Chapter 6 Mile Six
MILE SIX
YOU RUN A MARATHON?
Groaning, I toss my hair up into a messy bun.
It’s barely six thirty in the morning, and after a night of too little sleep, I’m exhausted.
Besides a grunted “Good Night,” Garrett drove me home in complete silence last night.
A chainsaw may not have been able to cut through the tension during the five-minute drive from his place to mine.
After everything last night, I am a shaken-up soda can of emotions.
It doesn’t help that I checked my messages after Garrett dropped me off, and found a text from Miles saying, Hope you got home safely, Jenny luv.
Twelve hours ago, when I was pre-ditched, my stomach would have impersonated a gymnast. Instead, my belly was tied up in knots—still is—between Miles deserting me at the bar, and the strange night with Garrett.
Garrett revealed so much about himself last night, yet he remains a puzzle, missing just enough pieces to leave you guessing what the image may be. The one thing clear about everything is that my romantic picker is broken. It may not have ever worked considering my checkered relationship past.
“Relationships… That’s a bold statement,” I mumble to myself, tossing the hairbrush onto the counter before shuffling out of the bathroom.
Every man I have liked has been a mistake.
This includes Garrett. Everything that happened last night reinforces that.
This isn’t Pride and Prejudice. He’s not my Mr. Darcy, and I am certainly not his Miss Bennett.
In fact, I may need to put myself on a moratorium on my annual rewatch of both the Colin Firth and Keira Knightley versions that I do each holiday season.
“Miss Austen, what have you done to me?” I whine, flopping onto the couch to scoop up my phone and text Catherine.
My bestie is meeting us for breakfast at Bread before Garrett takes Anker and me to the airport. It takes away the tiny pebble of guilt about texting barely past sunrise. With her first class at ten a.m., Catherine doesn’t have to arrive on campus before nine on most days.
Me: Men suck!
Catherine: Duh. I do not envy you heterosexual girlypops. Is this a general suck or a specific one?
Despite my phone’s robotic voiceover program reading out the message, I can almost hear Catherine’s lyrical voice. On top of being one of my favorite humans, she has this vocal profile that reminds me of the smooth timbre of a cello.
Me: Specific.
It all spills out of me with the chaotic fury of a waterfall.
The argument with Garrett at the bar. Me thinking last night I’d move Miles and my situationship to the next level.
Perfect Kayla. Getting ditched. Val. Then my second spat with Garrett.
And all of it within a four-hour period.
It all vomits out of me until I deflate into my sofa’s cushions.
Catherine: This is a lot to process at 6:38 a.m.
Me: I know! The ride home last night was awkward enough. Now I have to sit through breakfast with him and then LAX traffic.
Catherine: Should I call in a favor from that parking enforcement officer I went on a date with last week, and have her put a boot on Garrett’s SUV, so he can’t drive you?
Laughter tugs my lips into a broad smile.
After years of my only real friend being my brother or parents, Catherine is almost too good to be true.
Lucky for me, she is both one hundred percent real and mine.
Four years ago, we became each other’s people after bonding over our shared love of seasonal lattes at the campus coffee shop.
What started off as just random chats in line each morning turned into sporadic lunch dates and morphed into a real friendship.
Clearly one where she’s not above calling in favors from her recent hookup.
As unlucky in love as I am, my bestie has the pick. Only she doesn’t want anything serious at the moment, and is leaning into her easy, breezy single woman era.
Me: No favor needed. I’ll survive.
Catherine: Should I plot Miles’s downfall? Remember, I’m a Bronte scholar. Those gothic romances have all kinds of twisty forms of vengeance.
Me: As tempting as that is, let’s hold off on locking him in the attic of your manor house for now.
Catherine: I’m ready at the stead to plot vengeance against him or any other future asshole.
My mouth drags down. Catherine’s comment isn’t a dig. I know that, but I can’t help to worry that if I keep running this course, I’m going to end up with another Miles.
Me: I think I’m going to go on a romantic sabbatical.
Catherine: Like no dating? At all?
Me: Not until I can figure out why I keep falling for the same type of man.
In the wreckage that is my failed love life, I’m the thread weaving each heartbreak together.
No more of this. It’s time to reclaim my heart and stop wanting to give it to men who will break it.
Everett, Chase, Miles, and even Garrett.
Granted, Garrett isn’t like the others, but he’s still all wrong for me. Yet, I still like him.
