Bad Cruz

Not in this life, gasshole.

Two weeks later.

Gabriella Holland was a bad idea.

I knew that the night I’d met her at that bar.

The same night I took her home.

And the morning after it, too, when she casually examined the family pictures that hung on my living room wall, naked as the day she was born, and dropped the bomb that she was actually from Fairhope, too.

That her best friend, Trinity, was working at my clinic, and her mother would be delighted to know we knew each other. Closely.

What was an honorable man to do?

A man who had been crowned Fairhope’s Most Likely to Become President?

Who couldn’t afford to make a mistake, let alone four mistakes in one night, one of them in a pretty adventurous Kama Sutra position, resulting in a thoroughly compromised young woman?

I’d given my relationship with Gabriella Holland a fair shot.

There was, after all, absolutely nothing wrong with her as far as the eye could see. She was objectively stunning, had graduated from Columbia the previous year, and worked as a blogger and influencer, promoting beauty products and street fashion on social media.

She wanted to be a housewife, to pop out cute, chubby babies, and I supposedly wanted a wife who would do just that.

Our goals, plans, and ideologies were theoretically aligned.

Supposedly being the operative word, because I couldn’t, for the life of me, take any more of her photographing every goddamn thing we ate before consumption, or getting a selfie in every public restroom she visited, citing the great lighting.

“But…but why?” Gabriella sniffed, patting her nose and eyes with a tissue demurely, trembling all over.

I privately disliked all the trembling. She trembled when she ate a chicken salad at Jerry & Sons, when she saw something sad in the news, and when a draft came in through the window.

She was so fragile, so gentle, she belonged in a museum, not a red-blooded man’s bed (although, ironically, it should be said, Gabriella was pretty much game to do anything I wanted to do, just as long as I called the next day).

“Was it something I said? Something I did? I don’t understand. You gave me a necklace the other day!”

She was perched on the edge of my upholstered navy sofa, her big doe eyes shimmering like broken glass.

I didn’t have the heart to tell her the necklace had nothing to do with her and everything to do with me.

I prided myself in being the best lover in both Carolinas. I showered my girlfriends with expensive presents, took them anywhere worth going, never missed an important date, and wouldn’t let them leave for home without a complimentary orgasm.

I had high expectations of myself.

I was, after all, Fairhope’s darling.

The idea of letting people down gave me anxiety, no matter how much I liked to pretend otherwise.

“Wait, was it the non-organic burger incident?” She snapped her fingers, having a light bulb moment. “I guess I could’ve been kinder to Messy Nessy. It’s just that I’ve been under so much pressure recently, with Trinity’s wedding, and the bridesmaid fitting…”

“This has nothing to do with Tennessee Turner.” I handed Gabriella another tissue. I could tell as soon as she left here, she was going to start bawling her eyes out. “And nothing to do with you, either. You’re perfect.”

“Then why are you breaking up with me?”

I don’t have the greenest clue, honey. I just know you bore me half to death.

There was something wrong with me, and I needed to figure out what it was.