyone at Vital crazy with my micro-management, and have been propping up the bar at Mavericks all evening, there’s only one thing left on my list.
Good thing I’ve got an appreciative audience.
“… And then I hit that homer off of Rodriguez,” I finish telling one of my old baseball stories. “Boom.”
“Oh my God, that’s so cool!”
The group of girls crowded in the booth with me gasp and laugh in all the right places. “You know, I had a calendar of you, up in my dorm,” one of them coos, leaning in closer. She’s blonde and pretty, with big blue eyes.
“That charity one?” I groan. “That was so cheesy.”
“No!” she protests. “I mean, yes, but you were still cute. Mister February,” she adds, all breathy.
Under the table, she rests her hand on my thigh and squeezes. Clearly, she’s open to seeing the goods up close. It should be a no-brainer for me, just take her home tonight, and move on with moving on.
But looking at her, all I can think about is Jenn.
Splashing in the pool in Palm Springs, lit up in the dark. Wet hair, glowing with excitement. The way she would look at me, it made me feel invincible. Like there was nothing I couldn’t do.
Except find a woman I could trust.
“I… Need to see a guy about a thing,” I mumble, excusing myself. I climb out of the booth and head to the bar, because clearly, I’m not drunk enough yet, but I’m halfway across the room when a woman walks in with some friends, and I almost stumble into a chair.
Brown hair. Curvy hips. A knit scarf slung around her neck.
But then she turns, and my heart sinks.
She’s not Jenn. She’s another beautiful, curvy brunette. But not Jenn.
Then again, my Jenn also isn’t Jenn—at least, not the one she was supposed to be. And she’s not mine, either.
Not anymore.
Yep—I’m not drunk enough. Hakeem bailed after only one round, back to his domestic bliss. The man’s no wingman at all since he put a ring on it – and I can’t blame him. I’d love to be snuggled at home with the love of my life, instead of out on the damn town. Again.
“Another whiskey,” I tell the bartender. “Scratch that. Tequila. Shots. Plural.”
He pauses. “I don’t know…”
“What’s the hold-up?” I slap the bar. “C’mon, Eddie. Technically I’m the one paying your check.”
He looks past me, and waves at someone. A moment later, a hand lands on my back in a friendly slap. “Hey, buddy,” Dash says. “Let’s roll out.”
“Let’s get you some food, cowboy,” Seb agrees on my other side.
I want to be pissed, but I could really use some food. And to not wind up so drunk that I wake up in bed with Miss February.
“I could go for pizza,” I admit.
“Good man,” Seb says. “A Rossi’s slice on the walk home, like the old days.”
We head out, me putting up a great act at walking steadily while the guys joke around. It’s only when we arrive at Rossi’s and are placing our orders that I remember, I brought Jenn this pizza in her office on her first day. She looked up from her desk, so happy to see me. And man, I loved that—having someone to surprise with pizza, someone to talk to over dinner. The conversation was always so easy with her.
Was any of it true?
“You want to hear something funny?” I ask, as we walk, eating our slices.
Seb cuts a look to Dash. “Why do I have a feeling it’s not going to be haha-funny?”
“I thought she might be the one,” I announce bitterly. “It’s way too fast—I know that; don’t say it. But there was just this feeling… like, ‘Oh, there she is.’ Like, sometimes, I’d see her, and think: I will never, ever get tired of talking to her. I always want to hear her opinion because I can never guess. And I will never get tired of looking at her. Every expression on her face, I just… I thought it could be decades, and I’d still be trying to get the nose-crinkle laugh. Know what I mean?”
There’s a stretch of silence, and I know I just killed the vibe here, but I’m beyond caring. I’m just another drunk guy in Manhattan, staggering home with pizza and ranting about his heartbreak.
“Shit, man,” Seb mutters. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah,” Dash says, quietly. “I know that one.”
“Okay,” Seb says, considering my big pronouncement. “You feel pretty serious about her.”
“I did,” I correct. “Before she was a liar. Except she was always a liar.”
“Did you give her a chance to explain?” Dash asks.
