Chapter Eight

Bryan had made love to her twice more, in between bouts of drowsing and pillow talk. In spite of her lack of sleep, Gloria woke the next morning blissfully relaxed, the result of amazing sex.

But his side of the bed was empty. She peeked into the bathroom. He wasn’t there. After using the facilities and grabbing his robe from the back of the door, she padded into the kitchen. It too was empty, but a note lay on the counter.

Good morning, beautiful. Ran out to get some decent coffee and breakfast for us. Back soon.

There’s juice in the fridge. Help yourself.

Gloria smiled. Beautiful. That’s how she felt, how he’d made her feel. And he’d gone to get them breakfast. So thoughtful.

There was time to grab a shower, but she’d rather not take one alone. She’d wait for Bryan and ask him to join her. She poured herself a glass of juice and took a turn around his apartment, looking at his photographs, perusing the books on his shelves. Stealing a few moments to learn more about him, indulge her curiosity. She didn’t feel too guilty. After all, she wasn’t going through his drawers or leafing through the papers on his desk.

A wave of unease rippled through her as her gaze fell to the wastebasket beside his desk. Was he truly over Courtney? Was putting the past behind him really as easy as tossing away a note?

She shook her head and pushed her fears aside. She trusted Bryan.

Even knowing that, something niggled at her as she returned to the kitchen. Something about the note…

But which note? The memo Bryan jotted was right where he left it on the counter. His bold slashing script perfectly reflected his personality.

Ice water crept through her veins, replacing warm blood as awareness slowly dawned. His handwriting…

Didn’t match the other letter.

Gloria slowly and carefully placed her glass on the counter. She walked into the living room, her steps measured. She bent and retrieved the crumpled note from the wastebasket.

Bryan’s grand gesture. This is the past. It’s over. I want to move on.

God, she was an idiot.

She smoothed out the wrinkles and read the letter to Courtney start to finish.

I don’t know if I’ll have the courage to send you this letter and if you’ll even care enough to read it if I do. But it doesn’t really matter, because I’m writing it for me.

I want to tell you now what I never had the nerve to say before. I love you. I never said it, because I knew you’d never say it back. That made me a coward.

But you were a coward, too. You never really let me close. You hold the whole world at arm’s length, thinking that makes you smart. But it’s sad, because the truth is you’re scared of being hurt. You don’t even know how lonely you are.

We could have been happy. Or at least we could have tried. But we were both afraid, and that makes me sad. We’ll never know what we both lost.

I’m sorry

She knew the truth, even before she returned to the kitchen and placed the two notes side by side for comparison.

They had not been written by the same person.

There was no denying the difference in handwriting—the round, loopy script in the first letter and slashing downward strokes of the second.

She knew Bryan wrote that second note. But he hadn’t written the first.

He was a liar.

Gloria stood at the counter, too stunned to move. She could barely think. Everything in her wanted to make sense of it, find some reasonable explanation.

There was none. Bryan had lied from the moment she’d shown him the letter. All the time they’d spent together, all the personal details they’d shared. For a moment, the room wavered as nausea rushed through her.

She clapped a hand to her mouth as acid surged up her throat. She scrambled into the bathroom and emptied the contents of her stomach into the toilet. When she felt steady enough, she rinsed the sour aftertaste from her mouth. Bracing herself on the sink, she glared at her bleary reflection in the mirror.

You’re a chump. You let him play you.

Bad enough she’d slept with him, but worse, she’d shared her fears, her deepest secrets. He’d listened, pretending to care, to sympathize. She’d told him about Emilio…

And he’d betrayed her. No, she’d betrayed herself by trusting him.

It all began with a lie. How could she believe anything after that was the truth? Was everything he told her a fabrication, made up on the spur of the moment? Was it all just a game to get her to sleep with him?

No. If he’d only wanted a bedmate, there were plenty of women who’d have happily obliged. But he pursued her, drew her out, pried into the intimate details of her life. Why go to all that trouble only for sex?

