Chapter 2 Larissa
“I’m done.” I finish drying my hands and then toss the brown paper in the trash. “I mean it this time. Don’t try to talk me out of it.”
Bellamy bites the corner of her lip as she finishes rinsing her hands. While her voice may not betray her, her eyes certainly do.
“Don’t laugh at me,” I warn her.
“I’m not.”
But she is. Suppressed humor at my expense splashes across her pretty face. I can’t blame her for being amused by my slightly random and altogether unrealistic statement because I’ve said this before.
More than once, actually.
And even though I’ve always meant it, I really mean it this time.
“May I ask with what, exactly, you’re done with?” Bellamy asks, flipping a long, blond lock of hair over her shoulder. “Because there are a couple of different options here, and I just want to clarify.”
“Men.”
“That’s a very, very broad term, Riss.”
I stand beside the settee in the ladies’ room of Paddy’s, my favorite restaurant in Savannah, and watch my best friend apply another coat of fabulous red lipstick.
It screams confidence and badassery—two things that Bellamy Davenport certainly is.
I’d like to think I am those things too, except, unlike Bells, I keep getting played.
This has been an unfortunate consistency throughout the past few years.
I think a relationship has long-standing potential, and my lover thinks I’m nothing more than a glorified booty call.
I’m all for a good one-night stand if the conditions are right.
I’m not even totally opposed to a friends-with-benefits package.
What I am against, vehemently, are men who lure me in, sweep me off my feet, and then turn out to be egotistical, narcissistic, and completely selfish maniacs.
“Maybe I wanted it to be a broad term,” I tell her. “Maybe I’m done with men altogether.”
“But are you? Are you really?” She slips her lipstick back into her purse. “Because I know you and the men you so sadly choose to date—”
“Hey!”
“And I don’t think men as a gender are your problem. And I think you know that.”
I gasp in mock horror. “What are you saying? Are you saying I’m the problem?”
“I’d never even consider such a thing,” she teases.
“Liar.”
She spins on her heel and faces me. When our eyes meet, we start to laugh.
Bellamy has been my best friend my entire life. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t know her. She’s always lived next door to my aunt Siggy—the best aunt in the entire world—and she’s always been the wild to my calm.
More or less.
“You know what your problem is,” she says pointedly when her laughter subsides. “It’s not fair to yourself to pretend it’s every man in the universe when, in reality, it’s—”
“Athletes,” we say in unison.
I sigh as dramatically as I can.
My weakness for the fit and delicious specimen who runs, jumps, and throws balls or hits pucks started in junior high school. It’s not a revelation.
I had the biggest, most annoying crush on a boy who played centerfield on my cousin’s all-star baseball team.
I was twelve. He was older than me and had a swagger about him that appealed to me on a level I didn’t know existed.
He was a little headstrong and a whole lot cocky—just enough to seem forbidden.
My thing with athletes—and probably bad boys, if I’m honest—started that summer.
My brain shuffles through the memories of my last few boyfriends.
There was Charlie—the hockey goalie with sweet eyes and it’s-not-cheating-if-it’s-not-penetration code of conduct.
Benny was next. He was a minor league baseball player who firmly believed my place was in the kitchen. But not barefoot. He liked me in expensive heels.
There was Christopher—a sports manager who was career-driven and egotistical and couldn’t shut up about his day long enough to ask me about mine.
And, as if I had to prove to myself that I could do worse, I chose Sebastian Townsend.
The golfer-turned-sports agent from Atlanta decided my take on monogamy—that cheaters should have their reproductive organs removed—was harsh, and I should cushion my expectations.
Apparently, men are bees, and it’s their job to pollinate the flowers of the world.
It’s safe to say he didn’t support the idea of one bee plus one flower equals happiness. He also didn’t love—i.e., became enraged—at his theory working in reverse. Was one flower supposed to hope the one bee pollinating her had decent skills? Maybe she should be as free as the bee?
He took offense.
I’m not sure who ended it with who that night, but it went down rather spitefully … about as petty as Sebastian is tonight.
When I look back up at Bellamy, she’s shaking her head. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t let him get in your head.” She gets to her feet and towers over me in her nude-colored heels that are entirely unnecessary for a friend’s birthday party.
“Sebastian is a twerp. I know all of his little smug grins and bullshit waves, with his new girl shrink-wrapped to his side, are getting to you tonight.”
