Chapter 3 #2
The bids continue, then stall out around ten thousand. Gigi is the highest bidder again, and the room is silent. Just when I think Kennedy’s going to fuck me over, she raises her hand and takes a slow sip of her soda. Then, with a relaxed smile, she says, “Twenty thousand.”
My lips twitch as the whole crowd loses its mind and the auctioneer practically stumbles over himself.
Gigi cuts a sharp eye at Kennedy, opens her mouth, then snaps it shut.
She may have a trust fund to spend at will, but even twenty grand for an hour with me is too much.
She doesn’t lift her hand, and Kennedy—God bless her—flashes one of her cheerful smiles as the auctioneer slams his gavel against the podium.
“Sold! To the lovely woman in red.”
Relief slams into me like a puck to the chest, and my shoulders drop as a gust of air escapes me. The room erupts into applause again, but I keep my face a blank mask, like I haven’t just rigged a charity event to avoid my ex.
“Twenty thousand?” Jake asks with a laugh. “Damn.”
“It’s for a good cause,” I argue.
“I can think of no better cause than avoiding one-on-one time with Gigi.”
“I meant the charity’s cause.” I cock a brow. “You know? Diversity, inclusivity, and safety in hockey?”
“Oh. Sure. That, too.” Jake leans back, arms stretched behind his head. “And a date with Kennedy Caplan? It doesn’t get much better than that. So I’d say it’s a good win.”
He lets out an appreciative whistle, and an unfamiliar anger quickens my blood. There’s no denying that Kennedy’s gorgeous, but I don’t like that he’s acknowledging it. And I don’t like that I don’t like it.
Abruptly, Jake coughs and sits up straight, jerking his head. “Code red.”
Dread washes over me. I don’t turn, knowing there’s only one person in this room who would qualify as a code red.
“Cameron. Hi.” Gigi’s voice is light and airy, like we’re old friends running into each other at a coffee shop, rather than exes who had what Sloane qualified as a Category-5 breakup. “It’s been a while.”
I swivel, finally looking at her, and stare harder than a marble statue. “Gigi.” I offer nothing else. No how have you been. No you look well. Just her name, flat and final.
The silence stretches between us, uncomfortable and heavy. Jake shifts beside me, hunching over the table, suddenly very interested in his drink. Meanwhile, Logan has inched his chair closer to mine, his eyes bright, and is doing absolutely nothing to hide his curiosity.
“I wasn’t sure you’d be here tonight,” she finally admits. “I tried texting, but…”
Her voice trails off before she can finish the sentence with “you blocked me.”
I take a sip of my drink, buying time but hating that I need to. “Here I am.”
She watches me without replying, as if giving me one more chance to fill the silence and make this interaction easier for her. Naturally, I don’t say a word.
“I was hoping we could talk,” she says, her voice dropping to a more intimate volume.
Her fingers toy with the stem of her wineglass.
Red wine, the diluted color doing nothing to combat Logan’s allegations that her favorite beverage is a mixture of virgin’s blood and children’s tears. “It’s been a while.”
“No, thanks.” The words come out harder than I intend.
Beside me, Jake rubs his forehead with the heel of his hand. He no doubt thinks my clipped response was rude, but I made sure to include the “thanks” part, so I don’t see the issue.
Her smile falters. She recovers quickly, but not before I catch a flash of annoyance in her eyes.
Join the club.
She swallows audibly. “I’ve changed, you know. I’ve done a lot of work on myself. Therapy, self-reflection. I’m not the same person I was back then.”
The audacity of her proclamation nearly makes me laugh. “Good for you.”
She reaches out like she might touch my arm but stops before she makes contact, searching my face. “I know I hurt you. And I made mistakes. But we were young, and I—”
“Stop.” The word comes out cold enough that even unflappable Logan startles. “I don’t care what work you’ve done. I don’t care if you’re different now. That’s great for your current boyfriend or whoever’s next, but it’s got nothing to do with me.”
“We were good together once,” she says quietly, her voice shaky. “Don’t you remember?”
I do. That’s the problem. I remember thinking what we had was real, was worth fighting for.
I remember apologizing for things I didn’t do, defending myself against accusations that turned out to be projection, and twisting myself into smaller and smaller shapes, trying to be enough for a woman who would never be satisfied.
“We’re done here, Gigi. We’ve been done for a long time. Stay away from me.”
With that, I stand and stalk away.
Gigi was my first real everything. First serious relationship, first person I really allowed to see me, first time I thought about a future beyond the next season.
But she also made sure she was my last, because there’s no way in hell I’m putting myself in that position again.