Chapter 21
Allegra
The knock on my front door jars me awake.
It’s not even a knock. Instead, it’s an incessant tapping, punctuated by loud banging, followed by the sound of my name.
What the hell?
Bleary-eyed, I drag myself from bed. Slipping into a hoodie, I wrap my arms around my middle and slowly make my way to the door. I stop to peek out the peephole, releasing an exhale when I spot Derek.
“What the hell are you doing?” I ask, as I swing the front door open. Reaching out, I grab his arm and yank him forward. “You want to wake up the whole complex? What are you doing here?”
I waited all day for him to reach out. Other than his text this morning, he hasn’t responded to my messages or calls. When I came home from work, I hoped he’d be here. But Derek ghosted me all day.
“Stellina,” he slurs. His hands dart out to grip my waist and we sway together before I grasp the doorframe. “Fuck, baby.”
My eyes widen. Derek’s sauced. Is that why he was MIA all day? He left before I woke up this morning, sent me one text to say he’s working, and got blitzed out of his mind?
“I love you, Allegra,” he declares. The scent of beer and tequila wash over my face and I turn my head. “I fucking love you.”
Then, his arms are around me, his face is buried in my neck, and I nearly buckle under his body weight.
He loves me. He fucking loves me. And this is how he tells me for the first time?
My heart cracks and my hurt soars.
“Derek,” I say, giving him a little shake. “Derek, you’re drunk.”
“On you,” he swears. “You make me fucking crazy.”
“That’s great to hear,” I deadpan, walking him toward the living room couch. As shitty as I feel in this moment, I can’t turn him away.
“Wait, did you drive here?” I ask seriously, worry churning my stomach.
“I’ll always find you,” he promises.
I sigh and give him a little push onto the couch. He drops instantly and curls on his side.
“You were right here, waiting for me,” he carries on, twisting the proverbial knife.
I know I shouldn’t take him literally. Not when he’s drunk and spilling shit. But is that how he sees me? Reliable, dependable, waiting-on-him-and-his-bullshit Allegra?
Does he think I moped around all day, waiting for him to call me back? Wanting him to show up after my shift and take me to bed? Is that how he sees me? Worse, is that what I’ve done all day?
A moment later, the sound of Derek snoring whistles in the air.
I roll my eyes. Fisting my hands, I stare down at him. Half of me wants to punch him and demand why he showed up here. Why is he torturing me like this? The other half of me wants to shake some sense into myself.
Why do I keep falling for his shit? Why do I keep thinking he’ll change?
This morning, I was ready to have a real conversation with Derek. I was willing to make myself vulnerable, to invite him in, to take a step forward.
And now? He leaves me hanging all day, doesn’t reach out, save for a crappy text about work hours ago, and shows up drunk, spouting love declarations?
Turning on my heel, I leave him on the couch. I don’t bring him a blanket. I don’t prop his head up with a pillow. I leave him like a lump of coal and shut my bedroom door. Climbing back into bed, I lay still, seething as I stare at the ceiling.
Levi was right; I shouldn’t trust Derek.
My friends warned me: keep it casual.
Disappointment swirls in my stomach. My chest aches.
Why do I keep repeating this pattern? Why do I keep thinking the outcome will be different? Why can’t I move past Derek Reiner?
When I wake in the morning, my head feels cloudy. My body is sore, and my neck is stiff. I heave out a yawn and swing my legs to the side of the bed. Derek’s declaration from the night before greets me with the sunlight, and I groan, closing my eyes against both offenses.
I stand and make my way into the kitchen. I pause to glare at the lump on my couch, still snoring, still curled on his side.
God, even hungover and annoying, Derek looks hot.
A slight stubble runs along his cheek. The slope of his nose, the angle of his cheekbone, the flutter of his eyelashes calls to me.
I want to run my fingers over his face and memorize the details, imprint them through touch.
His mouth is pursed, his lips full and gentle in sleep.
I’m used to seeing them pressed together in a harsh slant. Or curled up on one side in an amused smirk. Right now, he looks soft and peaceful. I fight the urge to run my fingers through his hair.
Instead, I recall how much he pisses me off. How hurtful his casual “I love you” landed when I was once desperate to hear those words from him. Last summer, he couldn’t give them to me. Now, he says them drunk out of his mind and expects me to—what? Drop at his feet?
Why couldn’t he tell me sober?
Is he capable of love on its own, without fleeing or getting drunk or a different destructive habit that undermines the thing he’s trying to prove?
If Derek truly loved me, he wouldn’t have stayed away all day yesterday only to resurface blitzed and begging. He would talk to me like the woman in his life. Not the afterthought, just waiting around for him to show up.
Shaking my head, I stomp to the kitchen. I’m loud as I bang cabinet doors closed, flip the faucet on, and grind coffee beans.
Now that I’m awake and annoyed, why should he get to sleep peacefully? Why should he nurse his hangover when I had my sleep interrupted by his obnoxious state and slurred words?
I pour myself a mug of coffee, add my favorite creamer, and take a big sip.
Placing it on the countertop, I heave out an exhale, and look at Derek.
His eyes are open and he’s staring straight at me. When my gaze meets his, he winces.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” I spit, a bite to my tone. “How’d you sleep?”