Best of 2017

With a sharp jerk, he steps back, turning his body away from me. A deep line mars his perfect face right between his brows. Embarrassment settles in when I realize he pulled away.

I’m mortified.

“I have to go,” he mutters more to himself than to me. His dazzling blues now seem lifeless and hollow. “Call my office to schedule an appointment.” No! I want to shout back. Look at me. Talk to me. But I don’t.

Instead, without even a backward glance, I turn and walk into the building. He waits for me to enter, and then he leaves. Once he’s out of sight, I release a large exhale. I square my shoulders and walk right out the door and back to the bar.

Austin is preparing a martini. When he lifts his head, our eyes lock and a wide grin spreads across his face.

“Back so soon? Fight with the boyfriend?” His eyebrow raises and he purses his lips as though he caught me in something.

I let out a bitter laugh. “He is not my boyfriend.”

“Didn’t look that way to me.” He cocks his head and I just shake mine.

“Trust me. He’s not.” I give him a dismissive wave of my hand, which elicits a chuckle from him.

“Well, then, he wants you.” Maybe so, but not enough. He lifts his shoulder in a half shrug. “I’m a guy. I know this shit.” My eyes roll at that. “So, what can I get you, darling?” His cute twang brings a smirk to my face.

“A shot.”

MY EYES ARE heavy as I make my way to my apartment and into bed. The last shot of tequila is taking effect, but from across the room, I see the journal. Stumbling, I grasp it in my hand.

JOURNAL ENTRY

He kissed me and then he walked away. He left me there, standing on the sidewalk in a cloud of confusion. How can I face him again? I can’t. But then again, he kissed me. As mortified as I was, I was also right. He wants this, too.

Once I’m done, I throw it across the floor. The sound echoes in my ears. Without taking off my clothes, I crawl into bed. The tequila coursing through my blood.

I’m lulled to sleep reliving the kiss over and over again.

IT’S OFFICIAL, there’s a jackhammer in my scull. My whole body aches and I feel like shit.

Remorse runs through me as last night plays out in my head. I wish I could wake up this morning and not remember what happened, or rather, what I instigated. But unfortunately, the memories are there, and they’re screaming at me. My stomach turns when I think of his rejection.

How will I face him?

I bury my head in my pillow and pretend it never happened.

“Hey, sleepyhead.”

I let out a groan at the sound of Sydney’s voice.

“Hungover?”

“No.” I reach for my pillow and place it over my head to block out the sound.

“Well, you look hungover.”

“I’m sick,” I mumble. I’m never leaving my bed and facing the world again.

“What’s wrong?”

Groaning again, I continue to hide and not answer.

“Get out of there and look at me,” she scolds.

“No.”

“What are you? Five? Get your head out from that pillow and tell me what’s wrong.”

“Sick.”

“So, now you’re your mom?”

Low blow. No way did she go there. I throw the pillow at her across the room, and it lands on the floor with a thump. Peeking up from the bed, I narrow my eyes at her.

“Not cool.”

“It got you out, though.” She gives me a coy smile and I wish I had another pillow to throw at her head. “Seriously, though, what’s going on? You’ve never slept this late. Not even when you’re hungover.”

I look her dead in the eyes. “I told you. I’m sick.”

“You don’t look sick,” she retorts. “Saying you’re sick when you’re not is something you hate, so why don’t you man up and tell me what’s going on?”

This is why I both love and hate Sydney. She always calls me on my bullshit. “Fine, I’m hiding. Okay? You happy now?”

She nods and her lips tip up into a smile. “Kind of. What are you hiding from?”

“Life.”

“You need to be more specific.”

“Preston—I mean Dr. Montgomery. I mean . . . I don’t know what I mean.”

Her eyebrow rises. “I don’t get it. I feel like I’m missing some crucial info.”

I bite my lip and conjure up the courage to tell her about my massive faux pas.

“Um, I might have gotten drunk . . .” She waves her hand to get me to continue. “I might have gotten drunk and madeapassathim,” I rush out in one syllable before I chicken out.

Her mouth drops open, her eyes wide.

“Oh. What did he say?”

“He kissed me. And then he pretty much ran away.”

“He’s your therapist.”

“Yes, thank you, Captain Obvious. Why do you think I’m hiding?”

“You know what? Fuck it. You’re both adults, shit happens. Don’t beat yourself up over it. How are you planning on handling it from now on?” Her eyes soften as she sits on the end of the bed.

“I don’t know. What do you think I should do?”

“I can’t tell you what to do, but you’re making such great progress I’d hate for you to start over from scratch. Why don’t you clear the air?”

“You don’t think I can just ignore it and pretend it never happened?” I don’t want to ignore it, but I know the truth and that he regrets it.

“Yeah, no.” She breathes in and then lets out an exaggerated breath. “Maybe you should call his office and speak to him. If you show up to your next appointment feeling the way you do, it will be all kinds of awkward.”

I shrug. “Maybe. I’ll think about it.” She stands and walks toward the door. “I’ll make us some greasy breakfast. Get your ass up and stop wallowing, you little wench.”

I give her a little shake of my head and then I lie back down, considering what I should do.

I grab my journal.

Journal Entry

I’m a fuckup. Shit! What the fuck am I going to do? He’ll never want to see me again. I know it sounds crazy but he makes me feel. I’ve never had that with anyone before and it scares the life out of me. I used to laugh when I heard women talk like this but now I’m living it and it’s not so funny.

He’s brought me such clarity in the last few weeks. I can’t risk losing him. Not for a passing crush, because that’s what this is. It’s only a crush.

It’s only a crush.

I tell myself this over and over again. As if I say it enough it will make it true.

But I don’t believe it.

And I’m afraid if I lose him, I’ll lose what I’ve gained.

I’m afraid I’ll lose me.

I pick up my phone and fire off a text.

Me: I’m sorry.

I’m not even sure what I’m sorry for.

Missing the appointment, getting drunk, pushing my body to his, tempting him?

After putting the phone down, I try to busy myself so I don’t check my phone. Eyeing the frame I bought the other week, I decide to put a picture of Richard and me in it and add it to the wall collage hanging above my desk. Where is my tape measure? It’s not in the desk drawer. It’s not under my bed? I head into Sydney’s room.

“Hey, do you have a tape measure by any chance? My tape measure?” I smirk.

“Actually,” she grimaces, “I think I do. Hmm, I think it’s in the closet in the very back. There should be a storage box. It might be up top, actually.”

As I rummage through her closet, I spot a familiar shirt buried in a pile of clothes. My eyebrow rises as I look at it. Turning it over, I examine the cuff. Embroidered in red, I see a familiar monogram.

RDS.

Richard David Stone. Why is this in her closet? Why would she have his shirt unless . . . my breath leaves my body and I can feel the blood throbbing inside my veins. She has Richard’s shirt.

“Whe

re did you get this?” My words are sharp. Confusion, anger, and betrayal hang on every syllable.

“Get what?”

“This,” I lift the offending shirt up. The evidence of her lie.

“What are you talking about?” She turns around to look at me and her face is guilt ridden.

“This was Richard’s.” I bite out.

Silence. She doesn’t say anything and it infuriates me.