Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 131486 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131486 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
“I better go.” I push away from the counter and stride over to the back door, opening it, hoping the bracing cold air clears my head of her.
But I’m not sure it can. Not sure anything ever will, even though I have to try because she made her choice. It wasn’t me. Isn’t me. I can’t stay here. Not in this kitchen and not here, still wanting her.
“Josiah,” she says from behind me.
I don’t face her, but turn my head, giving her only my profile. “Yeah?”
“I’ll, um, see you Saturday morning, right?”
Shit. Charlotte.
“Yeah. Car will pick us up at ten.”
“Great. Um…” It feels like we share a held breath as I wait for her to say what she has to say. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
I nod, not looking back, and walk toward the car, where Vashti waits.
“Idiot.” I shove my hands into my pockets, frustration gritting my teeth. “You never learn.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Josiah
Vashti wants me to spend the night.
Of course she does. It’s a holiday. We’ve had very little time alone lately since things have been so busy. And if I’m honest—and I need to be with myself and with her—ever since that charged moment with Yasmen in my office, I’ve been avoiding this. Maybe even since I watched her kiss that wannabe congressman on the front porch. My response to seeing her with someone else was unreasonable, out of proportion, and disturbing. I really need to unpack this shit with Dr. Musa next week, but he’s not here to help navigate this conversation that is probably long overdue.
“Dinner was really cool,” Vashti says, stacking Tupperware in her refrigerator. “Everyone was great, and Yasmen’s mom is so sweet.”
“Yeah.” I take one of the high stools at the counter in the kitchen of her apartment. “Carole’s one of a kind.”
I’d hate to see that girl get hurt.
My ex-mother-in-law’s words looped in my head the whole ride to Vashti’s apartment. I didn’t want to hear what she had to say, and God knows I don’t want to deal with it, but she’s right. I can’t hurt Vashti. My mind won’t release the image of Yasmen at the other end of the table today, head flung back, husky laugh floating down to me. Those stupid turkey earrings whispering against her neck. It’s been hard and cold and lonely since the divorce, and I really needed to move on. On some level, wanting to move on from what was the most painful season of my life, I hoped this relationship with Vashti would make it hurt less. If I wait to feel nothing for Yasmen, I’ll be standing in this same spot forever.
But maybe I need to stand still until I feel less for her than I do right now.
That’s a hard, lonely pill to swallow. It’s going down straight, no chaser, but the longer I think about it, the more this seems the right thing to do.
Once the leftovers are put away, Vashti walks over to stand between my legs at the island and looks up to me with clear eyes. She trusts me, but I don’t trust myself. I’m not saying I’ll do anything about wanting Yasmen, but I can’t be in a relationship with someone else while I feel this way.
Vashti’s fingers wander up, over my shoulder, to caress my neck.
“Vash,” I begin as I put my hand over hers, stopping her from going any further, “we need to talk.”
“Sure.” She leans up to kiss me behind my ear. “After?”
I stand, carefully moving her back a step and crossing around to the other side of the kitchen island, leaning my elbows on the granite surface to face her.
“Now.”
“Okay.” Her short laugh holds a note of nervous uncertainty. On some level, does she see this coming? Certainly at Thanksgiving dinner her suspicions surfaced, even if she quickly tucked them away. Maybe she’s been in just as much denial as I have.
“Do we need a drink for this convo?” she half jokes, walking over to grab a bottle of wine from the counter.
“Uhhh…I’m good, but thanks.”
“I think I will.” She fills a wineglass almost to the top and sets the bottle down between us on the counter before hopping up onto the high stool. “Because ‘we need to talk’ does not usually bode well.”
I can’t even reassure her on that point because I’m not sure how to make this not hurt. I do know the longer I wait, the worse it will feel.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Vash.”
“Then don’t,” she says, her voice a thready whisper, the light in her eyes dimming a little.
“I don’t think we should see each other anymore.” I rush to fix that because I know how much Grits means to her. “Outside of work, of course. I’m saying—”
“You’re breaking up with me.”
Our gazes lock over her untouched glass of wine and I draw a deep breath. “I think it’s best if we end it now.”