But as I consider all this, I realize there was none of that with Hayden. The sex was off-the-charts hot, and I can truly say that every time he opened his mouth, he kept me entertained. There was no forcing his hobbies on me, either. He took an interest in my hobbies instead. It really felt like we were building toward something real. And then . . . whammo . The floor fell out from beneath me.
Hating myself almost as much as I hate Hayden, I finish my last day of business meetings in a black mood and fly home alone.
• • •
When the taxi drops me off at almost eleven, some kind of masochistic curiosity prompts me to climb past my floor and up to Hayden’s. I peep around the corner of the stairwell. Light glows from underneath his condo door; he must be home for the night. I consider knocking and demanding an explanation, but right now, I’m not brave enough. The last thing I need is to break down in front of a man who’s already exploited my feelings.
Besides, all my texts went unanswered and all my calls went straight to voice mail. Hayden must have turned off his phone. He’s willing to miss communications from anyone, no matter how important, just to avoid even seeing my name on his screen.
So I already know perfectly well that he’s pushed me away. Knocking on his door will only force me to face that rejection in person. I don’t know which would be worse . . . Hayden outright sneering that he’s done with me, asking why I can’t take a hint, or Hayden gazing at me with pity in his eyes, trying to let me down easy. At least he won’t snow me with a fake apology just to set the stage for another booty call, like my last ex would always do. Hayden’s text made it pretty clear that he never wants to see me again—in or out of bed.
Lost in resentful thought, I startle when Hayden’s condo door opens. I watch in horrified disbelief as a buxom, long-legged woman saunters out. She looks tired, satisfied . . . and familiar.
Is that who I think it is? Even with the building’s hall lights dimmed for the night, Roxy’s face is unmistakable. And she’s dressed the most casual I’ve ever seen her, wearing flip-flops, Bermuda shorts, and a man’s T-shirt . . . is it Hayden’s? Her blond hair splays over her neck in a messy ponytail, as if she quickly pulled it back, and she isn’t wearing any makeup. Overall, she looks like she was rode hard and put away wet.
I feel sick to my stomach. That prick sure didn’t take long to replace me, did he? And with his ex, no less. Her dire warnings to stay away from Hayden clearly didn’t apply to herself.
Before Roxy can catch me lurking—or I start crying—I duck back into the stairwell and down to the safety of my condo.
• • •
The next few days pass in a dark funk. I bitch a little to Trina over lunch, then stop when I realize it doesn’t make me feel better. Neither does double-chocolate ice cream with hot fudge. Even my work can’t truly distract me. I’m numb and distracted, and tired, sleeping until my alarm demands that I get up or be late for work. I skip yoga, and generally feel exhausted.
But one morning, I wake up pissed off. Not upset, not depressed, but filled with a fury that’s cold and hard and strong as iron. It pushes me out of bed and into the shower like I’m preparing for battle. All my helpless self-pity has transmuted itself into determination.
No more sad-sack Emery, I decide, welcoming the cool spray on my face. No more moping and wallowing in heartbreak. I refuse to waste any more energy on that prick, not even to hate him. As Mom always says, the best revenge is living well.
I have to remind myself who I am, and the best way to do that is to get centered on my career again. I have to kick even more ass at work and double down on studying; the bar exam is only a week away now. And I have to make a clean break, so that I’m reminded of Hayden as little as possible. Which means finding a new apartment. Again.
Despite my new resolutions, I feel a residual flash of anger at myself. What the fuck happened here? After my last boyfriend, I told everyone who would listen that I’d sworn off men, but I still managed to get tangled up with yet another jerk. I convinced myself that Hayden would be different when he was just Asshole McFuckstick: The Thrilling Sequel.
At least I got some good sex out of this whole mess, I think bitterly as I comb my hair. At least I came to my senses before he sank his claws too far into me. At least I only wasted a month of my life, instead of two years.
Even so, what’s wrong with me? Am I an idiot? How many times do I have to make this kind of mistake before I learn to avoid it? Maybe I just won’t have a next time at all. I should have stuck to my no boys allowed rule in the first place. All men ever do is confuse your priorities and fuck up your life.
I remind myself of another Mom proverb: Spit in one hand and wish in the other, and see which one fills up first. I can’t change the past, so I force my attention back to the future and resume my pep talk.
I’m Emery Winters, damn it , I repeat silently while I get dressed and put on my makeup. I don’t need men. I don’t need anyone. I’m a lean, mean legal machine. I eat textbooks for breakfast and contracts for dessert. No one can fuck with me.
Speaking of which . . . I tell my growling stomach to hold its horses. There’s something I have to take care of before work, and I don’t want to be late. Besides, it’s Monday, so there will be free donuts in the conference room. Think of the sprinkles. No, wait, don’t think of them yet.
