Chapter Two #3
Deciding to move in with Bailey had made excellent financial sense.
It had cut his monthly expenses by more than half, allowing him to save money and increase the payments on his remaining student loans.
If his math was right—and his math was always right—he could have them paid off in two years, and that would be a weight off his shoulders.
Since his mother had co-signed for those loans, it would be a weight off hers as well, and that mattered more.
So when Bailey had offered him the room, he’d have said yes even if he hadn’t had an ulterior motive.
Reaching for a stack of T-shirts, he snorted.
Ulterior motive made it sound like he had some kind of sneaky, sinister plan.
He did have a plan, and he supposed it was a little sneaky, because he hadn’t told her about it.
But that was only because if he said he was hoping she’d fall in love with him again, she’d laugh in his face.
He shoved the T-shirts into a drawer and reached for the next stack.
He was lucky she considered them friends, the kind that traded funny memes back and forth and occasionally picked each other up at the airport when nobody else was available.
But there was a distance there, a tension that meant that even when she smiled and laughed or hugged him in greeting or farewell, she was never fully relaxed.
Because though she’d long since forgiven him for being a drunken, fearful dumbass, she was still on her guard with him. And knowing she didn’t feel completely safe with him was a wound on his soul.
He couldn’t blame her—he’d been a jackass.
A jealous idiot, a prideful moron, blindly reacting to suspicious information and running with it on zero evidence rather than trusting her.
He’d known better, even when he’d been ranting, throwing her clothes out of the window of the apartment they’d shared and calling her names, he’d known better.
He’d seen it in her eyes, the shock and the betrayal through the swimming tears.
But he’d been too drunk—and, he could admit now, too scared—to back down.
And so, calling her a cheating slut and a cheap whore, he’d thrown her out.
And when he’d woken up the next morning, lying on his bathroom floor in a puddle of vomit with a headache the size of Rhode Island, it was to the horrifying knowledge that he’d made the biggest mistake of his life.
He’d showered off the puke, chased a handful of Midol with a Coke, and raced to her best friend Chloe’s apartment on the edge of campus, certain he’d find Bailey there.
He’d been prepared to beg, to grovel on hands and knees for her forgiveness.
But he hadn’t even gotten to see her. Chloe and Gwen, Bailey’s other best friend, had flat refused to let him in the apartment.
Still, he might have gotten past them—but there was no getting past Bailey’s mom.
The look on Robin’s face—a woman who had welcomed him into her home countless times over the two and a half years he and Bailey had been together—had frozen him in his tracks.
She hadn’t yelled, hadn’t chastised. She hadn’t needed to.
The disappointment in her hazel eyes—eyes that she’d passed on to her only daughter—had been enough.
She’d informed him calmly that she would be sending a few of Bailey’s cousins over to the apartment to gather the rest of her things in the next day or so, and it would be best if he wasn’t there when that happened.
Then she’d shut the door quietly in his face, leaving him alone in the hall, staring at the welcome mat with nausea churning in his belly, wishing desperately for a do-over for the last twenty-four hours.
The next few months had passed by in a blur.
He’d staggered through life in a zombie-like state, only going to classes because he’d hoped to see Bailey, only going to work because he’d had to pay his bills.
Graduation had been a nightmare. His parents and grandparents hadn’t understood his melancholy—they knew about the breakup, but not the details—and his mother had never liked Bailey anyway, so she spent the whole weekend urging him to move on.
He hadn’t wanted to move on.
He’d had a job offer in Chicago, a good one, and his mom had urged him to take it. A fresh start, she’d told him, away from the baggage of his past. He’d make a new life, find a new love, and forget all about Bailey.
No, he’d told her. He wouldn’t.
He’d told Chicago no, taken the local job for less money and fewer benefits, and waited.
For all it was a college town, Braxton was small, so it wasn’t long before their paths had crossed.
He’d been careful to give her space, nodding his head respectfully if she’d made eye contact, swallowing his disappointment when she’d turned away.
But after a while she would nod back, or smile, and each one was a small victory.
Then, a few years ago, he’d found himself in line behind her at a coffee shop, and she’d said hi.
His heart had almost stopped, and his voice had cracked when he’d stammered out an answering hello.
Amusement had lit her eyes then—not hazel, but a bright, bold green that had matched the color decorating the ends of her raven black hair.
She’d worn it short then, styled in spikes that stuck out in all directions, the green tips sharp as blades.
She’d been wearing black leggings and black boots with an oversized fisherman’s sweater he recognized from her college days.
It had a hole just under the neck band, and that was familiar, too.
He often used to slip his thumb through it, sometimes to tease, sometimes just to touch, stroking the delicate skin over her collarbone the way one did with a lover, when touch was given and accepted freely and without reservation.
He'd loved doing that, loved the intimacy of it, and the loss of the privilege had hit him like a ton of bricks.
He must have looked how he’d felt—stricken, sad—because the amusement in her gaze had turned to concern, and she’d asked him if he was all right.
And he’d blurted out, in line while she waited for her mocha latte and chocolate chip muffin and he’d waited for his drip coffee with half and half and two sugars, “I’m sorry, Bailey. I’m so sorry.”
Understanding had lit her gaze then, and after a moment of tense silence, she’d nodded. “Bygones,” she’d said and, jerking her chin toward a table for two by the window, invited him to join her.
With hope fluttering in his chest, he’d snagged his coffee and followed her to the table like an eager puppy.
He’d hoped to talk about the breakup, but she’d made it clear she had no interest in rehashing the past. So they’d talked about her career and his, their families and friends, local sports and politics.
And when they’d parted, the brief hug she’d given him had left him walking on air for days.
A few days later, he’d taken a chance she hadn’t changed her number since college and had texted a meme to the number he still had memorized. She’d responded with a simple ‘lol’, then two days later had sent him a Reddit post she’d thought he might find funny.
And that, plus the occasional lunch and ride to the airport, had been the sum of their friendship for the last three years. Until she’d called him in January and asked him if he wanted to move in with her when his lease was up at the end of May.
He’d told her he needed to think it over, and they should probably meet to go over the terms, but those were bald-faced lies.
The answer was always yes, and would have been no matter her terms. The fact that it would save him money was just a bonus—the real prize was getting to see Bailey, every day, and maybe, just maybe, start to build something more.
Because she was still the love of his life.
He let out a slow breath. He wanted her back, and though he’d long since reconciled himself to the fact that she owed him nothing—not forgiveness, not a second chance, hell, not even a hello in a coffee shop—he hoped.
Beyond reason, beyond sense, he hoped. Because he’d gotten the hello, and the forgiveness, and if a man got two miracles in one lifetime, then he might as well go all in and wish for the third.