“Forest—”
“What are you doing?” I refill my glass. “Why are you asking about Skye?”
“I worry about you.”
“You worry about me?”
“Yeah. You… you didn’t take our breakup well.”
“You fucked someone behind my back. For months. How did you expect me to take it?”
She shrinks back, wounded.
Like I’m the one hurting her.
Like I’m an asshole for pointing out the facts.
“And now you’re asking if Skye fills my needs?” I finish my wine in two gulps. “What the fuck is that?”
“Yeah… but, uh… it wasn’t that.”
“What?”
“The sex.” She looks into my eyes. “He’s not bigger. Or more creative. Or kinkier. That’s not why he’s better.”
My stomach churns.
“It’s because he tries to connect with me. To stay in tune with what I want now. And not what I wanted three years ago.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You could never see it, Forest. You could never see past this idea you had of me.”
“So you fucked him?” I pour another glass.
“You thought I was this mess you needed to clean up. You were so proud of how functional you were. Of all these ways you could take care of me.”
My eyes go to the bottle between us. Is she going to make me say it? She drinks as much as her mom. I worried for a reason? “I was taking care of you.”
“Because it made you feel superior.”
“Because I loved you. And I wanted you to be okay.”
“You loved how I made you feel.”
What the fuck? That’s what relationships are. What love is.
It’s that warm feeling in your chest. That sense of satisfaction when someone melts into your arms. The bliss when her laugh flows into your ears.
“It’s not like that with him. He loves me. He doesn’t try to change me. He doesn’t look at me like I’m some challenge he wants to fix.”
“I never—”
“I… I didn’t mean to fall for him. But I did. He saw me. The person I was then. The person I’d become. Not the stupid teenager he met a million years ago.”
“I never thought you were stupid.”
She takes a step backward. “I didn’t like the person I was anymore. I didn’t like the person I was with you.”
“How am I—”
“That’s why I left. Because I hated that version of myself.” She slides her purse onto her arm. “I loved you, Forest. I really did. And I’m really sorry I didn’t end things before I started with Diego. But it wasn’t out of malice. It was… it just happened.”
Every cheater’s favorite phrase.
It just happened.
Like she didn’t choose to kiss him, touch him, fuck him.
Like she didn’t know what she was doing when she replied to flirty texts.
Or sent secret emails.
Or went to his place alone.
It just happened.
She just kissed him.
And I can’t even argue.
Because this thing with Skye—it just happened.
“I’m sorry that you can’t move on. But, I hope for Skye’s sake that you do.” Mack looks at me like I’m the world’s biggest disappointment, then she shakes her head, turns, leaves.
It’s just me and the girls in the corner.
At this point, they’re up to more than kissing.
But I can’t say I’m particularly interested in anything but clarity.
A few minutes of sitting in silence does nothing to clear my head.
So I pour another glass.
Maybe the wine isn’t going to help me figure this out.
But it’s not like things can get any fuzzier than they are now.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Skye
I swallow another sip of Moscow Mule. Nod uh-huh to whatever it is Oliver is saying.
Something about his sister. She’s graduating next month. The first person in his family who’s going to college.
He’s proud of her.
It’s sweet, really.
I finish my drink.
He chuckles knowingly. “You’re worse than I am.”
“No.” I pop an ice cube into my mouth. Suck every drop of sugar, ginger, and booze. “That’s your third one.”
“I’m three times your size.”
Ah, if only. I don’t correct him though. Why point out those numbers?
“You want another?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“You trust me to get it right?”
“I trust you to make it strong.”
He chuckles fair enough, scoops our drinks, moves to the bar.
I cross one leg over the other. Smooth my dress. It’s new. Cute. Retro sexy. Sexy, period.
But my fake boyfriend isn’t here to appreciate it. The room is too crowded. I can’t tell if he’s still outside. If he and Mack are deep in conversation. If they’re taking off their clothes, fucking on the cold concrete.
Not that I’m picturing it.
Not that I’m buzzing from Forest kissing me.
Not that I’m aching from him leaving.
Ahem.
A hand brushes my shoulder.
I turn, expecting Oliver. The man is a godsend when it comes to refilling drinks. Or shaded tattoos. Or quietly drinking without excessive conversation.
A man of many talents, really.
An attractive tall man with beautiful blue eyes.
But my heart doesn’t beat for him.
Only it’s not Oliver.
It’s Diego.
“Hey.” He offers me a smile. That same million-dollar smile. “How have you been?”
“Good.” I reach for my drink, but it’s gone. “Busy.” With my unemployment. “Lots of photography projects. The fashion blog. You know—”