Heart Improvement: A Brooklyn Heights Bachelor Romance

Chapter 37 - Chelsea

“Hey, Chels.” I look up. My classmate Jamie is standing at the end of the row. “You want to meet in the studio later?”

“Not tonight,” I say, closing my laptop and putting it in my backpack. “I have plans.”

“Hot date?”

I laugh although I don’t actually think it’s funny.

“More of a business obligation.”

I’m kind of hoping no one at FIT sees the show. Because I will have to explain it and I really don’t want to do that.

I look down at my hand and my very bare ring finger. After we filmed the last show, I took off the rings. The engagement ring is in its box for the first time ever, hidden in my sock drawer. The wedding ring is floating around in the bottom of the same box.

After I took the rings off, I got paranoid that I would forget to wear them to the watch party. So I put notes up all over my apartment. Which I’ve vowed to take down the minute I get home tonight. A real vow I intend to honor. The last thing I need while I’m trying to forget my engagement is finding notes about the ring to remind me about it.

I rush home and shower. I assume Scott and I are still leaving at five. We haven’t texted. Maybe after this I’ll block him. But he is my landlord. Ugh. I feel the tears start up again. I’ve cried every day this week, a lot. Sam has been working loads of overtime providing emotional support.

As I’m putting on my makeup, I call her.

“This is it then, last time?”

“Last time I call you?”

“About shithead? Hopefully.”

On Wednesday night we shared a pint of Ben and Jerry’s virtually. Me in New York with Chocolate Therapy. Her not in New York with New York Super Fudge Chunk.

That was the night we realized Scott’s initials are SH, as in shithead. After tonight I’m going to try to act more like a grownup. But right now, while I’m trying to get over the finish line of the lie marathon, behaving like a heartbroken, angsty, self-righteous teenager is working so I’m going with it.

“How was class?”

Sam has been gently steering the conversation away from SH whenever possible. She said it’s for my mental health. I asked what a paralegal knows about mental health. She said being my friend should be worth at least two semesters worth of credits.

“I love my classes.”

“Atta girl.”

The doorbell rings. I look at the time. Five o’clock exactly.

“He’s here.”

“Kick him in the balls for me.”

“Isn’t that assault?”

“Justified. Call me later.”

“I will.”

I run to the door and open it.

“I’m ready, I promise.”

It’s stupid but I don’t want to give him another reason to tell himself he was right not to pick me. Yep, that’s where I’m at. Showing off my punctuality.

I grab my purse and keys off the hook and start to step out the door. He puts his arm out and blocks me.

“What?”

“Shoes,” he says.

I look down at my bare feet. I’m a punctual idiot. Great.

“Sorry,” I say. “Busy day.”

He nods.

I grab my shoes and lean up against the wall, putting them on. I can’t tell what he’s thinking. Bored? Impatient? Both? Neither?

“I thought about getting an Uber,” he says. “But then I checked the traffic.”

“The subway is fine.”

We can be equally awkwardly silent on the subway or in an Uber. I have been dreading this all week. Being alone with him. In an Uber maybe I could have talked to the driver. Some of them are chatty. And I could have pretended to be totally happy and normal, just to prove to Scott—and myself—how perfectly fine I am without him.

There should be a ton of people at the party. There I can circulate and hopefully avoid him.

“I just got my first project,” I tell him, simply because I can’t take the silence. Scott looks at me. “Class project I mean. It’s…” He stopped walking. I stop too and turn around. “Did you forget something?”

“No.”

“Well then?”

I gesture down the street.

“Can I ask one last favor?”

The ‘sure’ comes out of my mouth automatically and I curse Inner Samantha for being asleep at the wheel. This would have been a perfect time to drawl out ‘Well you can ask,’ sarcastically.

“Can we just…not…”

“Not talk at all?”

“Yes,” he says. “I mean, I’m sure…well, you have people you can talk to who would be all excited about your classes.”

“Right,” I say. “Got it.”

I mime zipping up my lips and throwing away the key. He smirks at me.

Oh, I hate you,I think. So much.

Suddenly everything comes into focus. Laser sharp. I imagined everything. None of it was real, absolutely nothing. Well, the sex actually happened, but nothing I was feeling about him at the time was real. Except maybe right now. Now that he can’t be bothered anymore. He really is a shithead. And I really hate him.

The party is on the top floor of the building. There is a ton of food and an open bar. My first class is at eleven tomorrow, so I head right for the bar.

I make the rounds, thanking everybody on the crew, taking small sips of liquid courage along the way. Scott—shithead—is hanging out with some of his workers. I really want to thank them too. They did such a great job bringing my vision to life. I slam the rest of my drink and march towards them.

Scott sees me coming and hightails it out of there. Coward. I kill the rest of the time before the show talking with George’s wife, Aimee.

When we are ushered to our seats to watch the first episode—finally—my courage, AKA my buzz is waning. I have to sit next to him in the middle of everyone.

I can smell him and he smells so good. It twists my heart into a knot again. At one point we both slide our arms onto the armrests and bump into each other, then jerk apart.

The hour seems to last forever. I didn’t expect it to hurt to watch the show, but I relive the emotions I was feeling during filming in every scene. When, on screen, he wraps his arms around me to help me sledgehammer the first wall, my knees go weak, just like they did back then.

When the credits finally start rolling everybody cheers and then they are congratulating us.

How much longer do I have to stay? The party spills out of the theater. The bartenders snap to attention. Desserts are set up, including a big cake with—gag—a giant picture of me and him printed on it.

Everybody is excited and happy. Me, I just want to go home and hide under the covers.

“I need some fresh air, I think,” I say to no one in particular and walk out onto the terrace. It’s not a particularly high building but I can see up and down the street. New York is huge and spectacular and it’s high time I started exploring it, on my own. I don’t need SH. I don’t need anyone.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I say without turning around.

“Aimee said I should check on you.”

Well, isn’t that infuriating. I spin around and glare at him. Or I try to. It’s pretty dark on the terrace and he’s in a shadow.

“You checked, I’m fine.”

“You sound mad.”

“I’m not.

“What are you mad at me for?”

He sounds pretty pissed off. How dare he? I think furiously. There are about a thousand things I am justifiably mad at him for. I could spend a year extolling on his transgressions, but the worst one of all is…

“For making me fall in love with you.”