Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
He’s not a guy who usually shuts down. He’s not someone who typically closes in on himself. He wears his big heart on his sleeve.
But he also stresses. And when he reaches a certain point, not only does he stress, sometimes he just…stops.
Shit.
This is the guy who freezes when he’s overwhelmed. And what the fuck did I do to him? I piled on. His girlfriend is banged up with a broken leg, and he just discovered his dad leaving his ex’s home the morning after he had to bail on his passion project.
I call David.
It rings and rings and goes to voicemail.
I pace around my home, tapping out a text. Want me to meet you somewhere? I’ll come to you. Just let me know where you are.
But five minutes later, there’s no reply.
He doesn’t answer when I call again. Or text again.
And again.
And…fuck this.
I know my kid.
I grab my wallet and go.
Thirty minutes later, I’m banging on the door to his building. He gave me a key code when he signed the lease, but I don’t want to barrel in.
I’m just cautious. Hopefully he’ll answer.
My instincts are right when his familiar voice comes over the intercom. “You have the code.”
But his voice is distant, removed.
Of course it is, jackwad. Get the fuck in there and fix this mess you made.
“Thanks, David,” I say, then punch in the code, open the door, and rush up the steps to his third-floor sublet.
I’m lifting my fist to knock when the door swings open. He’s behind it, so I can’t see his face until I step inside. When he shuts it, I’m…devastated.
David’s expression is cold.
That’s not his style at all. He’s funny, emotional, needy, happy, worried.
But never…unfeeling.
Now he is, though, and he retreats to the couch, slumps down, folds his arms across his chest. Then meets my gaze. And fires straight in my heart. “You didn’t need to come all the way here to tell me you’re fucking Layla. I figured it out. I’m not that clueless.”
My heart plummets to the floor, crashing in a heap of missed opportunities and bad decisions. I handled this whole situation horribly. I cross to the couch and sit on the other end. “I’m sorry,” I begin, but that barely covers it. I restart with, “I should have told you sooner.”
With an eye roll, he shrugs. The I don’t give a shit about you kind of shrug. “You told me. Thanks,” he says, then carelessly flips a hand toward the door. “There’s the door.”
This is worse than I expected. “Can’t we talk?”
As if in slow motion, he turns his face to me, then levels me with an are you kidding me stare. “If I wanted to talk, I would have gone to your place like we planned. But I didn’t. So, no, I don’t want to talk. I only answered the door to be polite. Like you taught me to be,” he says, his brown eyes mean. “You also taught me to be honest, to help out, to work hard. How’s all that working out for you?”
Oh, shit.
Talk about a low blow. But I deserve that, so I swallow the shock and stick to my plans. “David, I met her in Miami. I didn’t know she was your friend.”
“And my ex. Don’t forget that,” he adds, lifting a finger to make his point.
“I had no idea till I met her again at the diner.”
“Dude. I get that. I’m literally not confused about a thing now. But my girlfriend is in the hospital with a broken leg, and you want to tell me about your love life. Cool, cool. Why don’t you order another couple of meatball subs for us and some beers, and we’ll have a man to man?”
Ouch.
I don’t know what I expected from today, but it wasn’t this. And for one of the first times in my life, I’m speechless.
David’s not though. He points to the door. “You should go, Dad.”
I don’t fight it.
Sometimes, you don’t get to fix your mistakes. You just have to live with them.
So with one last apology, I leave.
39
I, TOO, LOVE LEFTOVERS
Layla
I’m not a cook, so I don’t offer to make dinner for Nick that night. I do, however, insist on picking up something, and I tell him as much over text.
You need to eat even when life is falling apart. I learned this from my mother.
She picked up dinner every night after my father’s death. Yes, she stopped cooking. But she didn’t stop taking care of me.
Fine, fine. We’re not talking death here. But on Sunday night, I grab food from Thai Wisdom a few blocks away, then return to my building. At the concierge desk I tell Grady that he can put Nick Adams on the list.
“Along with Harlow Granger, Ethan Adair, and Anna Mayweather,” he says, scanning the computer screen in front of him.