Chapter 37
Libby
Decline.
It’s so bad– said virus– that they have been instructed to get ahold of Kai if anything is dire at the shop. Honestly, I wish I did have the norovirus. Or hay fever. Anything would be better than feeling the way I am feeling right now.
As I lay in bed, the moon shifting to the sun, the minutes crawling by like hours, I hug a pillow in my arms in an attempt to dull the pain radiating through my chest. But with every passing second, I can’t quiet my brain, and the words echo like a bombs going off in the Grand Canyon.
Jax isn’t Dax.
Dax isn’t Jax.
Dax lied.
While part of me is dying to ask a multitude of questions (i.e., Who are you really? Are you even Daxton Hemingway? How did you know I was waiting for a date? How do you happen to look like him?), I also don’t want to give him the satisfaction of giving an explanation.
Because what the fuck?
But also…ew.
And in that same vein, what motive could possibly constitute as a good enough reason to lie about your identity?
I mean it’s bad enough that Jax was there for a one-nighter, though I can’t point accusatory fingers for that.
I was doing the same thing. But to lie about being said anticipated O.N.S…
that’s a new low. Lower than low. It’s creepy and honestly just terrible.
Which leads to the other menagerie of questions circling through my head rent free. Mainly, the question of – why?
Why pretend to be someone you’re not?
Do they know each other? Or worse yet, were they working together? Shit, they look so much alike I can’t help but wonder if they are brothers.
Oh, my fucking God…
I roll over and cover my head with the blanket to block out the sun (because how dare it shine so bright when I feel like this!?)
I am spiraling. This is low; low for a normal person and very, very low for me. The problem is, in my heart of hearts (and trust me, as an eternal optimist, I have a lot of fucking hearts), I know the reason. I know his motive.
Dax needs to be in a steady relationship if he wants to have any chance of winning the custody battle against Jenna.
I’m not even saying the words out loud. But just the thought of it makes me sick to my stomach.
Sick enough that I haven’t had anything to eat or drink since I figured it out.
I’m withering like a grape turned raisin in my bed because I was stupid enough to think that decent men existed, a lie I promised myself upon the death of my marriage that I would never ever believe.
And yet here I am thinking that Daxton Hemingway, my one-night stand turned enemy turned lover, could actually be one of those fictional decent men.
I am an idiot.
And I’m heartbroken because I am an idiot.
When I can no longer hide under my blankets because there is no air, and I’m pretty sure I’m getting bed sores because as an eternal busy body, let’s face it, I never lay in bed this long, I get up and make my way to the shower.
I need to change crying locations, mostly so I can sob loudly without my neighbors calling 911.
And that’s exactly what I do. I turn the shower on and then go back out to the kitchen.
Coffee. I need coffee because it makes my heart happy, not because I want to wake up.
I fully plan on laying back down, or at the very least sitting on the couch in a pile of blankets, scornfully watching Bridget Jones’ Diary for the rest of the day.
I’m not the sulking type but I think everyone deserves a little breakdown once in a while. And this is my time.
I managed to at least steam myself under the hot stream of water.
I feel a bit like a lobster, slightly disappointed that it never reaches boiling point.
Afterwards I sip on a cup of perfectly roasted coffee with cream and sugar and whipped cream and a sprinkle of cinnamon.
Because if there is anything coffee houses have taught me, it’s that there is nothing a dollop of whipped cream can’t cure.
Today, the dollop constitutes for half the cup. No regrets.
I make it through the entire homemade latte (and an extra squirt of whipped cream halfway through) and two thirds of the movie before I hear the doorbell buzz. Someone is trying to come in. To my apartment. The nerve.
I ignore it for a moment. Maybe it’s a package or the wrong apartment number. If I pretend I’m not here, they’ll go away right?
BUZZ.
Or…not.
Joni knows better than to come around without calling first. As my best friend she knows well that I have the door (and my life) barricaded at this point.
After all, I am one pint of ice cream away from locking myself in the bathroom with the lights off, belting out a Demi Lovato song from a full-blown emotional breakdown.
So, if it’s not Joni, then who?
It’s obviously not Kai because he would rather send a carrier pigeon than talk to me in person. A fortnight is probably too soon for communication for either of our tastes.
When it buzzes again, I regret to inform myself that I know who it is. And he’s not going away until I answer.
So, I drag myself off the couch, out of the comfort of homemade, caramel, whipped cream latte, fleece blankets, and Renee Zellweger’s angsty tears, and over to the call box on the wall.
“What?” I ask. At this point I don’t care who it is. They should know better.
“Libby? Libby, it’s Dax. Please talk to me. Please let me explain.” His voice comes through the machine, and my lips tighten, walls of armored stone shooting up around my heart like some kind of ancient Greek barricade.