I look up at a knock on my door. Anker and Garrett are supposed to pick me up by seven. Of course, their type A personalities show up twenty minutes early. I type out a quick goodbye to Catherine and then shuffle to the door.
“Hey,” Garrett says as I swing the door open. His massive frame takes up most of my entryway and blocks the yellowish light from the sconces along the hallway outside my studio.
This isn’t one of the newer buildings in Seal Beach.
It’s a two-story brick building with mostly studio and one-bedroom apartments.
Its closeness to downtown, the bus stop for me to get to the university, and being owned by friends of my parents—who I am pretty sure are giving me a significant cut on rent—makes it ideal for me.
Not to mention, its nod to the art deco architecture style from the 1920s gives it this whimsical fancy I adore.
My only complaint is the lack of closet space for my shoes.
“Hey.” I shift foot-to-foot. “Where’s Anker?”
“I haven’t picked him up yet. I came here first.”
“How’d you get into my building?”
“I held the door for an older woman with an unruly pug, and then followed her in.”
“You broke in?” I tilt my head.
“Yeah… What were you talking about last night?” His low base is husky as if he’s been up all night.
“What?”
“You said you weren’t talking about Miles. What were you talking about?”
“It’s not important.” I wave my hand.
“It is important.”
I want to double down on my lie and say it’s nothing, but I can’t. The intensity of his stare crawls inside me, causing an electric charge to pulse in my veins like that moment before you jump into the deep end.
“My vision loss.” I jut my chin towards him.
“I knew it… I’m an asshole.” He rakes his left hand into his chestnut hair.
“You didn’t know.” I tuck a loose strand of hair from my messy bun behind my ear.
“Because I didn’t listen. I just reacted and cut you off. You were just trying to help, and I—”
“Don’t want my help.” I fiddle with the hem of my sweater. “You’re more the helper than the being helped type.”
“Doctors make terrible patients, after all,” he mutters.
“That they do.” My mouth lifts in a small smile.
“We share that trait. We both prefer being the helper versus the helpee.”
“Is that even a word?” I laugh. “But you’re right. Neither of us are comfortable in the being taken care of role. Though, I may have overstepped.”
“As I do all the time with you.” He sighs. “I mean, I did drag you back to my house at ten o’clock at night for some textbook self-help bullshit, as you called it.”
“I don’t think I called it bullshit exactly.” I arch one eyebrow. “But, yes, you did… In turn, I needled you to talk about Val.”
“We do like to get into each other’s shit, don’t we?” A soft chuckle resonates in his chest.
“It appears so.” My rigid stance softens with each gentle beat of his chuckle.
And just like that, here we are again. Only, it’s less we and more me. I’m pretty sure for Garrett, this is just the ebb and flow of our relationship. But I don’t want that relationship anymore, and I don’t want to keep having feelings for inappropriate men.
“Except I’m going to do something about my shit.” I point to myself. “I’m going on a romantic sabbatical until I figure out why I keep falling for men who don’t want me. At least in the way I deserve to be wanted.”
Dr. Nor may be able to redecorate her office after I pay for the serious self-work we’re going to do together. It’s clear I have layers upon layers to unpeel to figure out why I keep picking the wrong men.
He clears his throat. “No more literary fuckboy, then?”
“Among other types of men.” I lock my fuzzy vision on him. Determination causes me to make my spine tall.
This includes him. From here on out, I will no longer let myself be swept up in my Austen-induced fantasies of this modern-day Darcy, as I’ve dubbed him.
If I have to wear a rubber band and flick it against my skin each time I think of him until the sting’s memory wards off this stupid crush, I’ll do that.
He’s not an appropriate crush. He’s just my brother’s friend.
“I don’t want to sound patronizing, but I’m proud of you. It takes a strong person to deal with their shit,” he says, his tone both gentle and sad.
“Thanks.” Mouth closed, I swipe my tongue over my teeth in an internal debate before I decide to just say it. “If you ever decide to go beyond just telling the bag and deal with your own shit, I have an excellent therapist who can make recommendations.”
“God, you are like a dog with a bone at times.”
“How very yorkie of me.” Crossing my arms over my chest, I toss him a sassy expression.
“What?” He tilts his head.
“Nothing.” I shrug. “We should head out to get Anker.” I turn to scoop up my purse and grab my luggage.
“Jensen, I…fuck…”
I turn. “What?”
“Sorry. The hospital is calling.” He holds up his phone. “Dr. Marlowe... When was he brought in?”