Chapter 8 #2
“Just water for me,” Colton said. “I’m cutting back on alcohol. Messes with my macros.”
Of course it does.
The waiter left, and Colton kept talking.
“So after the meeting, I went back to the gym, second session of the day, you know how it is, and I hit a new PR on deadlifts. 405 pounds. Can you believe that?”
“Wow,” I said flatly.
“I know, right? I posted it on Instagram. Got like three hundred likes in an hour.”
I looked at him. Really looked at him.
He was handsome. Objectively handsome. Tall, athletic, good jawline, perfect teeth, and he was boring me to tears.
“Anyway,” he continued, “after the gym, I had to take my car in for detailing. You know how I am about my car.”
I did know. He talked about his car the way some people talked about their children.
“The guy at the shop said it’s the cleanest Audi he’s ever seen. I was like, ‘Yeah, I take care of my things.’ Not everyone does that, you know? Some people just let their cars turn into trash heaps.”
My drink arrived, and I took a long sip.
Then another.
And Colton was still talking.
“Oh, and I’m thinking about getting a new watch. I’ve been looking at Rolexes. Not because I need one—I have three watches already—but because I think it’s a good investment. What do you think?”
“I think,” I said slowly, “that I have no opinion on watches.”
He laughed as if I had made a joke.
“You’re so funny, babe.”
I wasn’t joking. I took another sip of my drink and wondered what Quinton was doing.
Probably eating Thai food.
Alone.
Because I’d canceled on him.
For this.
Dinner arrived.
Colton had ordered steak. Rare. Because “that’s how real men eat steak.” I ordered salmon because it was the first thing on the menu and I genuinely didn’t care.
“So,” Colton said, cutting into his steak, “I’ve been thinking about us.”
I looked up. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. I think we should take a trip together. Maybe somewhere tropical. I could use a vacation, and you could definitely use some sun. You’re looking a little pale.”
I blinked. “I work in a medical clinic. I’m always pale.”
“Exactly. That’s why you need a vacation.” He took a bite of steak, chewed thoughtfully, and continued, “I was thinking of the Bahamas. Or maybe Turks and Caicos. Somewhere with a nice resort. I need to work on my tan, anyway.”
“Right,” I said, pushing my salmon around my plate.
Quinton would’ve asked me where I wanted to go.
Quinton would’ve made a spreadsheet comparing resort amenities and flight costs.
Quinton would’ve—I stopped myself.
Why was I thinking about Quinton?
I was on a date with my boyfriend. My boyfriend, who was currently explaining the difference between various Caribbean islands based on their gym facilities.
“The thing about Turks and Caicos,” Colton was saying, “is that the resorts there have better fitness centers. I can’t just stop working out for a week. That’s how you lose progress.”
I nodded.
I wasn’t listening.
I was thinking about last Sunday when Quinton and I went hiking.
Six miles. Elevation gain that made my calves scream.
And the entire time, he had been making jokes about his own lack of cardio fitness, asking me questions about the trail, pointing out birds he couldn’t identify, and genuinely seeming interested in everything I had to say.
When we reached the summit, we sat there for an hour.
Just talking. About everything. About nothing.
And it had been the best part of my week.
“Babe?”
I looked up to find Colton staring at me.
“You okay?” he asked. “You seem distracted.”
“I’m fine,” I lied. “Just tired. Long day.”
“You should take better care of yourself,” he said. “Maybe start going to the gym more. I could get you a guest pass to my gym.”
I took another sip of my drink.
It was empty.
Damn.
By the time dessert arrived, I was actively planning my escape.
Not physically. I couldn’t just leave. But mentally, I was already gone. I was thinking about my apartment. My couch. My sweatpants. I was thinking about texting Quinton.
Which was weird. Why would I text Quinton?
We had just seen each other at work. We’d see each other again tomorrow.
There was no reason to text him.
Except. Except I wanted to. I wanted to know what he was doing.
I wanted to know if he had gone to the Thai place anyway.
I wanted to know if he was watching true crime documentaries alone in his apartment, eating takeout, and making sarcastic commentary to no one.
I wanted to know if he was thinking about me.
Which was insane.
Completely insane.
I had a boyfriend. A boyfriend who was currently explaining his skincare routine in excruciating detail. “The key,” Colton said, “is exfoliation. Most guys don’t exfoliate. But I exfoliate twice a week. That’s why my skin looks so good.”
I nodded.
I wasn’t looking at his skin. I was looking at my phone. Specifically, I was looking at my text thread with Quinton.
Me: Thai food tonight?
Quinton: I’m craving pad see ew. We can share.
Me: You always say we can share, and then you eat all of yours and half of mine.
Quinton: That’s called efficient resource allocation.
Me: That’s called theft.
I smiled at my phone. Then I realized I was smiling at my phone while my boyfriend talked about skincare.
I put my phone down.
“You’re doing it again,” Colton said.
“Doing what?”
“Being distracted. Is something wrong?”
“No,” I said quickly. “Nothing’s wrong.”
Everything was wrong. I was sitting across from my boyfriend, bored out of my mind, wishing I were somewhere else. Wishing I were with someone else.
And that someone else was Quinton Wesley.
Quinton, who made me laugh. Quinton, who asked me questions and actually listened to the answers. Quinton, who made spreadsheets about tacos and remembered that I liked my coffee with oat milk, not regular milk.
Quinton, who I’d canceled on tonight.
For this.
Colton paid the bill, after making a point of telling me how expensive the restaurant was, then walked me to my car. “I had a great time tonight,” he said before leaning in to kiss me.
I kissed him back.
It was fine. It was perfectly fine.
It was also completely, utterly, devastatingly underwhelming.
“Text me when you get home?” he asked.
“Sure.”
He kissed me again, then walked to his car.
I sat in mine, staring at the steering wheel before I pulled out my phone and opened the text thread with Quinton.
I stared at the screen. What was I supposed to say?
Hey, sorry I ditched you for my boring boyfriend who spent two hours talking about himself?
Hey, I made a terrible mistake, and I wish I’d gone to Thai food with you instead?
Hey, I think I might be falling for you, and I have no idea what to do about it?
I started typing. Then deleted it.
Started again. Deleted it again.
Finally, I just typed.
Me: Did you end up getting Thai food?
I stared at the message and hit send before I could talk myself out of it.
The three dots appeared immediately.
He was typing and my heart did something weird.
Something I absolutely refused to analyze right now.