Chapter 1 Abby #2
“No! Gross.” I wrinkle my nose. “I mean… yes. Okay. Thank you. But I know you’re probably confused.”
“Oh, I’m not confused,” he says, with maddening ease.
“You’re not?” I shoot back.
“Duh. I’ve seen enough rom-coms to know exactly what your play was.” He smirks, then grabs both my arms. “And I gotta say”—he gives them a little shake—“I didn’t think you had it in you.”
“Alright! Ease up on the shaking or I’ll give you something to really remember me by,” I snap, jerking my arms free. “Okay, so now that you know how pathetic I really am… what are they doing now?” I ask, trying to sound nonchalant and failing so hard.
Jonathan stays facing the direction they were standing while I stay pressed against the bar, my back to the crowd, eyes locked on his.
Behind him is a wall covered in old Yankees memorabilia: photos, jerseys, autographs.
All perfectly curated. Which makes sense, because we’re at The Yank.
One of New York City’s most thriving, slightly-too-trendy bars.
Yankee-themed, but in that high-end, exposed-brick, $18-cocktail kind of way.
Every booth has cracked leather seats and the walls are lined with vintage Yankee pennants, like someone’s grandpa created a Pinterest board titled Baseball But Make It Sexy.
The drinks are legendary, with baseball pun names like The Babe, Bronx Cheer, and Bleacher Creatures.
And yes, the goat cheese balls are elite.
That’s not even me being dramatic. I come here a lot. Unfortunately… so does Jonathan.
“They’re just talking and sipping their drinks,” he says, glancing in their direction. Then his tone shifts. “Oh, he’s looking this way.” He meets my eyes, like he’s waiting for me to make the next move.
“What should I do?” I ask, already bracing for another bad decision.
“I think we should kiss,” he says smoothly, cupping my face. “Make him jealous again.”
His hands are warm and soft. Way softer than I ever would’ve expected from the King of Narcissism.
I nod before I can overthink it.
He leans in and kisses me again. This time, it’s more relaxed—he’s not caught off guard like he was when I panic-grabbed him earlier.
His lips melt against mine and then his tongue slides into my mouth and…
oh okay. It’s kind of a great kiss. Not shocking, I guess, he is a Man-Whore.
I’m sure he’s an expert in all forms of intimacy: casual, passionate and apparently performative, public jealousy kisses.
I try not to overthink it and I kiss him back. Because this is for show. Obviously.
After what feels like a very long kiss for a totally-random-bar-moment fake-out, Jonathan finally pulls away.
I awkwardly twist my neck to glance over my shoulder, trying to see if Marcus is still watching and to my shocking surprise, he’s not looking this way.
As in, he’s gone. Full-on Elvis has left the building level of vanished.
I snap my eyes back to Jonathan, who’s wearing the world’s brassiest grin.
“I thought you said he was looking!” I hiss.
“Oh, he was,” Jonathan says innocently. “But then they left.” He smiles wider.
“Then why didn’t you stop kissing me?!” I shout, throwing my hands in the air.
He shrugs, totally unfazed. “Figured it was my payment for playing the role of hot new boyfriend.”
Hot. New. Boyfriend. My heart does this little skip in my chest, not because I like what he said, but because I’m livid.
“You are positively the worst,” I snap, shoving him off of me. “And you’re not even hot!”
He just waves his hand like I’m a gnat buzzing too close.
“Listen,” he says, suddenly more serious, “why do you even care what that dumb fuck thinks, anyway?” His facial features harden and he looks me right in the eye. “He left you at the altar, AJ. Fuck ’em.”
Then he raises a middle finger Marcus’s way, not a care in the world. Only… Marcus is already gone, so now Jonathan’s just flipping off the bartender Carl, who raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything. Pretty sure this bar has seen worse.
I press my hand to my forehead. The bar lights suddenly feel too bright, the buzz of conversation too loud, like everything’s turned up just enough to be unbearable and I can feel the early stages of a migraine already starting to tap-dance behind my eyes.
“I mean… technically, he left me at the bridal suite. Not the altar,” I mutter.
“Whatever. Dude’s still an ass,” Jonathan replies without missing a beat. He reaches over me and flags down the bartender. “Hey Carl, pour me another one.”
Of course, it’s bourbon on the rocks. It’s always bourbon on the rocks.
And yeah, I hate that I know his drink order.
But if I’m being brutally honest with myself?
I know a lot about Jonathan Slack. More than I’d care to admit.
More than I should, considering how much I hate him.
I’ve picked up on way too many of his little details over the years.
The way he rolls his sleeves before a pitch.
How he smirks when someone compliments him.
That exasperating self-satisfied nod he does when he thinks he’s right, which, tragically, is often.
He’s tall, like over six feet, because the universe evidently has a type.
He works out, has an obnoxiously good body, which he generously shares on social media like it’s his civic duty.
He drives a car so fast and expensive it surely has its own stock portfolio.
From what I’ve gathered, not that I’ve looked into it, he’s also wealthy, along with being obviously handsome and more than aware of all of the above.
Basically, if self-satisfaction put on designer clothes and walked around with perfect bone structure, it’d be him.
But he’s right. As much as it kills me to say it, I shouldn’t care what Marcus thinks.
Or who he’s with. Or whether his supermodel girlfriend exfoliates with unicorn tears and sleeps on a cloud.
My life is thriving. Give or take a few minor breakdowns and an ex-fiancé sighting.
It’s definitely better to be left before the marriage than during it.
Right? Maybe I should get T-shirts made that say that. Now that’s depressing.