11. Jenna
JENNA
“ O h, you stupid, stupid girl,” I mutter under my breath after Miles leaves me in the bathroom. “What were you thinking? Of course he’s not interested. He’s just being nice. ” I stare at myself in the mirror. My cheeks are flushed, and my eyes are glassy with unshed tears.
“I will not cry over this.”
I don’t really know what I was thinking. Maybe that it’s been a long time since I’ve felt a warm body on mine. When I was taking care of my mom, I didn’t feel lonely. I was too busy. But now that she’s gone, the silence is deafening.
Miles has softened that for me. There’s something between us—I swear there is. But maybe this wasn’t the best way to put myself out there.
Truthfully, I only hoped he’d catch a glimpse of me. I didn’t mean to completely throw myself at him. And yet here I am, standing alone in the bathroom, mortified.
Guys have rejected me before. It doesn’t happen often—I rarely put myself out there—but it’s happened.
The last time a guy rejected me, it was a new colleague at work, only he wasn’t a newbie like me, he was a real designer.
He took a liking to me, brought me under his wing.
I misread the situation and let’s just say, I will not be making the first move on a colleague again anytime soon. Nope.
But Miles was definitely giving me the fuck me eyes when he saw me in that towel. I know I didn’t imagine that. He’s been so kind to me this whole time.Maybe he’s confused about what he wants—or maybe I once again misread a man’s intentions.
“Ugh!” I groan at my reflection and I’m immediately embarrassed that Miles might’ve heard it.
What a shit show this has turned out to be.
I am not stupid. I am not desperate. I’m just…lonely.
Sometimes lonely people do reckless things. I don’t have anyone left in this world who loves me exactly as I am. That’s a tough pill to swallow. I never thought I’d be thirty-five and completely alone. But here I am.
I’ve done a great job distancing myself from people. Not on purpose—but Mom came first. I couldn’t take care of her, take her to doctor’s appointments, make sure she took her meds, look after myself, and nurture relationships with others. So I didn’t and now, I’m all alone.
When I was a teenager and I felt lonely or left out, I would plop on the couch, sighing dramatically and say, “What can I say? I’m not everyone’s cup of tea.”
My mom would smile, eyes twinkling and say, “No, you’re not. But that’s because you’re champagne.” Then she held open her arms and hugged me until the ache went away.
I close my eyes now, sinking into the memory, letting it wrap around me like one of her hugs.
God, I miss her so much .
What I wouldn’t give for one of those hugs now.
Then just like that, I see her again—not as the frail, sick woman in the hospital bed—as herself. Strong, warm, stubborn as hell. That last night, I sat by her side, holding her hand until she went. Just before she closed her eyes for the last time, she’d turned to me, her gaze watery.
“Promise me that you’ll never let the world convince you that you’re anything less. You’re not their cup of tea because you’re champagne. Don’t you forget it.”
My eyes sting. I close them and then with a shaky breath, I slowly look in the mirror. I hardly recognize the girl staring back at me, but I know I’m in there somewhere—trying to claw my way out from under this mountain of grief.
I step into my leggings and pull a soft black T-shirt over my head—no bra, but who could tell? Hopefully Miles. Then I run a brush and some product through my damp hair, letting my natural texture do its thing. I twist back my bangs and secure them with a hairpin.
With one last look in the mirror, I remind myself, “You’re champagne.”
Then, I open the door.
I find Miles in the kitchen, a flat top griddle on the counter, warming our tacos.
There goes my heart again. He probably didn’t want to eat cold, soggy tacos either.
This means nothing. I have to keep reminding myself of this.
Not ten minutes ago, I stood in front of Miles in a tiny white towel.
He could have taken me right then and there, but he didn’t.
He’s just not that into you, my inner mean girl whispers.
“Smells good,” I say, taking a seat at the counter where Miles is working.
“They better. I slaved over them all day,” he jokes, turning toward the fridge. He comes back and sets a Corona in front of me. “Tacos and Corona. They belong together.” He picks up his beer and takes a long drag of it.
I’m not feeling much like giggling at his jokes right now.
We had such a great day, but I would be lying if I said my ego wasn’t bruised.
Why don’t you want me? I scream internally.
I haven’t let myself think beyond this week—after all, I’m not staying here—but rejection like this serves as a stark reminder that I am really and truly alone in this world.
I have no one to depend on but myself. I just want a little pity sex to cheer myself up.
Maybe if I remind Miles that I’m not staying, we can just have our fun.
Maybe then he’ll change his tune. Now that’s desperate.
Miles removes the tacos from the griddle and shuts it off.
He makes me a plate of tacos and sets it in front of me. “Spicy chicken, carne asada, coconut shrimp.” He points at each one as he says it.
“Thank you.” I force a smile and pick up the chicken taco first. We eat in awkward silence for a few minutes before Miles clears his throat.
“Jenna, listen.” He scratches his jaw, his voice uneven.
I hold up my taco juice covered hand and shake my head. “Miles, don’t. It’s okay,” I say, even though it’s not and I’m not. He doesn’t need to know that . I avert my eyes and pick up my beer, taking a long sip.
“No, I’d really like to explain.” He looks down at his hands and then back at me.
I sigh and wait for him to continue. “I was never serious with anyone but my wife. And even then, I must’ve kept her at too much of a distance, because she left me.
