I took a step back. Then another one, still holding her gaze. The world shrank around her, blurring at the edges like a faded picture.
Turn the fuck around and start walking, you tool.
Still, I stood, waiting for her to make the first move. Wondering if she’d change her mind at the last minute.
“Maybe in another life.” Mad smiled sadly, her eyes shining.
“Definitely,” I said gruffly.
She turned around, disappearing into the subway. I stood there for ten minutes, then spun on my heel and stomped three blocks until I found an alleyway full of trash cans and privacy. I slumped against the wall, my forehead to the red bricks, and stood there for a half hour, waiting for my heart to stop galloping.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
MADDIE
The next week crawled, minute by minute. It was exotically hot. Everything in the city looked liquefied. The concrete. The buildings. The people. Kind of like The Persistence of Memory by Salvador Dalí, with the melting clocks.
Tick, tock.
Tick, tock.
Had life always felt so hollow?
I made myself forget about the azaleas. About the bet with Chase. About myself.
I threw myself into work, sketching everywhere I could. The train to and from work. On the platform. In restaurants. On lunch breaks. Before bed. Work consumed me.
I sketched and erased and started over and laughed and cried over the DWD design, because it wasn’t just a design; it was my design. And sure, I’d designed many wedding dresses before, but there were always rules, laid out and crystal clear.
This spring our line is going to focus on sheath dresses.
This winter is all about ball gowns.
The lace collection will be mermaid-style.
This time, there were no rules to abide by. It was just me and the chaos teeming in my mind. It was the endgame. Kate Middleton on her wedding day met Grace Kelly in her carriage met Audrey Hepburn in her signature Balmain gown.
I tried hard not to think about Chase. I took Daisy out for longer walks, watching her chase Frank. I read the word of the day on Layla’s board dutifully, looking for telltale signs the nagging feeling that I was in the midst of making a terrible mistake was unfounded. I wanted to be there for Chase during this time. To be there for Katie and for Lori and for Clementine.
I even made a list of words Layla had hung up to try to sew them into a meaning.
Monday was regret.
Tuesday was relief.
Wednesday was chocolate (which, let’s admit it, played a huge role throughout my week as I tried to forget Chase).
Thursday was coward.
I decided not to check the board today. I was 70 percent sure Layla was being passive aggressive after I’d told her I’d run away from Chase after the engagement shoot, leaving him standing there, confused by my behavior.
To push away the Chaseness that’d been filling my brain, I went on two dates with Ethan. I was grateful for the distraction he provided. He was endlessly patient, caring, and full of stories about his work, his patients, and his time volunteering in Africa. On Tuesday, we went to watch a war movie. The night after, he took me to meet his friends at a bar. Finally, tonight, we’d agreed we’d go to a Thai place, then come back to my place for some wine.
Wine meant sex, and sex wasn’t something I was ready for with Ethan, seeing how Chase occupied every corner of my mind. A part of me wanted to take it minute by minute and just see how it played out. Maybe I would be in the mood. Maybe the wine would loosen me up, and we’d sleep together, and I’d realize that was all I’d really needed—a chance to be intimate with Ethan to feel connected to him.
Then why do I dread getting back to my apartment with Ethan in tow? Why does it feel like I’m on death row?
Ethan and I strolled to my building. I told him about my DWD project in detail.
“There will be a chapel train, and I’m thinking pleated sweetheart bodice that resembles a Victorian corset. Oh, Ethan, it’s going to be so pretty . . . ,” I gushed, noticing him stiffening beside me. I stopped right alongside him, blinking at my stairway.
It couldn’t be.
But that was exactly what I’d thought the first evening Chase had been waiting for me on my doorstep, luring me into his fake-engagement plan.
“I thought . . . ,” Ethan began.
I shook my head violently. Like there was something inside it I wanted to get rid of. There was. “You thought right. I told him to back off. Let me deal with this.”
I stomped my way to my door, feeling the anger coiling hotly in the pit of my stomach, blossoming, building up, and climbing up my throat. My entire body was buzzing with wrath. How could he? How could he do this to me again? Hadn’t I made myself clear? I didn’t want to see him. Had gone as far as admitting I had feelings for him just to make him take a step back. Was there anything more humiliating than admitting your unrequited feelings toward someone? That was the basis to every poem, love song, and angsty work of art in the universe.