The Player and the Pixie
Page 57

“I’ve known you much longer than that.”
“Fine, a few weeks. It’s the sex.”
“It’s not the sex. You know it’s not.” My hand reflexively tightened on hers, pressing her palm over my heart.
She shook her head, rejecting my words. “It is. You said yourself. You’ve only been with women when you’re drunk. Sloppy and quick. I’m just the first girl you’ve taken your time with, sober, mindful of what you’re doing.”
“We’re not having sex now,” I said through clenched teeth. Her words stung despite—or perhaps because of—their veracity.
“No. But don’t mistake deeper feelings for a good time in the sack.”
“Lucy—”
“No.” She wrested her hand away, squaring her jaw with resolve. She rose to a sitting position on the bed and wrapped her arms around her legs, a physical manifestation of the wall between us. “I like you. I do. You’re witty and funny when you allow yourself to be. You’re fun to be with. You have depth even if you won’t admit it. But I’m not fooling myself here. You hate my brother and we both know the feeling is mutual. These things you think you’re feeling? They’ll pass. Give it a week, a month at maximum. You’ll forget my name.”
Anger and its partner frustration had me growling before she’d finished. “You underestimate yourself if you think you’re so forgettable.”
“You know what I mean.” She waved her hand in the air. “I’m sure you’ll always think of me fondly—me and my blow jobs. But what are you giving up? Nothing, that’s what. And when you grow tired of the novelty, you’ll just move on. Meanwhile, I’d be giving up my brother, and that’s like asking me to give up my arms and legs. He’s the only one, the only one, who has ever been there for me. My whole life, he was the only person who cared about me. He loves me. And I love him. And I couldn’t . . . I couldn’t . . .”
She didn’t finish because her features crumpled with sorrow and tears strangled the words. My anger immediately deflated in the face of her distress and I reached for her, not allowing her to push me away.
Some instinctual need to calm her, ease her fears, take away her burdens had me holding her tightly and rubbing her back, had me promising to do whatever she needed, be whatever she needed.
“Okay. Okay. It’s fine. Please, stop crying.” I didn’t know what I was saying; really, I would have said anything to put an end to her sorrow. It panicked me.
Lying against my side, I felt her chest rise and fall with several bracing inhales, as though she were doing breathing exercises to stem the tears.
“I’m not crying,” she said defiantly, her voice still watery.
“Oh?” I squeezed her, needing her to be happy. “I apologize for my hasty assumption. Clearly you’re not crying.”
Lucy huffed an unsteady laugh. “Clearly.” She sniffled.
We lay together for a time, surrounded on all sides by brooding silence and a fate-ish sort of finality.
I couldn’t stay in New York.
We’d been in each other’s orbit for a week, so why did it feel like the end of something vital? Why did my bones ache at the thought of not being able to speak with her, touch her, or see her? Why did I become absurdly furious whenever I thought of her with someone else?
This would be our last night together. It had to be. I didn’t want any additional lessons with a disinterested teacher.
I wanted more.
I wanted a shot with Lucy.
I wanted to go for broke.
But she didn’t want that with me, not enough to make a mess of her life. I was too risky.
I couldn’t fault her logic, but I gave myself permission to hate it.
Chapter Fifteen
@LucyFitz A man wearing a red evening gown just came on the subway and started singing Sir Mix-A-Lot to the beat of two empty Coke cans #NYC #neveradullday
@Anniecat to @LucyFitz I kinda miss the crazy #feelinnostalgic
*Lucy*
I woke up alone and naked.
When I glanced around the room, I saw that Sean’s suitcase was gone. The door to the closet was open and only sunlight on empty hangers greeted me.
Sunlight on those empty hangers was maybe the saddest thing I’d ever seen. My heart sank. My limbs felt too heavy to move.
I didn’t cry. Not immediately, at any rate. Instead, I lay back in the bed and did breathing exercises, attempting to clear my mind. It didn’t work. So I reminded myself that I’d been the one to say no. I’d pushed him away. My reasons were valid. I was being intelligent and realistic.
And then I cried.
I curled up into a ball and cried like an infant until a knock sounded at the door. My heart leapt, because my heart wasn’t thinking clearly. I jumped from the bed, pulling the sheet around me as I raced to the door.
Yanking it open without looking through the peephole, my silly heart took a nosedive when I found a man in a suit standing outside the door. Behind him was a room service tray and another man, dressed in a waiter’s uniform.
“Ms. Fitzpatrick?” the man in the suit asked, showing no sign of being surprised by my appearance.
I gripped the sheet tighter to my chest. “Uh, yes?”
“I’m Davies, your concierge. And I have an item for you from your Mr. Cassidy. He’s also sent up a tray. May we bring it in?”
I blinked at this Davies chap for several seconds before his words arranged themselves in my brain. They didn’t make sense, not precisely, but I realized I was gaping at him like a mental patient.