I couldn’t make her happy. I tried so hard, but I couldn’t make her stay. ”
“Miles…” I utter, but it stops there.
He shakes his head. “No. Just let me get this out.” He runs his fingers through his floppy waves and then looks back at me.
“Since my divorce, I haven’t been…monogamous.
Erin broke my heart.” He runs his hands down his face, and I wonder if he’s self-conscious.
I keep listening. “It’s just easier not to commit.
Find a companion for a week or two, scratch the itch…
then move on. That way, nobody gets hurt.
” He winces as he says it and I wonder if he knows how bad it sounds.
I start to open my mouth to speak, but he cuts me off. “I was content doing that. Not feeling anything, keeping myself closed off.” He pauses, licking his lips. Then he looks me in the eyes. “Then I met you. I don’t want to be closed off anymore.”
“Miles,” I breathe. “You don’t have to feed me the bullshit. It’s cool. We’re cool. We’re friends, okay?” It’s not just him I’m trying to convince.
“No,” Miles says, more firmly than I expect.
He walks around to my side of the counter and pulls out the stool next to me.
“No, Jenna. That’s not what I’m saying. I like you.
I’m having a ton of fun getting to know you.
Do you know how often that happens to me?
Never.” Miles takes my hand, and I let him, not knowing what else to do.
“So, then what?” I ask, shrugging.
“I need to just take my time here,” he admits softly.
“Why? To make sure you don’t get bored with me in a week? I may not even be here that long.” It comes out harsher than I mean it to.
Miles flinches, like I just slapped him. “No…I—” He grimaces and then shrugs, defeated. “Maybe,” he admits. It’s only then that I realize this is hard for him too. Something softens inside me.
“Well, I can respect your honesty, I guess.” I sigh, spinning back toward my once again cold plate of tacos.
“I appreciate that,” Miles says, looking slightly relieved. He eats his last taco in two huge bites before getting up and putting his plate in the dishwasher. “I am going to set up the air mattress… Like I said before, you can have my bed.”
“Okay.” I don’t argue—there isn’t anything else to say. I’m not sure what I’m feeling. Rejected still, of course, but also, maybe a little hopeful. What if I’m the girl who changes Miles?
Don’t be foolish, Jenna.
Miles heads into the living room to set up the air mattress. The pump starts, then stops, then restarts again. After the third time, I hop off my stool, put my plate in the dishwasher just as Miles did, and go investigate.
“What’s going on?” I ask, peering into the living room, raising my eyebrows.
“It’s not inflating,” Miles huffs. “There must be a hole somewhere.”
I move further into the room, my brow furrowed. “Well, come on, let’s flip it over and see if we can find it.” I move to one end and flip my side over to find a two-inch gash on the bottom. “That was easy,” I announce.
Miles walks over to examine it. “Jack, that asshole. I let him borrow it for his hunting trip. He probably knew it had a hole in it when he gave it back,” Miles grumbles.
“Do you have any patches? Or duct tape?” I ask, tapping my chin.
“Duct tape? No. I’ll just sleep on the couch.” Miles rolls up the air mattress with a tight breath, a flicker of annoyance in the crease of his brow, but he shakes it off just as fast.
“Miles, you can’t be serious. You’re like six feet tall. You’ll have to sleep in the fetal position,” I scoff.
“I’m six-foot-two actually.” He snickers. “I’ll be fine.”
“No. Let me sleep on the couch. I’ll fit better,” I insist, putting my hands on my hips.
“No. No way. The light coming in from the sliding glass door will wake you up at dawn.” Miles perches on the arm of the couch, refusing to let me win.
We’re both quiet for a minute. I hesitate to suggest it, but I know he certainly won’t. “Miles,” my voice squeaks. “Your bed is pretty big… We could put a pillow between us.”
Miles studies me for what feels like an eternity before answering. “You’d be okay with that? After everything I just told you?”
I shake my head. “Yes. I told you I appreciate your honesty.” I don’t have to worry about him putting his hands on me, unfortunately. And I hate how much that disappoints me.
“Okay. That’ll work,” Miles agrees.
Thirty minutes later, we settle on opposite sides of his king-size bed, a large body pillow between us. Miles glances over. “You good?” he asks.
I nod and force a tight smile. “Yep. I’m good.”
“Good.” Miles exhales. He reaches over and turns out the light on his bedside table. “Night.”
“Good night, Miles,” I say quietly. I try to sleep but I toss and turn.
I can’t remember the last time I shared a bed with a man.
How sad is that? Thirty-five and celibate.
If Miles is awake, he doesn’t let on. It seems like he’s sleeping peacefully.
Typical man. Eventually, I must drift off, but it’s one of those restless sleeps where I feel awake every hour.
I’m not even surprised when morning comes—my anxiety wakes me up first.
I am, however, surprised to find that I’m in Miles’s arms, a soft snore emanating from his peaceful slumber.
His legs are intertwined with mine, his arm draped over the curve of my waist, his breath hot against my neck.
And somethings poking me. Desire blossoms in my belly as his body molds against mine.
I know I’m playing with fire, but I scoot closer, savoring the press of his body against me.
Just for a few moments—before he wakes, or before I come to my senses and extricate myself from his grasp.
I am in so much trouble.