REBECCA, TWO MONTHS LATER
I switch the phone to my other ear and Jenn is still chattering. "Come out with us," she says.
I look down at my outfit.
Not a chance.
"I'm tired."
"You're always tired."
"Those kids wear me out. You hang out with five-year-olds all day and then tell me you want to go hang out in a bar with men who are more immature than the kids were."
I have a busy night planned. Wine. Pizza. Chocolate. Bridget Jones.
Jenn sighs. "None of the men are ever going to compare to Graden for you. You should just call him."
I look around my tiny apartment. It's a studio on top of someone's garage, but it's within walking distance of the school. Which is good because I sold my car to start paying Graden back. "I can't call him." He's probably back on the rig anyway.
I wonder what he's going to do with the condo now. Will he rent it out? Will he even keep it? It's not my business, and I shouldn't care.
But I do and I always will.
My apartment is just right for me now, though. I got what little furniture I have from thrift stores, painting it all white. The walls are soothing mint, and I put lace on everything and anything. It's all feminine and all mine. The condo, which is really nice, was very masculine and sparsely decorated. I never felt like I could do what I wanted with it since I was "housesitting."
So, I vomited girliness all over my new place.
"Go have fun, Jenn. I'm really fine here. I don't want to go out, and I'm not secretly hoping you'll cajole me into changing my mind."
"Okay. But what if I cajole you into calling Graden?"
I crumple a piece of paper near the mic on my phone. "What’s that? Are you going through a tunnel? You're breaking up."
"Ha ha. Fine. But brunch tomorrow."
"Absolutely. Have fun."
It occurs to me, while watching Renee Zellweger singing alone in her apartment, that I am…becoming pathetic. I've given up on going out there. I don't want to try anymore. I'm only twenty-three. I have one three-day relationship and a string of bad first dates under my belt. It's too soon to give up. But the thought of anyone else touching me. No. Just no.
The thought of Graden touching me. Well, that's better.
What would I do if he knocked on my door? I pause the movie and lean back, closing my eyes. I undo the belt of my robe. I am, pathetically, wearing the nightie from the shopping mall beneath it. It was staring at me from the drawer, wondering why I never wear it, and I figured, what the hell?
It's a good thing I don't have a spare wedding dress hanging in the closet or I'd probably sit around the house in it, too.
I take a deep breath and bring my hand up to the little black panties. I imagine Graden and…I hear a knock at the door?
Fucking Jenn. She ruined a perfectly good orgasm and is wasting both our time. I do not want to go out tonight.
I swing the door open. "Go away!"
"Uh, bad time?"
I imagine my eyes are cartoonishly round as I stare at Graden. Graden!
"Wh-what are you doing here?"
He starts to answer then stops, taking in my appearance. Shit. I forgot to belt my robe.
He swallows hard. "I've interrupted." His brow furrows into wrinkles of pain. "I'm sorry. Here's your mail." He thrusts two envelopes into my hand and turns to go.
I think about letting him leave believing there is another man here. That I'm wearing the nightie from that day for someone else. It would be infinitely less embarrassing than the truth: that I'm wearing it all by myself because I'm a lonely spinster. But I call out, "Graden, wait."
He stops at the bottom of the stairs and looks up. God, the stricken expression on his face guts me. I belt the robe. "Please come up. You're not interrupting anything. There's nobody here."
Eyebrows raised, he stalks back up the stairs slowly. God, he looks amazing. This is the first time I've seen him since I moved out. He's better than the mental pictures my memory served up.
A hot flush steals over me as he gets closer. All that towering strength. All those corded, bunching muscles. I swallow hard and try to still my heart. It's thumping so hard he can probably see it.
And I'm wet.
He stops in front of me on the landing. "You smell good, sugar."
I hold it together for another second or two while we stare into each other's eyes. And then I start to cry.
Big, stupid, gushing tears. And I crumple into him.
"Oh, baby, don't cry." He sweeps me into his embrace and brings me into the house.
"I don't even know why I'm crying," I protest, but I nestle my face into his neck. He doesn't smell like cookies, but oh my God, does he smell amazing. He doesn't wear cologne—it's the scent of his soap and shampoo and just him. Just him.
He settles us onto the little couch and soothes me, rubbing small circles on my back. "I didn't mean to make you cry."
I pull back to look at him. "It's not your fault. It's just that…I miss you."
"I miss you, too. God, Becks. More than you know." He cups my cheek. "I've been going crazy."
"Me, too."
Graden kisses my forehead. I can feel his arousal beneath me. He's hard and ready to take me. All that's standing between us is my stupid pride.
I swallow hard. Swallow the ball of pride that's made me miserable for two months. Yes, I can do it. I can take care of myself. I can pay my bills and get along day to day. But it's half a life. It's certainly not the life I want.
I undo the belt one last time and shrug out of the robe. His eyes dilate as he takes me in.
"I wore this tonight so I could think of you while I touched myself and dreamed about what could have been."
His hand squeezes my leg and a guttural groan escapes him. "Becks."
"I don't want to dream about you anymore."