“I’m sorry? Who?” I ask but I don’t listen to the answer. “Did you say Dax? Or Jax? Because apparently, I don’t know the difference.”
“Libby, please. I can explain.”
I chew my lip trying to decide if there is any way he could possibly actually explain.
And even if there is, I also have to decide if I want to hear it.
Realizing that he’s never going to stop interrupting my self-pity section, I give in.
If nothing else, to shut him down so I can get back to my movie and whipped cream.
“Fine. Come up,” I say and take my finger off the button. Dax doesn’t answer. Instead, I wait precisely fifteen seconds before hearing the anticipated knock on the door.
I take a deep breath, making no effort to straighten my hair or fix my oversized hoodie, which is falling off one shoulder and revealing a tattered sports bra underneath, before opening the door.
Dax’s expression drops when he sees me, and I almost feel bad. Emphasis on almost.
“Libby,” he says with a tired relief.
He’s jumping the gun here. I’ve given him no reason to feel that way. He should be on his knees right now.
“You have five minutes,” I tell him.
“Are you serious? After everything we’ve been through you’re just going to assume that–”
“Four minutes and fifty-five seconds,” I cut him off.
His jaw tightens but he gets to it. “Libby. It’s all a misunderstanding.”
“Is it?” I cross my arms, my purple sweatpants clad hip popping out to the side. “Because the way I see it, you lied to me.”
“Can you just let me explain?”
“Can you just admit you lied?”
Dax covers his mouth with his hand. “Okay. Yes. I admit it. I told you I was Jax, and I wasn’t. But I didn’t lie.”
“How is that not a lie?” I cry out.
“Because I didn’t lie about who I was!”
“We didn’t tell each other almost anything that night!”
“Exactly. Libby…” he takes a step forward and I take a step back, so he stops. “I’m not Jax.”
“Obviously,” I cut him off, but he goes on.
“I was at Tony’s that night because it was my anniversary.”
“The anniversary of the day you created a one-night only dating app profile? Oh, that’s right, that wasn’t you.”
“No,” he snaps back with just as much venom. “The anniversary of my first date with my wife,” he says, and I don’t cut in this time. “We went to Tony’s every year on that day, and I’ve kept the tradition, even after she died.”
For some reason, as touching as the story should be, it’s no excuse. And maybe I am heartless for saying that. But I find him a bit heartless using his late wife to manipulate me into accepting a lie.
“So, you go there now to pick up chicks to fill in the gap?” I ask.
He takes a step forward, a step that is dominant enough that I don’t move back and he is suddenly towering over me, his jaw tight and his eyes brimmed with an oceanic blue, like a dark cloud just before a storm cracks the sky.
“I go there to remember what’s left. And usually, I have a drink or two, not to celebrate but to numb the pain.
And this time, I saw you. While I was sulking over the loss of the mother of my children, I looked out across the bar, and I saw you sitting at a table by yourself.
You were dressed up, nervous, and happy all at the same time.
And you were waiting for a date who decided not to show up. ”
“So, what, you’re saying you spied on me and then when the real Jax didn’t show you came over out of pity?” I ask.
“I came over because you were beautiful, and I wanted to have a drink with you. I never meant to hurt you.”
“But you pretended to be him!”
“Only because you were so distraught that he didn’t show! So maybe I should’ve been honest with you. But I wasn’t fake. Other than the name, I was me. I was lonely and you were alone. But who knows. Maybe I made a mistake.”
My chin is starting to quiver, and no matter how hard I try to shove the emotion back, my eyes are burning hot with the threat of a rush of salty tears.
“Maybe you did. And also? I don’t buy it,” I say, and Dax gives me a questioning look.
“You don’t believe me?”
“You said yourself that Jenna has never seen you as a fit parent on your own. You need a woman to help you win custody. You need me because of the girls. And I get that, I really do. But after the trial, you won’t need me anymore.
And as much as I love your girls, I refuse to be expendable.
I’ve already been that to someone before. ”
“You really believe that?” he asks, clenching and unclenching his jaw as he fights the lump I can visibly see growing in his throat. I don’t let it sway me though. I’ve fought enough battles not to throw up a white flag that easy.
“I believe you’d do anything for your girls, yes. And you should.”
Dax studies me for a moment before taking a small step back.
“I think you should leave,” I tell him.
He swallows hard and his words come out clenched. “Is that what you want?”
My heart feels like it’s going to explode in my chest, but I hold my ground.
I have to hold my ground.
“Yes,” I say. “It is.”
Dax’s head jerks in a single nod and he turns to leave. But before the door closes, I add one last thing.
“Oh, and Daxton?”
He looks at me.
“My shop will never be a Hemingway.”