At last, I look as fierce and polished as I wish I felt. I dig my tenant agreement out of my filing cabinet and head downstairs to the building manager’s office.
Hating myself almost as much as I hate Hayden, I finish my last day of business meetings in a black mood and fly home alone.
• • •
When the taxi drops me off at almost eleven, some kind of masochistic curiosity prompts me to climb past my floor and up to Hayden’s. I peep around the corner of the stairwell. Light glows from underneath his condo door; he must be home for the night. I consider knocking and demanding an explanation, but right now, I’m not brave enough. The last thing I need is to break down in front of a man who’s already exploited my feelings.
Besides, all my texts went unanswered and all my calls went straight to voice mail. Hayden must have turned off his phone. He’s willing to miss communications from anyone, no matter how important, just to avoid even seeing my name on his screen.
So I already know perfectly well that he’s pushed me away. Knocking on his door will only force me to face that rejection in person. I don’t know which would be worse . . . Hayden outright sneering that he’s done with me, asking why I can’t take a hint, or Hayden gazing at me with pity in his eyes, trying to let me down easy. At least he won’t snow me with a fake apology just to set the stage for another booty call, like my last ex would always do. Hayden’s text made it pretty clear that he never wants to see me again—in or out of bed.
Lost in resentful thought, I startle when Hayden’s condo door opens. I watch in horrified disbelief as a buxom, long-legged woman saunters out. She looks tired, satisfied . . . and familiar.
Is that who I think it is? Even with the building’s hall lights dimmed for the night, Roxy’s face is unmistakable. And she’s dressed the most casual I’ve ever seen her, wearing flip-flops, Bermuda shorts, and a man’s T-shirt . . . is it Hayden’s? Her blond hair splays over her neck in a messy ponytail, as if she quickly pulled it back, and she isn’t wearing any makeup. Overall, she looks like she was rode hard and put away wet.
I feel sick to my stomach. That prick sure didn’t take long to replace me, did he? And with his ex, no less. Her dire warnings to stay away from Hayden clearly didn’t apply to herself.
Before Roxy can catch me lurking—or I start crying—I duck back into the stairwell and down to the safety of my condo.
• • •
The next few days pass in a dark funk. I bitch a little to Trina over lunch, then stop when I realize it doesn’t make me feel better. Neither does double-chocolate ice cream with hot fudge. Even my work can’t truly distract me. I’m numb and distracted, and tired, sleeping until my alarm demands that I get up or be late for work. I skip yoga, and generally feel exhausted.
But one morning, I wake up pissed off. Not upset, not depressed, but filled with a fury that’s cold and hard and strong as iron. It pushes me out of bed and into the shower like I’m preparing for battle. All my helpless self-pity has transmuted itself into determination.
No more sad-sack Emery, I decide, welcoming the cool spray on my face. No more moping and wallowing in heartbreak. I refuse to waste any more energy on that prick, not even to hate him. As Mom always says, the best revenge is living well.
I have to remind myself who I am, and the best way to do that is to get centered on my career again. I have to kick even more ass at work and double down on studying; the bar exam is only a week away now. And I have to make a clean break, so that I’m reminded of Hayden as little as possible. Which means finding a new apartment. Again.
Despite my new resolutions, I feel a residual flash of anger at myself. What the fuck happened here? After my last boyfriend, I told everyone who would listen that I’d sworn off men, but I still managed to get tangled up with yet another jerk. I convinced myself that Hayden would be different when he was just Asshole McFuckstick: The Thrilling Sequel.
At least I got some good sex out of this whole mess, I think bitterly as I comb my hair. At least I came to my senses before he sank his claws too far into me. At least I only wasted a month of my life, instead of two years.
Even so, what’s wrong with me? Am I an idiot? How many times do I have to make this kind of mistake before I learn to avoid it? Maybe I just won’t have a next time at all. I should have stuck to my no boys allowed rule in the first place. All men ever do is confuse your priorities and fuck up your life.
I remind myself of another Mom proverb: Spit in one hand and wish in the other, and see which one fills up first. I can’t change the past, so I force my attention back to the future and resume my pep talk.
I’m Emery Winters, damn it , I repeat silently while I get dressed and put on my makeup. I don’t need men. I don’t need anyone. I’m a lean, mean legal machine. I eat textbooks for breakfast and contracts for dessert. No one can fuck with me.
Speaking of which . . . I tell my growling stomach to hold its horses. There’s something I have to take care of before work, and I don’t want to be late. Besides, it’s Monday, so there will be free donuts in the conference room. Think of the sprinkles. No, wait, don’t think of them yet.
At last, I look as fierce and polished as I wish I felt. I dig my tenant agreement out of my filing cabinet and head downstairs to the building manager’s office.
