15. Chapter 15
Chapter 15
T he wine was hitting.
Rosie could feel it in the warm flush creeping up her neck, in the way her shoulders had finally relaxed, in the way her words were pouring out faster than she could filter them.
Two glasses deep, she was done holding back.
She leaned both elbows on the bar, tapping her glass against the stem of Amy’s as they sat in their usual dark corner booth at the tiny Italian tapas bar beside the gallery.
“Okay, so let me just lay this out,” Rosie said, gesturing wildly, the wine making her voice looser, louder. “I have been furious at this man for an entire fucking year. A year, Amy. I wrote him off. I burned my Isaac shrine. I moved on.”
Amy arched a skeptical brow, sipping her wine. “Sure you did.”
Rosie pointed at her. “I did! I was moving on. And then—four days. Four fucking days and everything boils over.”
Amy huffed, shaking her head. “Sounds like a classic fuckboy re-entry move. Disappear. Ghost. And then show back up like you missed him.”
“Right?” Rosie groaned, taking another big sip, half-drunk now, fully in vent mode.
Amy tilted her head, eyes narrowing. “Okay, tell me what happened.”
Rosie exhaled sharply, tapping her fingers against the stem of her glass.
“Fine. Let’s do this.”
She set the glass down, pushing up her sleeves, ready to put it all on the table.
“History—you already know. Grew up together. Best friends. I was in love with him like, my whole life, but I knew nothing was ever going to happen. So, whatever. I got over it.”
Amy snorted. “Did you, though?”
“Let me live in my delusion.”
Amy smirked, motioning for her to continue.
Rosie sighed. “Okay—this weekend. First time I’ve seen him in a year. And guess what, Amy? He’s the same Isaac. Horny, reckless, completely unbothered. And suddenly I’m back in his life and he’s like ‘oh look, an easy option.’”
Amy’s eyes flashed. “Fuck that guy.”
Rosie’s hand curled into a fist on the table, her nails biting into her palm as the words spilled out of her, hot, bitter, sharp-edged with heartbreak.
“Right?” she muttered, voice raw, almost shaking with it. “I know him so well. And he’s just addicted to sex. And I was there. I could be any girl.” Her throat tightened, fury and humiliation clashing in her chest, making it hard to breathe. “I was just fucking convenient.”
Amy exhaled sharply, shaking her head, her glare cutting. “And you don’t actually believe he gives a shit?”
Rosie laughed, but it wasn’t a laugh—it was something empty, broken, jagged.
“Isaac Rayleigh? Care? About me?” She let out a dry, humorless scoff, her eyes burning, stomach twisting.
“Amy,” she said, voice lower, rougher, like it hurt to say it. “He literally said it. A year ago. He would never date me. He would never touch me.”
Her fingers clenched around the stem of her glass.
“His exact words,” she said, voice quieter now, but no less painful.
Like I’m fucking gross.
Amy’s face darkened, nostrils flaring, her grip tightening around her own drink.
“I saw him at the gallery on Sunday,” she muttered. “I could smell the player vibes coming off him.”
Rosie exhaled hard, leaning back in the booth, shaking her head.
“And then I caved,” she whispered, voice wavering with anger, with regret, with something dangerously close to grief.
She pressed her fingers against her temple, eyes squeezed shut.
“I stayed at his place. I let him make me feel too damn good. Goddamn, he’s a top-notch lover.” Her voice cracked with the confession.
Amy lifted a brow, watching her closely. “And his dick—?”
Rosie let out a rough, helpless little laugh, shaking her head as she bit her lip.
“Addictive,” she muttered, voice full of self-loathing. “Fucking addictive.”
She tipped back the last of her wine, rolling the glass between her fingers, jaw clenched.
“I’m an idiot,” she whispered.
And then, of course.
Of fucking course.
She set the glass down just as her phone buzzed.
Her entire body went rigid.
Her gaze dropped.
Isaac.
A fresh wave of nausea slammed through her.
Amy leaned in, expression unreadable as she eyed the screen.
“Let me guess,” she said. “Horny and checking in?”
Rosie didn’t answer.
Just flipped the phone over, face-down on the table.
It buzzed again.
Amy lifted a brow. “Text?”
Another buzz.
Rosie let out a slow, exasperated breath, staring at her empty glass like it might have answers.
Buzz.
Amy tilted her head, watching her closely. “You gonna answer?”
Rosie inhaled sharply, sitting a little taller, shoulders squaring.
Then, without hesitation, she grabbed her glass, drained the last of her wine in one go, and set it down with a finality that echoed between them.
“Fuck that,” she muttered, eyes hard, voice steady.
“I’m done.”