“Explain what?” I ask. “I could maybe live with her starting the job under false pretenses. But continuing to lie? I mean, we were sleeping together—I was falling in love with her—and I didn’t even know who the hell she was!”
Dash pauses. “Yeah… But…”
“You’ve really got a ‘but’ for me?” I challenge, annoyed.
“But,” Dash continues. “Isn’t it possible that she didn’t see any of that coming either. And she just didn’t want to risk ruining it?”
“You’re supposed to be on my side,” I grumble, “You know I hate liars. But apparently, I have a knack for attracting them.”
“Yup,” Seb tells Dash, like I’m not even here. “He’s into the self-pitying stage of drunkenness.”
“Happens every time.”
Seb and Dash steer me back to my apartment lobby.
“Mikey!” I say, loudly greeting my doorman. “How ya doin’?”
“Ah,” he says, taking us in. “Fun night, I see.”
“Not exactly.” I stumble towards the elevator. “Hey, Mike?” I call back. “When did you know Cathy was the one?”
“Tequila,” Seb sighs. “It’s always the tequila.”
Mikey considers this for only a moment. They’ve been married for over twenty years. Three kids. Happy. “Early on, my friend. Just knew. Clicked into place like a lock.”
“Ugh,” I grumble.
“Sorry about our boy here,” Dash tells Mikey, shoving me gently into the elevator.
“Quite all right. This about the pretty brunette I met the other night?” Mikey asks. “Shame. Liked her.”
“Me too, Mikey,” I call. “But she was a con artist. A trickster. Through and through.”
“Oh boy, this one is going to hurt you in the morning,” Seb warns, as I jam the “close” button. “Get at least one glass of water and probably a sandwich, too. That’s professional advice.”
“I’ll do what I want,” I call back, belligerent.
“Right, because you want to be a miserable bastard, going home alone.”
The doors slide shut on that parting word.
Upstairs, I fumble at the lock and stumble inside. It’s quiet, too quiet. Too damn empty.
Without her.
I pull out my wallet and phone, and toss them on the counter. I’ve got a voicemail waiting, and I set it to play while I go pour myself that glass of water.
“Hi, it’s me.”
I stop. Jenn.
“Look, I know you probably still want some space, but… I need to talk to you. To explain. Please, Austin…” she swallows, her voice breaking a little. “Call me.”
Fuck.
I sag back against the counter. I want to stick my whole head under that faucet and not come up for air.
I miss her. Deep in my fucking bones, I miss her.
But did I ever really know her at all?
I clench my jaw, and lunge for the phone. Delete. Delete. If only I could delete her from my mind. Maybe then this wouldn’t hurt so fucking much.
I can’t do that, but I can forget her for tonight.
Now where’s that bottle of whiskey?
“Austin? Austin, get your ass out of bed and open the door!”
Owwwww.
I wake to the distant sound of knocking, too-bright sunshine streaming through the open drapes, and what might just be the worst hangover of my life.
“I’m serious, Austin. Stop moping, get yourself up, and get it together.”
My sister’s voice.
Dammit.
I sit up. Too fast. Ouch. What time is it?
Stumbling out of bed, I make it to the hall, just as Monica gives up on knocking and uses her spare key to let herself in.
“There are impressionable minds coming in,” she calls, holding one hand over Nico’s eyes. “So any overnight guests might want to make themselves decent!”
“No guests,” I sigh, wincing. I stumble to the kitchen and grab an aspirin. Make that three.
“Jesus, look at you.” Monica tuts, taking me in.
I look down. Somehow, in my drunken haze, I wound up in Mickey Mouse boxers—and nothing else.
“Do you have the flu?” Nico asks. “When I had the flu, I had diarrhea four times, and I looked like that.”
“I don’t have the flu,” I mumble, gulping water. “I have bad decisions.”
And a broken heart.
“Your Uncle Austin brought this on himself,” Monica tells Nico. “This is an important lesson. What happened here? Mavericks revelry?”
“Opposite,” I say. “Jenn wallowing.”
