So am I.

24

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I’ve been sitting here in the dark, pickling in my own tears and staring at Gino’s take out menu. Only fifteen minutes away lies the best pepperoni pizza I’ve ever tasted. Usually I pick off the pepperoni, blot most of the grease away with a paper towel, peel off the doughy crust and restrict myself to one slice. If I’m splurging, maybe two.

But tonight, with Zo’s disappointment heavy on my shoulders and his shouted recriminations trapped in my walls, echoing in my mind even after he’s gone, I want to eat the whole pizza. I imagine how good it would feel to tear my teeth into something soft and carby, not crunchy salads or strips of lean meat. Something puffy as a marshmallow. Something gooey that feels like a pillow in my mouth.

Comforting.

I’m reminding myself of all the things I learned in counseling, but it wouldn’t kill me to eat pizza. My body wouldn’t balloon overnight. I indulge every once in a while. It would be why I’m eating it: the fact that there’s a deep crater in my chest hollowed out by how I’ve let myself down and let Zo down, how I’ve hurt the kindest man I’ve ever met. I want to stuff food in that hole, and I want to believe, even if it’s only as long as it takes me to finish the meal, that pepperoni makes it better. Giving in to that feels like tossing a sobriety coin in a wishing well and hoping for the best. But right now I don’t care how I feel better. I just need to.

Fuck it.

I pick up my cell to select Gino’s contact when the phone rings in my hand. And, of course, it’s Quinn. For two rings, I consider not picking up, but I know she’ll just keep calling. I cancelled our workout this morning. I haven’t been answering my phone. If she tried the office, Maali will have told her I called in sick. If I don’t answer, she’ll be at my door.

That’s what I would do for her.

“Hey.” I lovingly caress the takeout menu and try to sound normal. “What’s up, chica?”

“What’s up?” Quinn asks, her voice tight. “What’s up is you blowing off this morning’s workout, calling in sick, and missing our appointment tonight.”

“Appointment?” I sit up straight on my couch, suddenly alert. “What appointment?”

“Remember we had the AesThetics pitch tonight?”

I’m sinking through my living room floor with embarrassment.

“Shit,” I mutter and cover my face with one hand. “I can’t believe I . . . Maali would have—”

“Called?” Quinn interjects. “Yeah, she did. A few times, but you weren’t answering.”

I close my eyes and push the hair, tangled from the abuse my fingers have given it all day, out of my face.

“I’m so sorry.” I swallow fresh tears. Not only have I ruined things with Zo, but I may have jeopardized an opportunity I’ve been cultivating for Quinn for months. “I’ll call them and re-schedule.”

“Oh, I still met with them.” A smile enters her voice. “You’d already sent the ideas you wanted to discuss, and you and I had gone over them. It was easy to listen to what they had to say and tell them what we were thinking.”

“And?” I ask hopefully.

“Well, I didn’t do anything.” Quinn offers a teasing laugh. “You have to earn your keep. I told them you’d follow up tomorrow since you were sick tonight.”

A pause redolent with questions.

“Are you sick?” Quinn asks. “None of this is like you. All us mere mortals take a day or so to play hooky, but you never have. So what’s going on?”

And I can’t even say. Shame, hurt, and frustration roll into a gag shoved in my mouth. They stop the words for how royally I’ve messed up. My best friend hurt and gone. One of my firm’s biggest clients leaving. Not to mention the censure I will inevitably receive from my family. Mama would be hard-pressed to choose between her natural daughter and Alonzo Vidale. How many rosaries have there been for his big games or when he was injured? I can already see her glaring at the empty seat where he should be this Christmas.

“Banner?” Quinn prompts.

And the crying starts again. Not the racking sobs of the last few hours, but a trickle of hurt and disappointment that I’m too tired to wipe away. Just sniffling and my helpless silence.

“Oh, God,” Quinn says, her voice sinking to a horrified whisper. “Is it Zo? Did he cheat? Some ho on the road? Because I have just the thing for when a guy cheats.”

“What do you have for when a girl does?” I ask, hush-voiced.

Shock waves blast me from the other end.

Tags: Kennedy Ryan Hoops Romance
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