Crazy About Love: An All About Love Novel (11 page)

P
RESENT DAY

Rian convinces me to go to Central Park, filling our quota of long, silent walks. She gazes at her feet, looking like she has much on her mind, and when I try to ask about it, she gives whatever I say a sexual connotation, and I’m suddenly tongue-tied and sweating even though it’s mid-February.

I want to say what a bust Valentine’s Day has been, but my determination to make this night better still hasn’t waned. We’ve still got time to—

“It’s midnight,” Rian says, brushing a stray piece of purple hair from her forehead. She stops in front of me, letting her eyes fall slowly to my lips. Her long lashes sweep the tops of her high cheekbones. Her teeth gently bite the inside of her bottom lip, and I notice a hole where a piercing must’ve been, but she went without the metal tonight.

“I take it you want to cash in?” I ask, moving my gaze from her mouth to slightly behind her for some dumb reason. I’ve been trying to get that kiss all night, hoping that it’ll magically wipe the slate clean (or, as Rian put it, seal up the wound). And though I told her I’m not really a superstitious guy, I’m starting to believe that fate, God, the universe, or whatever you want to call it has intervened in every way it could.

She nods, smiling at me, and then rises on her toes like she has at least ten times tonight. Her breath is warm and her lips look soft and plump and she’s holding her breath. I cup her cheeks, cradle her in my palms, and check the moisture of my lips. Everything seems ready and good, and it’s romantic and starry. Her wrist taps my elbow slightly as she feathers her hands up my ribs.

It’s perfect. It should crack through my cement heart.

So I’m not sure why, but an undeniable hope builds inside of me, and not the hope to move on—it’s the hope that fate will decide to send another basketball into our faces.

T
HREE WEEKS, TWO DAYS AGO: 4:53
A.M.

Theresa’s bare back rises and falls in deep, satisfied slumber. The wind blows in from the open window, wafting the strands of her long hair over her face.

She smiles in her sleep. It’s been so long since I’ve watched her sleep that I’d completely forgotten what it looked like.

It doesn’t have to mean anything
.

The words were said right before it happened, but they were all lies. Every single one of them. My heart thuds hard, crashes against my rib cage, slides down into the pit of my stomach, and stops beating altogether as I slowly rise from the sheets. I stuff my legs into a pair of jeans sitting on top of my dresser, throw a shirt over my head, and take one last glance at the woman who just blew my mind.

I imagined our first “morning after” would be a lot different than this one. If I ever had the chance to make love to Theresa, I thought, I wanted her to fall asleep while I drew patterns across the skin of her back, and I wanted her to wake up next to me and make fun of my breath but kiss me anyway. I wanted to offer her breakfast, suggest another go-round in the sheets, or ask her to date me or kiss me or marry me. I wanted all those things, and I feel like calling a redo. Not a redo of our night together with her naked in my arms, but of the conversation
before
all of the significant events.

Suddenly my body collapses in on itself from the inside out. Burning heat pricks at the back of my eyes, and I force it to stay inside, where I keep all the feelings I have for her locked away.

Even though it’s my room, I duck out, tapping the doorframe slightly before leaving her there alone. It’s the coward’s way, but I don’t want to wake up and see the regret on her face, watch her walk away like I was just another one-night stand to help ease the loneliness.

I don’t want to tell her I love her again, only to have her say that she can’t…she
won’t
ever love me back. And I have a feeling the next time I open my mouth, those will be the words that will roll off my tongue.

P
RESENT DAY

“I can’t.”

Rian releases her held breath, warming my parted lips. Her eyes open, wide and surprised, and I drop my hands from her face, slam my eyes shut, pull at my hair, and step away to pace and pace like a damn fool.

I’m a red-blooded, available male. The world’s telling me that I’m supposed to be able to do this. To take what’s offered. To be able to kiss and touch and screw anytime an opportunity comes my way. That this is somehow moving on. That this is cathartic and helpful and numbs the ache of rejection from the one woman I desire. The world believes that I should be capable of having sex without feelings, that I can use it to satiate the craving in my nature. It’s what I hear in my head, what I see around me in movies, in books, in characters in scripts. I see it in real life, with people I know, people I don’t know, people I’ve worked with, and people I’ve loved. But that’s not who I am.

