“All right,” he says. “What time?”
“Seven. Just down the street at Cut 360.”
The conversation seems strange and stilted, but I can’t tell if that’s because something is truly off, or because I’m filtering it through my own little cloud of angst.
“Sounds good. Why don’t you come down about six forty-five. We’ll walk over. Should be a nice night.”
I nod. And then, before I can stop myself, I blurt out, “You weren’t in your office earlier.”
“No,” he says. “I went out.”
“So I gathered. Where’d you go?”
“Nowhere special.”
“With Megan.” I try to sound normal, but my voice is flat.
He looks at me, and his head tilts just slightly. I think his eyes might have narrowed, but that may just be my imagination. “Yes,” he says evenly. “With Megan.”
We’re blocking pedestrian traffic, and a tall man in a very expensive suit shoots me an irritated glance. I don’t care. Because now I’m certain the conversation is stilted, and I don’t understand it and, dammit, it scares me. Because this isn’t the way it’s supposed to be. Not between me and Jackson. Not ever.
I force a casual tone. “I didn’t realize she was still in town from the documentary.”
“She came back.”
“You never did tell me what you two were arguing about at the premiere.”
He meets my eyes. Mine, I’m sure are needy. His are as cold as arctic ice. “No, I guess I didn’t.”
He might as well have slapped me. “You know what, Jackson, screw it.” I see him take a step back as if in defense against a blow, but I’m too far gone to care. “You want to hold on to your secrets, then you just fucking do that.”
I storm off, feeling like an idiot, and not at all sure if he’s the one who’s off or if I am.
Back in my cubicle, I try to concentrate. Try, but don’t succeed.
I know that I’m being jealous, but dammit, I don’t care. I wanted him today—needed him. And he wasn’t there. Because he was with the one woman other than me that he’d not only slept with, but that he’d cared about.
So, yeah, maybe it’s stupid or bitchy or unfair, but I’m going to wallow. Because so long as I’m pissed off and moody about this, then at least all the shit with my father and brother stays buried under a load of irrelevant angst.
Fuck.
“Bad day?”
I spin around in my chair to find Karen standing at the edge of my cubicle holding a vase full of yellow roses.
I grimace. “Did I say that out loud?”
“Don’t worry. I’ve heard way more colorful language on the floor.”
“Sorry. And yeah, this isn’t the best of days.”
“Maybe these will help.” She passes me the flowers. “They just came for you.”
“Really?” I suppose I should have clued in; it’s not like Karen wanders the halls with roses. But I guess I assumed she was walking them to the coffee station to fill the vase with water. “Who are they from?”
But that’s a question that I ask only for form. Of course I know who sent them. And the heart that had been feeling so heavy flutters a bit in my chest.
Just to be sure, I peek at the card.
I’m just one floor away, but it feels like worlds apart.
I’m sorry.
J.
I tuck the card in my purse, and smile at Karen. “You’re right. They helped.”
“Glad to hear it.” She takes a step back toward the reception area, then pauses. “If Jackson shows up, should I send him straight back?”
“Yeah,” I say. “You do that.”
I’m about to type out a quick sorry I was a bitch text, but before I even start typing, I get a call from Cass.
“Hey, what’s up?” I ask.
“That’s what I want to know,” she says. “Do I need to come over there and bitch-slap your boyfriend?”
Either my best friend has completely lost it or—“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the redheaded twit. Who is she? Have you seen this shit? Hang on.”
She’s rattling her words off so fast I can barely process them, and I’ve just opened my mouth to ask her to please slow down when she sends me a text with a website link.
“Did it come through? Click on it.”
“Hang on.” I don’t want to—I really don’t want to. Because whatever it is, it’s not going to be good. But I need to know, and so I click. And then, yes, I curse.