“They are not.”
“So, you’re swearing off all men out of the blue? Riss, you like dick. You’re not going to go all cold turkey like that. It’s because he got to you tonight.”
I get to my feet in a rush. “He did not get to me tonight. He pissed me off. That little line about how … shameful, or whatever word he used, it must be to show up to our friend’s birthday party alone pissed me off.”
“Yeah. Of course, it did. It was by design.”
Anger pulses through me. “He used the word dreadful. It must have been dreadful to have to bring Bellamy as your date. I didn’t even get a chance to tell him I wasn’t here alone or with you as my date. Even though you are. But you know what I mean.”
“Either way, fuck him! I’m a great date.”
I smile through my annoyance. “He also told me not to worry. He told people our break-up was mutual and not that he had to let me down easy.”
Bellamy balks. “It was mutual.”
“Oh, trust me. I know. I was there.”
“That little twerp.”
I turn away from her and look in the mirror.
My reflection stares back at me. In my eyes, I see the truth. Sebastian didn’t get to me tonight. I did.
I’ve known for a while now that I needed a break.
Ever since Christopher ghosted me because work always came first, I’ve learned that something had to change.
I’ve just refused to give it too much thought—probably because I didn’t want to be here, standing in front of my reflection and knowing I have no one to blame for this mess of a love life other than me.
They say doing the same things while expecting a different result is ridiculous. That’s what I’ve been doing. Dating different packages of the same contents over and over again. And somehow, I expect it to work.
I know better. I’m not a stupid person.
Theoretically, at least. The past doesn’t speak well for me in this case.
Seeing Sebastian here tonight was fine. But having him try to rattle me on purpose and not have a moment to say anything back makes me disappointed in myself—almost as disappointed as I am that I dated him to start with.
No more. No more Sebastians for me. Period.
“You’re a raccoon,” Bellamy says out of nowhere. “A beautiful, thoughtful, slightly na?ve but generally intuitive little raccoon.”
“What?” My fingers go to the area beneath my eyes. “I paid a lot for this mascara. If it’s getting all over my face, I’m taking it back for a refund. I’m sick of overpriced cosmetics that don’t work.”
I swipe roughly and pull my fingertips back. They’re clean.
“I didn’t mean that literally,” she says, still chuckling. “What I meant was that there are millions of men out there—scuba divers and astronauts and bankers. And you’re this sweet little raccoon digging around the dugout dumpster for its next meal.”
She holds her hands out like claws and paws at me.
I swat them away. “I am not.”
She raises a brow and takes a seat on the ivy-colored couch. I sit next to her.
“Yes, you are,” she insists. “And you know what else? You deserve to pick out of all the dumpsters. Not just the one full of jockstraps and helmets.”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah,” she teases, bumping me in the shoulder. “So you tell your mama the next time she tries to hook you up with some overbearing jersey that you are not interested.”
“What you’re saying is that this is my mom’s fault, right? I can blame everything on her.”
“You can, and you should. She puts so much pressure on you to be attached to a guy—any guy—that she’s definitely to blame for at least a part of this.
” She rolls her eyes. “The next time she starts in with her shit, tell her no. Stand your ground. No more setting you up on dates with guys she meets around your stepdad’s baseball team or—surprise!
So-and-so’s prodigy is visiting from Chicago, so could you possibly show him around?
Wink, wink. Oh!” She waggles her finger in my face.
“Remember the time she volunteered you to tutor that newly single basketball player’s kid? ”
My jaw hangs open. “I forgot about that. I’m not even good at math. That poor kid sat with me for an hour a day for a month and still failed sixth-grade pre-algebra.”
“See? No more. We’ve identified your problem—athletes. Specifically, ones your mother likes.”
I can’t argue with Bellamy. And she knows it.
“Noted,” I say, shrugging helplessly. “I stand corrected. I’m not swearing off all men, just my type of men.”
“If that’s how you want to look at it. Just don’t get pushed into the … cock pen?”
“Bullpen,” I correct her, laughing. “It’s a good thing you’re pretty, Bells.”
She grins. “I’m not nearly as pretty as my friend.”
“If Sebastian looks at me with pity again tonight, I’m about to be petty.”
“And that’s why I love you.”
She hooks her arm through mine and leads me to the door.