Monica frowns at me and then points down the hall with the bossiness only an older sister can convey. “Shower, now. You’re treating us to breakfast. Fried potatoes for everyone.”
My stomach gurgles, demanding hash browns with ketchup. It’s my hangover cure of choice, and Monica knows it. Just like I know that she’s going to make me talk about Jenn. “Give me five minutes.”
She gives me another once-over and grimaces. “Maybe take ten.”
Over the Farmer’s Breakfast plate, I devour two servings of hash browns and reluctantly catch Monica up on what went down with Jenn. She hmms a lot and eats her breakfast sandwich with a fork and knife. Nico eats an enormous stack of pancakes, lost in the crossword app on his phone.
“So… Yeah, that’s about it,” I finish, taking a gulp of coffee. “She left me a message, she wants to talk, but… I don’t think there’s anything to say. It’s over. Done.”
Monica sips her coffee thoughtfully. “Did she ever try to tell you about the mix-up?”
“Nope.” I shake my head, then pause. “Well… Maybe,” I grudgingly admit. “When I showed up to offer her the job, she was saying, she wasn’t who I thought she was. But I figured, it was just imposter’s syndrome, you know. How was I supposed to know she was pretending to be someone else? And anyway, she could have come right out and told me. At literally any moment!”
“Come on,” Monica arches one eyebrow pointedly. “You know you’re like a Mack truck of charm when you want to get your way.”
I scowl at her. “So it’s my fault she lied?”
“No,” Monica says, with a slow patience. “I’m saying that this woman is human. She got in over her head. You swept her off her feet, remember?”
“I didn’t!” I protest.
“You brought her to Little League, Austin.” My sister tips her head, giving me a “be serious” look.
True. I hang my head, staring at my near-empty plate. That second biscuit is calling my name. “Fine. I went hard. But only because I really thought this was something. But nope, turns out my instincts are still just as bad as they always were.”
Monica sighs. “Jenn isn’t Clara.”
“I know…” I grumble. I know, because somehow Jenn’s betrayal hurts even worse.
“Do you?” Monica probes. “Do you really? Jenn made a mistake. But she’s a good person and a woman of substance. I wouldn’t speak for her if I didn’t feel confident about my gut on this.”
The Banks siblings and our gut feelings.
“Well, it’s nice that you liked her,” I stuff another bite of biscuit in my mouth. “But she didn’t lie to you.”
“No,” Monica agrees. “But I’m your sister. So, it’s my job to spell out the options: you can either be stubborn and alone… And hungover and miserable, I might add—”
“Thanks.”
“Or,” she continues. “You could remember that second chances are a requirement of almost any success story and let yourself be happy with her.”
“You want me to forgive her?” I stare across the table. “I thought Jenn might be it. The girl.”
“Even more reason to suck it up and try again,” she pronounces. “Unless… The fact you thought she could be the one is what’s sending you into this head-spin. Finding a reason to rule her out now, so you don’t get in any deeper.”
She thinks this is self-sabotage? I shake my head. “You don’t understand…”
“I don’t understand the perfect love story you have written in your head turning out not to be so perfect, and having a few unexpected twists along the way?” Monica shoots back at me, with a meaningful look.
Nico bobs his head up. “She means me. I’m the unexpected twist.”
“Yeah, I got that, kiddo,” I say, as he returns to his game, clearly bored by my love life.
“Sorry,” I tell my sister.
She waves it off. “What I’m trying to tell you, is nothing works out the way you think it will. People are human, and sometimes those twists are the best part.”
“Again, me.” Nico beams.
I pass him the rest of my pancakes, as Monica regards me thoughtfully. “So, what’s your play?”
“Well.” I tilt my head back against the booth. “I’m gonna order the brioche French toast as breakfast dessert.”
“Sweet,” Nico beams. “Me too.”
Monica heaves a sigh at us “And what are you going to do about Jenn?”
I don’t answer. Because I know what makes sense: Move on from the lies, and put this whole mess behind me.
But for some reason, my damn heart doesn’t operate on logic. All it wants is her, back in my arms.
Where she belongs.