Chapter 11Cade
Cade
“You’re a real asshole ,” she spits out.
My eyes loll away, and I tread the distance to where I parked my belongings on a corner table. As I lower myself on the built-in bench, I swipe the napkin over my hoodie a few more times. It’s at least damp instead of drenched now, so I toss the crumpled paper next to my MacBook on the table.
I raise the lid of my laptop as I sip what’s left of my coffee, the bold flavor hyping me up for some work correspondence. As dreadful as the paperwork and bookkeeping side of the business is, it’s a heaven-sent distraction for me from the internal hell I’ve been living in back home.
When the light from the monitor springs alive, my fingers drag along the tracking pad until I’m opening my Gmail account. I tap on the email thread between me and my supplier, replying with questions about ingredients for a new East Coast IPA.
My brewery has quickly shaped itself into my second home—appreciation and employees being a package deal where Chrome Pipes Brewing is concerned.
I used to think appreciation was innate when it came to the people you were closest to. The people you cared about most. Loved most. Lately, it’s my bartenders and barbacks who’ve been filling the voids Jenna and I have abandoned over the past few months.
Jenna.
The distance between us lengthens over each passing day, her sex drive almost completely nonexistent. My gut clamps down, the mere thought of our predicament crushing my heart just the same. There are so many pieces out of place, spread across every floor of the house we live in.
And that’s just it.
Jenna and I live in a house . Not a home .
Unfortunately, I think the biggest piece that’s out of place for Jenna is me.
She’s cheating. I know it.
If consistent longer hours at work and a cold shoulder wasn’t enough to convince me, I sure as hell am persuaded after this morning’s incident.
What did I expect? She’s an overnight nurse working with doctors and surgeons who probably wave their wealth in her face so she can’t miss it.
Three years of romance demoted to roommate status. I can take responsibility for my part in the demise of our relationship, but I’d never think—not even for a split second—to be unfaithful.
Jenna is a different story.
They say that one’s intuition is usually on target about these kinds of things.
That if you sense your partner is being disloyal, chances are you’re probably onto something.
As much as this doesn’t bode well for me, I’m lucky there’s no ring on her finger to fuel the chaos.
Like this morning, when I found the black lingerie set stuffed in her top dresser drawer.
A set I’ve never had the pleasure of seeing on her before.
In fact, Jenna has never worn lingerie.
Ever.
When I dangled the lace fabric in front of her, making sure to expose the fresh tags, Jenna lashed out with the responses I expected to hear before she even spoke them.
“I like the way I feel in it.”
“How do you know I wasn’t going to wear it for you?”
To which I tossed the garment on the couch and stormed off to The Grind to roll off some steam. Steam that was blown in the direction of a woman who had no business being treated the way she was.
She was right.
I am an asshole.
My elbows plant on the table, hands interlocking as my lips rest atop them. The cool metal of my ring grazes my skin, and my heart jolts for a single beat.
I’m worthy to someone.
Someone who knows not one single detail about me or my life. More so than someone who’s known me for three goddamn years. As deep as I’ve been swallowed into this dark hole, at least there’re rays of light I’m beginning to see at the top.
My eyes eventually glimpse to my left. Long, slender legs wrapped in black suede, only a few inches exposed between the hem of her beige skirt and rim of her boots.
Champagne hair falls from her knit beanie, cascading over her shoulders through soft and styled curls.
Her shiny lips poke out from the shorter locks that frame her face, almond-shaped hazel eyes now dancing along the picture window in front of her.
Maybe I should’ve taken notice of her sooner. Not that my behavior would have been excused if she wasn’t as attractive, but this just tacks on another miserable notch to our exchange.
A sigh escapes me, my fingers scrubbing through my hair to snap my mind back to what it should be focusing on.
I type up the email to my supplier, catching up on other inquiries right after. As my hand peels from the keyboard to draw another sip of coffee, a subtle blur of beige and black shifts in my periphery.
I keep my head directed toward the screen, eyes drifting to the side every now and then to catch her shuffling on her plaid coat. She tugs her long, soft locks out from under the collar, then swipes her handbag off the tabletop to pad over to the entrance door of the café.
Stop her.
Apologize to her.
Say something.
Or just tell her you’re a fucking moron.
The last one would definitely suffice.
But my lips never part, and my legs never carry me over to her. Instead, I release my coffee cup, resting an elbow on the table as my thumb vaguely lays on my bottom lip.
I discreetly pivot my head over my shoulder, sneaking a peek at her. Her chin slopes up to the “Hello Board” fastened to the wall, as if she’s mesmerized by this new phenomenon.
My brows knit, her fascination lost on me. Has she never seen one of these boards before?
She steps forward, and my gaze inadvertently dips to the sliver of creamy skin between her skirt and boots. The pitch in my stomach flicks my attention back up, only to find her extracting a Post-it and pen from the mounted holder.
Her arm shimmies as she scribbles her message onto a small, neon pink paper. And once she takes a thumbtack out of the container, my eyes carefully trace her path.
Then she disappears behind the glass double doors.
Just like that.
I rotate my head forward, two palms sifting through my hair as I emit a bated breath. My hands are glued in place for a few seconds, body sinking against the built-in bench where I stare pointlessly at my MacBook screen.
My mental checklist blurs, my focus thrown for a brief minute. But as soon as I’m granted another distraction, my gaze slides to the text message that pops into view on my phone.
Jenna: I don’t want to fight.
Nothing new here. This is classic Jenna who reaches out to me when she’s not preoccupied at work. Or rather, with someone else.
She’ll convince me she wants to work on things and lather the effort on only to rinse the steps forward. Then repeat.
But the worst part? I fall for the act every time. She shines a glimmer of hope, and I run toward the sparkle without hesitation.
My palms drop from my head, flipping my phone face down. It’s a little past noon when I tuck my laptop in its sleeve and pocket my phone in my jeans. I stand to shrug on my leather jacket, snatching my computer before traveling toward the door.
Briefly, I flick my head over my shoulder, scouting out any pairs of eyes that might be on me. And when the coast is clear, I pad up to the same spot the mystery woman was occupying a little bit ago.
My eyes narrow, connecting a line from paper to paper to track her location, until I finally target it.
Fly back to me.
Possibilities revolve around my mind, brows drawing as I attempt to crack the meaning like the Da Vinci code. Or some foreign sentence I’ve been summoned to translate.
An ex-boyfriend?
A family member?
A friend?
“Excuse me.”
My attention whips to the guy trying to surf between me and the expanding line at the order counter. I step aside to allow him room, the volume of the surrounding voices toppling over me like a tidal wave.
The front area of the café is now flooded with a sea of people. I swallow thickly, momentarily returning my eyes to the Post-it note that hooked me in longer than it should have.
Then I flee out the doors.