Chapter 16 #2
He wraps his thumb and forefinger around his glass, letting the ice clink against the edges. “She thinks I’m working something out of my system.”
Ouch. Ouch. “What she doesn’t know is I’m burrowing deep into your system.”
“Like a parasite,” he chuckles.
“I’m rocking your world.” I narrow my eyes and do my best impression of sultry.
“Like a fault line.”
“I’m entertaining all your fantasies she was too tame to try.”
His eyes widen behind his glasses. He takes a long swallow of his drink before choking out, “Too far, Phe.”
He’s probably right. I’m skating on the borderline between teasing and flirting. He’s embarrassed, and I’m aroused. I am my own worst enemy. But that flush is so cute, and bantering with Beau is more palatable than thinking about what happens next.
The server slides several small plates on the table—mussels, saffron rice, sweet-potato fries, seared scallops, and crusty bread. “Enjoy,” he says.
“Oh, we will,” I smile as he returns to the kitchen. “But I might need to know more about those fetishes—paint a picture for me about what I’ve committed to.” I lean forward and place my chin on my hands like I’m waiting for story time.
Beau reaches over and covers my mouth with his broad palm, surprising me enough that I gasp. “Shh,” he says. “I beg you.” His face is bright red now, but his cheek dimple says hello. An embarrassed and amused Beau is my favorite type of Beau.
But I’m playing with fire, because the more I work him up, the more worked up I get.
I’ve always loved to get a reaction out of him—any reaction.
But I’m beginning to wonder whether I misunderstood my own motivations.
He releases his hand, and I still feel its imprint across my mouth.
His skin smells like citrus and eucalyptus, with a hint of pine and lavender.
It’s a mix of his hand soap and detergent, the same kind Lani used during our childhood.
Tomorrow morning, I’m going to wash all my clothes in it so I can take his scent with me.
I’ve worn everything in my bag twice. It’s about time I do laundry—and it’ll give me plausible deniability about my other intentions.
“I’ll be good. I promise.”
He flashes a skeptical look but scoops a few mussels onto his plate, and I do the same, groaning when I try one. “This is so good.”
“Mm,” he says, scooping up another.
I try the saffron rice and soak up some of the mussel sauce with the crusty bread.
“What’s your deal with dating anyway?” Beau says before shoving three fries in his mouth and chewing, his mandible flexing like a bodybuilder. “Are you a commitment-phobe? Cynical? Unlucky in love? You said you haven’t had a relationship since Matty.”
“I’m touched that you were listening.”
He takes a sip of his water, but I catch a mumbled “I’m always listening,” as if he doesn’t want me to hear.
I swallow and look away. “Oh, I don’t know. All of the above, I guess?”
“How’d you finally get away from Matty?”
Beau is hinting at my biggest regret—that I stayed with Matty way too long.
After eight years together, our lives were enmeshed.
From the outside, we looked like the perfect couple, and there were hundreds of photos as evidence.
Photos I burned or deleted eventually. Beau was the only person who knew the truth.
Cherry and Simone thought I was crazy to leave Matty.
He was hot, charming, and had parlayed a successful college football run and law degree into a career as a sports agent.
He had the promise of money and access to fame.
Cherry’s now-husband is one of Matty’s best friends, and she daydreamed of Matty and me marrying, and all of us raising our families together.
But when Matty cheated—again—and gaslit me into believing it was my fault, I was finally done.
This time it was with a woman he worked with—smart, beautiful, and educated.
Someone he could “relate to” because they had “similar ambitions.”
“Persistence.” I laugh. “It just took a few tries for the breakup to stick.”
Matty was a master of the grand gesture, and each time he told me he loved me over the microphone at a big game, or stood outside my window playing our favorite song, or whisked me away to Palm Springs in an apology tour, my naive little heart would fall for it.
When I resisted reconciliation, he’d say Phe, please , with a tone that implied I was making too much of whatever small or large betrayal he’d committed.
When I finally got away for good, Matty convinced me I couldn’t do any better.
And maybe he was right. A decade later, I haven’t found Prince Charming—not that I’ve been looking.
Beau pushes his food around his plate. “Have you ever talked to someone? About Matty, I mean.” He clears his throat and refocuses on the tapas, as if he hasn’t just offered up psychoanalysis as an appetizer.
“You think I’m not over that guy?” I laugh, but Beau’s not smiling. “ That guy? ”
“Some of his behavior was abusive, and you said you haven’t had a relationship since.”
I want to be flippant and ignore the question. But Beau is leaning forward, elbows on the table, his face awash with interest and concern. Perhaps it’s time to be honest about what that relationship did to me. “I think the hard part with Matty was that I cared. Now I don’t get attached.”
Beau winces. “That’s sad, Phe.”
Maybe he’s right. It’s not like I planned on being alone in my mid-thirties, but with Matty, I mistook drama for romance, passion for love, and my perception and reality became distorted.
I’m not sure I trust myself to distinguish between healthy and toxic relationships, so it’s easier—safer—to opt out.
“It is a little sad,” I admit. “But I haven’t found anyone worth it anyway.”
Beau’s look of concern is tipping toward pity, and my vulnerability limit has been reached.
“What you need to understand is that the dating market is ugly. You have to be vicious or dead inside. You got out at the right time—like those dystopian movies where the elite make it into the bunkers before the apocalypse. I tried online dating. One guy brought a banker’s box to a date because he’d been fired that day.
It was filled with stuff from his office—Post-its, paper clips, a stapler, and picture frames.
In one of the frames was a photo from his wedding. ”
“Classy.”
“When I stormed out to my car, he asked if we could still ‘make out.’”
Beau pinches his eyes closed and shakes his head. “This is what I have to look forward to? You realize I’m single now.”
I don’t like the idea of him on the dating market—bantering, kissing, flirting with other women—but I don’t want to interrogate that feeling too deeply. “Yeah, but you’ll do fine. You’re like fresh meat for the starving masses.”