Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 86596 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86596 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
She lays her hand on my knee and squeezes. “I get it. This is a shitty situation, but maybe you should be honest—at least with yourself. A part of you was falling in love with him.”
Was I?
Falling in love with him?
“Don’t, Pose. You’re only going to make this worse.”
She’s only quiet for a short second. “Do you think you’d be up here crying if you weren’t just a little bit in love with him? If he was only a friend, you’d be at that bitch’s door with a pitchfork, wanting to burn it down.”
That’s true, but I don’t want to think about that.
“Or like—kill her front lawn.”
Posey snorts. “She probably doesn’t have a lawn. She probably lives in one of those stupid high-rise apartments that charge ten grand a month in rent.”
I snort, too. “Yeah.”
“Here, have a cookie.” Posey takes a biscuit and breaks it in two, biting one half and handing the other to me. “These always have a way of making things better.”
“Sometimes,” I say between chews.
“But not today?”
My head gives a tiny shake. “Not today.”
“Molly, I meant what I said. You wouldn’t be up here crying if you weren’t just a little bit in love with him.” She holds up her thumb and index finger as if measuring distance. “Little bit.”
“I have no idea what love feels like,” I mutter.
No idea.
I can’t recall being in love with a man, not even the men I dated in college, not even close. Those “men” were boys, and even back then, I didn’t have time—or make time—to be jerked around by the opposite sex or let one derail me from my graduation.
So sure, I dated, but I wasn’t in love by any stretch of the imagination.
Amused.
I had fun and was entertained.
“Yes, you do,” Posey insists, gesturing toward me. “It feels like this.”
“Miserable?”
She laughs. “Yes. You’re miserable because you love him. If you didn’t, you’d be working. Or outside riding your bike. Or at Starbucks with your laptop—not holed up in your bedroom crying into your pillow. That, my friend, is love.”
“Last I heard, love wasn’t supposed to hurt.”
“That’s not true,” she says. “You hurt because you know he’s hurting. He’s sad, and you’re sad.” Her words make my heart beat faster. “You’re connected.”
I can’t look her in the eye. “If you start babbling about fate and destiny and twin flames, I’m going to throw up.”
My roommate gives me a hard stare. “Kate called yesterday and told me she hasn’t been able to get ahold of her brother, and she never said a word about Laura, so I can only assume he hasn’t told anyone.”
What’s her point?
“My point is, he’s shouldering this news alone.”
“That’s not true.” I sniff. “His friend Jack was over the other night.”
“You’re missing the point.”
Am I?
“You’re here upset. He’s there upset. Why aren’t you together?”
“Misery does love company.”
“And you love Eli Cohen whether you’re ready to admit it to yourself or not.” She nods with authority. “You do.”
“So…what should I do?”
For once, Posey looks uncertain. “Maybe you should contact him. Let him know you’re thinking about him. Maybe…he already knows the results.”
Maybe he already knows.
And maybe he thinks I don’t give a shit one way or another, which couldn’t be further from the truth.
Except.
I didn’t let him know I give a shit.
I told him I thought we should just remain friends. Even though I hadn’t actually meant the words at the time, and he knew it. Knew they were lip service, and I didn’t have the guts to continue talking to him.
How can I be honest with myself if I wasn’t even honest with him?
I’ve always prided myself on being ballsy, no-nonsense, and take-charge. I’m honest and direct—attributes my friends love and respect about me. So why wasn’t I able to be honest and direct with Eli when I had the chance?
Why did I act as if I didn’t care?
Why did I tell him I wanted to be friends when I don’t?
Me: A little bird told me that your sister has been trying to get ahold of you—but can’t reach you.
No. Scratch that.
I delete the text. It’s too nosy, and I don’t want him to think I’ve been gossiping about him.
Me: Hey stranger, it’s been a few days, and I wanted to check in…
Delete.
Me: Eli, I miss you.
Delete.
“UGH!” I toss my phone to the bed and stare at it, fingers raking through my hair in frustration. What the hell do I say?
Say what you feel—you literally just gave yourself a damn pep talk about being honest and direct, you chickenshit.
Me: It feels strange not talking to you every day.
SEND.
Eli: You know, I was thinking the same thing myself.
Me: Then why didn’t you message me?
Eli: I didn’t think you wanted me to.
I know—and it’s my fault, and it makes me feel horrible, especially seeing it in writing.
Me: I know. And I’m sorry.