Truly (New York 1)

Ben cleared his throat and looked away. “Can I have my wallet back? I’m going to buy another round.”

May gave it to him, and she let him walk away from her, knowing he needed space, and that she needed … something. A break from all the tension, coiling tight as that spring he’d controlled with such physical certainty. A reprieve from whatever this was that they were doing.

She stood in the passageway, a still point vibrating with emotion. Her throat hurt. Her eyes watered.

A man bent over the jukebox, and when he straightened, an old Creedence song came over the sound system. The women with him had just finished clearing a space free of tables and chairs. They lifted their arms, bumping hips and laughing when one of them spilled her drink.

A dance floor. They were going to dance. The man caught May’s eyes from across the room and smiled.

Want to? he mouthed.

And she did. She did want to. She needed to move, to take the tension she’d created and push it outside of herself, because if she didn’t—

If she didn’t, something might happen with Ben that she wasn’t ready for.

So she crossed the room to the stranger, smiling back, and she pretended to believe that Ben would understand.

She pretended she wasn’t trying to make him snap.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

He sat at an uneven, sticky table, nursing his second beer and watching her.

She’d stripped off her sweater and thrown it on top of her purse, exposing her bare arms and neckline. May and her new friends whirled around, grabbing one another’s arms, whooping with laughter, singing the lyrics of some inane piece of synthetic pop crap.

When she tossed her head, her earrings shivered.

He couldn’t decide if she was just having fun or if she was also trying to punish him—and if so, for what. For telling her?

He didn’t need her to punish him. He was doing a thorough job of it all by himself.

He watched her dance. He clenched his fist under the table every time the blond guy brought his mouth to her ear to shout at her over the loud music, and he hated himself for it.

She’s not going to do anything with that guy, you dick. And even if she did, it’s her right. Her body.

The music had an orange-red corona that pulsed pain between his eyebrows. He wore away the skin beside his thumb, storing blood beneath his fingernail and glaring at the table. At the floor.

At anything but May.

You can’t keep her, even if you want to. You’re about to lose your apartment, and you have to find a new one. She’s going back to Wisconsin. You and her make no sense. You’re a wreck, and you don’t deserve her.

Just go. She doesn’t want you here. She’s disgusted with you.

Go. You’ll both be better off.

But he didn’t. Even when the blond man flattened his hand on her back, swooped down, and kissed her, Ben didn’t move.

He couldn’t move.

May didn’t push the man away. She didn’t pull him closer. She didn’t react at all.

The music beat beneath Ben’s hand on the tabletop, and his blood drilled into his temples and turned everything a bilious red.

May put her hands against the blond man’s chest and took a step back. She said something that made the guy smile. Gave his arm a friendly squeeze.

She walked away from him. Directly toward Ben.

He rose so fast, his chair knocked into the one beside it.