I’m not prepared for the animosity in her tone.
Sure, I knew she’d be upset. Maybe even angry.
But the Chloe before me, looking like she just stepped off a goddamn runway, is fuming. Red splotches appear on her cheeks and her shoulders stiffen, waves of hurt emanating from her frame.
Shit. I swallow, hoping to ease the dryness in my throat. I reach to grab her wrist but she yanks it away.
“Hear me out, Chlo.”
“Why?” She crosses her arms over her chest.
“I’m here, aren’t I?” I say defensively. Yeah, it was shitty of me to bail on the wedding but Easton needed me and I thought Chloe of all people would understand that. She’s always been caring and compassionate, always one to jump in and help when needed. I mean, here she is, a bridesmaid in a wedding with the woman her ex-fiancé cheated on her with.
She rakes her teeth over her bottom lip, picking up a shot glass and waving it at the bartender.
Damn. Concern blazes through me. Did I cause her to react like this? She’s already unsteady on her feet and the gleam in her eyes, feverish and hazy, is a good indicator that she crossed over from tipsy to drunk a while ago.
“Why are you here, Austin?”
My eyebrows snap together. “Because I want to be here. With you.”
She shakes her head. “Try again.”
“What?” I move closer to her, trying to get a read on the wild expression in her eyes.
It’s reckless and exasperated and unlike anything I’ve ever witnessed in her before.
I have a hell of a lot of experience, too much really, with irate women.
But Chloe’s never been irrational…
“You’re here because you feel guilty,” she murmurs quietly, not picking up the shot glass the bartender placed down before making himself scarce. Smart man. “You promised you’d come to this wedding with me and so here you are. And I appreciate it, Austin. I appreciate the gesture and you being here when you’re clearly exhausted. But you didn’t show up for the right reason. You didn’t show up for me; you showed up for you.” She points at me accusingly, her words slurring.
“Baby, that’s not true.” I grip the underside of her elbow, my tone pleading.
Tears collect in the corners of her eyes and nausea twists my stomach as the full realization of just how much I hurt Chloe rocks through me.
“Chloe, please. Let’s head up to the room. It’s been a long day. We can talk in the morning.”
She lets out another humorless sound. “Right. Because now I’m drunk and emotional and who wants to have a real conversation about real things with the insecure bridesmaid, never the bride.” She hiccups.
I stare at her for a long moment, as if I’m seeing her for the first time. Gone is my charming friend. Gone is the confident woman I’m stupidly in love with.
Instead, I see the hurt, scared, somewhat broken woman who Steve knocked down and I just kicked over. I close my eyes, tipping my head skyward as the damage I caused sinks in.
“Sunshine,” I reason, “I’m so fucking sorry about today. Okay? I really am. But baby, Easton needed me and—”
“I needed you,” she cuts me off. “And I know that’s selfish and unfair. I know that, Austin. Admitting it out loud makes me hate myself a little bit. But I’m never anyone’s first choice. I’m never anyone’s real concern. I’m always the afterthought. I mean, you didn’t even message to tell me about East. I heard about everything from Claire. And maybe it’s me and my insecurities, but I don’t want to be this person anymore.” She shakes her head. “Is East okay?”
I nod.
“Claire?”
“They’re both fine. Back home.”
“Good.” She nods and moves to sidestep me. “I’m tired.”
“Okay,” I say, catching her hand. I walk with her to the elevators, shooting side glances her way. My anxiety spikes, crawling up into my throat and making my tongue thicken, too fat to form words.
Will Chloe forgive me? Can she see past this moment? This misunderstanding?
My heart races and the back of my neck prickles as my thoughts splinter off in different directions. I try to focus on the moment, on Chloe. But her distracted expression only increases my concern.
Her head is somewhere else entirely. Her emotions are twisted up, causing little sighs and sniffles to sound out. But the resignation in her expression, the coolness in her eyes, is what scares the hell out of me.
She’s just drunk.
She’s just tired.
You’ll talk in the morning.
I mentally flip through rationalizations as Chloe kicks off her stunning dress that I waited all week to see her in. She doesn’t bother pulling hairpins from her updo or washing her face. Instead, she pulls on a T-shirt, slides into the bed, and ignores me completely.
“Chloe—”
“I’m not in the mood, Austin,” she cuts me off, turning her back.
I swear, gripping the back of my neck. Turning away from her, I stride to the window and stare out into the darkness. The windowpane is cool against my palm but it doesn’t center me the way I need.
