My first reaction was to bristle a little, even though he hadn’t said a word. Did he think I was bluffing? That I’d back down? Well, I wouldn’t! This wasn’t a fucking game of chicken, this was real and it was my heart and my life and I couldn’t give it away in the blind hope that things would work out. It was too scary, too unpredictable, too unbelievable. I didn’t want to be dependent on anyone for anything! I was fine on my own! How dare he come into my life and turn it upside down this way! And why was he sitting there all silent and smoldering!? Didn’t he fucking care that I was trying to break things off? He should care, because I was serious!
“Say something!” I finally blurted.
I swear to God, that fucker almost smiled.
“OK, Jaime. If that’s what you want.”
My jaw dropped. “Is that what you want?”
“No.”
“Well…that’s what I want.” Fuck. Fuck! It’s what I wanted, wasn't it? Why was his reaction throwing me off? Dammit, this was just like him!
“So you said.” He stood up and carried his half-full plate into the kitchen. A few seconds later, I heard the faucet running and the sounds of dishes being rinsed and placed in the dishwasher.
I sat there at the table, feeling small and stubborn and angry and sad. Of all the reactions I’d thought he’d have, complaisance wasn’t one of them. Was this some kind of trick? Reverse psychology? Did he think I’d change my mind and beg to take back my words? Well, I wouldn’t. Pouting, I crossed my arms over my chest.
Then another thought occurred to me.
What if he really didn’t care? What if he wasn’t in love with me? What if I’d imagined all the deep, intense feelings between us? Maybe I was just a game to him after all.
The cynic in my head spoke up, the one that continued to shame me for breaking the rules and letting him in, the one that forced me to sleep in my own bed some nights. You see? This validates everything. Of course you’re a game! For fuck’s sake, love is a game—and no one plays fair. The only way to win it is to get off the board.
I believed the voice. But a tiny part of me wanted Quinn to fight back, to tell me I was wrong, to insist what we had was real and too good to throw away. Why wasn’t he doing it?
He came into the dining room and reached for my plate. “Are you done?”
“Yes.”
After he took it into the kitchen, I downed the last of my wine and followed him in. “So that’s it, really? That’s all you have to say?”
He didn’t look at me, just kept loading the dishes. “What do you want me to say?”
That you love me, dammit.
Although, if he did…what would that change? Wouldn’t that just make it worse? The problem here wasn’t that we didn’t feel the same about each other; it was that we did. And I couldn’t handle it, so I’d just fucked everything up.
It was my last line of defense.
“Nothing,” I snapped, irrationally angry with him for letting me walk out without a fight and furious with myself for being the kind of person who’d rather be alone than scared. Setting my empty wine glass on the counter with a clunk. “Nothing at all.”
Fighting tears, I
stormed out of his apartment, raced up to mine, and threw myself onto my bed, where I cried so hard I didn’t even make a sound.
All this to avoid ending up like Margot, and yet that was exactly where I was—broken-hearted, mad, and desperately wondering if I’d done the right thing.
Twenty-Five
QUINN
I couldn’t sleep. All night long I lay there staring at the ceiling, cursing Jaime’s stubborn streak and her fucked-up ideas about love and relationships.
Did she think I was stupid? Did she think I wouldn’t see through her?
I knew her.
There was no way I’d misjudged her over the last six weeks—she didn’t want to step back from us any more than I wanted to. It was fear, plain and simple. She was afraid of letting herself be happy with me. She saw her friend fall apart after a bad breakup, and it scared her. But rather than come to me and admit that, she’d run in the other direction. She couldn’t handle her feelings for me, so she’d just decided to turn them off.