Because that’s his M.O. He’s not your run of the mill lothario. He draws a woman in, makes her feel special. Like he really cares. And each silly little female goes in with eyes wide open, thinking she’ll be different. He’s not satisfied with a woman’s body. He wants her heart and mind, too. Much more satisfying when he pulls the rug out from under her. And here you are, like all the rest, making excuses. Trying to tell yourself you were special. Pobrecita. Poor little you.

She stalked to the bedroom, jerked on her clothes, and grabbed her purse. In the kitchen, she set her juice glass atop the two letters on the counter. When Bryan returned and found them there, side by side, he’d know what happened. No further explanation needed.

And that’s it? After all he did to you, that’s how you’re going to leave it? Why don’t you send him a real message?

Just as two volatile chemicals in a test tube might create a dangerous new mix, Gloria’s hurt and humiliation had anger foaming in her gut. She could live up to the fiery Latina stereotype and go postal on his ass.

That pitcher on the counter looked good and heavy. She could wait here until Bryan came back and brain him with it or at least have the satisfaction of throwing it at him when he walked in the door and watching it shatter on the wall.

A pair of scissors lay in the drawer under the counter. She could take them, tear his clothes out of the closet, and slash them to ribbons. Some women would.

She could grab the bottle of bleach from the bathroom and toss the contents on his sofa, armchair, and carpet. Destroy his belongings. Plenty of women in her shoes would think he only had it coming.

She could ransack his cupboards and refrigerator, break all his crockery, squirt ketchup and mustard on his curtains and walls. Leave the shards on the floor and all the other mess for him to clean up. Women everywhere would cheer.

She allowed herself a few moments to fantasize doing all that, then decided no. She wasn’t a vandal. Revenge would be meaningless, especially if it meant neighbors calling 911 and her mug shot appearing on the evening news. She would hold her head up, take the high road, and let his conscience deal with him. That is, if he had one.

As Gloria stepped out of the apartment and quietly closed the door behind her, her own conscience was clear. She was good. She was fine. Karma would take care of Bryan Dunn.

On the other hand, why should Karma have all the fun?

****

Bryan carried a waxed-paper bag of jelly donuts, still warm, in one hand and a coffee carrier in the other as he walked the two blocks from the donut shop to his building. He hoped Gloria hadn’t awakened yet. He looked forward to surprising her with breakfast and then a long morning of lounging together in bed, sharing powdered-sugar kisses.

Another first for him. He’d always been a “get to the point” kind of lover. Though careful to make sure his partners were satisfied, he wasn’t a cuddler. Foreplay was to put a woman in the mood for the main event, not something he particularly enjoyed for his own benefit. After sex, he’d always mentally tap his foot, forcing himself not to check the clock, wondering how much time could elapse before politely suggesting his partner leave. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d spent the entire night with a woman.

It shamed him to recall what a selfish, shortsighted lover he’d been in the past. Being with Gloria had shown him that. He’d cheated his partners and cheated himself.

He frowned and his steps slowed. He had other, more pressing things to be ashamed of. His lies to Gloria. Last night, he’d bargained away his guilty conscience. But this morning he knew he couldn’t keep weaseling away.

He had to tell her the truth. He hadn’t written the letter she’d found in the book of sonnets. There was no Courtney. He’d constructed a web of lies to draw Gloria in, then to keep her with him. But he wanted a real future with her, and that wouldn’t happen without complete honesty.

She’d be furious, and he was ready to take whatever she dished out. He only hoped her anger, once she got it out, would eventually give way to forgiveness.

With that in mind, he squared his shoulders, prepared to take his punishment. When he reached his building, he did a little juggling to fish for his key. He was surprised to find the door to his apartment unlocked. He could have sworn he’d locked up before heading out.

His heart thumped in alarm. Had someone broken in and—

“Gloria,” he shouted, his voice hoarse. No answer. He quickly dumped his things on the counter, not caring that one of the cups upended, spilling coffee to the floor.

He checked the bedroom and bathroom. Her clothes were gone and so was she. What the hell?

Dazed, he returned to the kitchen and swore when he saw the coffee mess dripping off the counter. He grabbed a handful of paper towels and swabbed the floor. Cursing again, he tossed the soggy mass into the trash and noticed the two letters anchored by a half-empty juice glass.

Oh, hell. Oh, shit.

He was screwed.