Instead, my worry gives way to anger at Chloe’s dismissal. The fatigue I’ve been battling all day crashes over me. I’m fucking exhausted.
I’ve been up since nearly 2 a.m. My nerves are rattled, trying to talk Easton off a proverbial ledge. I’m emotionally drained from running interference between my best friend and his sponsor, between Easton and Claire.
Not to mention, I spent over five hours driving from Boston to Manhattan to show up for Chloe. To show her how much I care about her, that I want to be here for her, that I’m committed to our relationship.
And she throws it in my fucking face? Says I’m making it all about me?
“No.” I turn away from the window and stride back toward the bed, flipping the lights on in the process.
“What?” She sits straight up.
And fuck, I hate the damn mascara streaks on her face, giving away that she was silently crying while feigning sleep. But I’m hurt too. And angry. And frustrated.
“You don’t get to shut me out like this. I spent five hours driving to be here for you. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Easton in my message. There wasn’t a lot of time and I didn’t want you to worry.”
“You didn’t want me to worry?” She leaps out of bed, surprisingly spright for someone slurring their words so badly.
I know I should let it go. She’s drunk and I’m scared. We’re both exhausted and pissed off. Whatever we say now isn’t going to be well-thought-out and level-headed. No, we’re going to hurl angry barbs at each other that are only going to make us both feel like shit in the morning.
But my hockey captain’s levelheadedness is irrelevant when I’m dealing with women. Especially with the woman. The only one I’ve ever truly cared about.
“I’m sorry, Chloe! Okay, how many times do you want me to say it? I know I should have been more upfront with you. But I’ve been trying to call you since 4 p.m. You could have picked up too, ya know?”
Regret flares in her eyes and she glances at her phone, discarded on the desk.
I snort, moving to pick it up before she can. When the screen lights up, I see the list of my unanswered messages and missed calls.
“I left my phone here,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Mature. Real fucking mature,” I snap back, raking a hand over my face.
“This was never going to work,” she murmurs.
“What?” I narrow my eyes at her. My fingers tremble as an icy coldness slithers down my spine.
“Me and you,” she continues. “We fell back into old habits, something comfortable and familiar.”
“There’s nothing familiar or comfortable about this.” I gesture between us, faced off and arguing. “We never fought. Ever. And I’ve never felt the way I do before you came back into my life. You make me feel like I’m fucking flying. You make me feel…” I trail off, heaving out a sigh. “How did we fuck this up so badly, baby?”
She dashes a tear off of her cheek, some of the fight leaving her body. “I don’t know, Austin. Maybe because I’m not ready. Maybe I’m more hurt and twisted up over my past than I thought. Or maybe because you’re holding back. And you’re not as ready to be in a real relationship as you thought. Or wanted.”
I stare at her, witnessing the hurt ripple across her face. It’s deep and potent. But her words strike a nerve because she’s right. The shakiness of my hands, the sickness roiling in my stomach, is proof of that. Maybe I’m not as ready as I need to be, not for a woman like her. Not for a relationship like ours.
“I want to be,” I murmur, clearing my throat.
She nods and compassion floods her eyes. “I know. But sometimes wanting it just isn’t enough.” She sits back down on the mattress and closes her eyes, heaving out a sigh. When she opens them, she just looks sad. Deflated. “I’m tired, Austin.”
“I know.”
“No, I mean I’m tired. Exhausted and drained and empty. I can’t keep doing this.” She throws an arm in my direction before letting it fall limp next to her on the bed. “Part of my reaction today is because of my history with Steve. We both know it.” She glances at me and I dip my chin in agreement. She lifts a shoulder and lets it fall, resigned. “This was never going to work.”
“Chlo—” I step toward her but she holds up a hand.
“Please, let’s just sleep now, okay? I don’t want to argue. I don’t want to feel like, like this”—she gestures to herself—“anymore right now.” Her eyes are pleading when they meet mine and even though I want to hash everything out, convince her that we can fix this, that we can do better, I nod.
She swings her legs back into the bed and pulls the comforter over her shoulders. I flip off the lights and lose my suit pants and shirt. Sliding into bed beside her, an ocean of space exists between us. We both hover on the edges of the mattress, our backs to each other, our silence hovering over the bed like an oppressive weight. Things between us, always so effortless and fun, now seem strained and stressful.
How the hell did this happen? How did I let this happen?