I’m a red-blooded available male who is so absolutely crazy in one-sided love that I can’t work up any willpower to enjoy an intimate touch with another woman, no matter how attractive or willing she may be. And the world may be right—this near-stranger, or a whole string of near-strangers, may be able to patch up the scratches on my wounded ego. But I need something to patch up the deep cuts on my heart, and I’m pretty sure the only thing that’s capable of that is
time.

“I’m so sorry. There’s something wrong in here,” I say, pressing a hand against my chest. “It needs to be fixed and it needs more time and I’m still in love with her and I can’t…She’s the first person I think of when I wake up and the last fleeting thought before I go to bed, and even tonight while I was trying to forget her, I couldn’t forget and I couldn’t make her disappear and I can’t do this with you, not while I’m still wishing you were her. And it’s not fair of me to ask you to help me move on when I’m just not ready to.
I’m not ready.
”

And as though a sudden light drops from the sky, my whole body warms and gravity feels different and I’m in another space, another time. A time when I held Theresa in my arms and she told me these same words. Her heart wasn’t ready…but it could be with time. I get it all now. I mean I fully comprehend why Theresa kept pulling away. She was still in love with someone else and she needed time and space and patience and understanding. And she may find someone else when she’s ready. Just like I will. I’ll find someone else
when I’m ready
.

But I am not ready now.

“I’m…I’m not ready either,” Rian whispers from the darkness outside my epiphany’s light. I blink a few times to try to get back to the space and time I’m supposed to be in.

“C-come again?”

She shakes her head, her earrings dangling back and forth against her cheeks. Her nails clack against the underside of the bench as soon as she drops onto it.

“I haven’t been totally honest about my intentions tonight. I kind of used you as a cover.”

I fall onto the bench next to her, the confident woman I’ve been with all night melting before my eyes. “What do you mean?”

“I thought I could try to get him out of my head.” She lets out a humorless laugh at our feet. “Win his complete opposite at the auction tonight and prove it somehow. Prove that he’s not right for me. That a guy like you who’s sweet and talented and understated would balance me out, but…well…it never…I mean, no offense, but it was all so…”

“Yeah,” I agree, knowing full well she doesn’t need to finish her sentence. “It was all so…”

She playfully curses and puts her face into her palms. “It was a disaster, wasn’t it?”

“Not a disaster.” When she gives me a pointed look, I concede, “Maybe a little forced. On both our ends.”

She turns to look at me, resting her head on top of her knuckles. “I thought if I threw in some dirty talk, a few touches, maybe kissed you a few times, that we’d just be…”

“We’d just be…,” I echo, and we let another joined thought fly off into the night air. She starts laughing, and I push my knee into hers. “Don’t have to laugh so hard at my lack of debonairness.”

“It’s not that. I’m just so
relieved
.” She rolls her eyes to the sky. “I really thought you were feeling it.”

I shake my head a little too enthusiastically, and we both laugh at ourselves.

“Sorry you wasted your bid.”

“I didn’t waste it. It was for charity. Wasn’t
completely
about you.” She winks and nudges me in the shoulder. “And besides, I don’t think I would’ve realized what I really wanted if I’d bid on anyone else.”

I’m sure there’s a compliment in there somewhere. “Well, then, I’m glad I helped you out.”

She grins, then pushes up from the bench. “Come on,” she says, sticking her hand out to me. “I’ll call Jackson and we’ll drop you off wherever you need to go.”

“Actually, I think I’m gonna walk.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Want to think.”

“Wallow?”

“Maybe.”

She tilts her head to the side, her teeth playing with the inside of her lip yet again. Without the added pressure of who I wanted her to be tonight, the air feels much more breathable—I think for both of us.

“Well,” she says, holding out a friendly hand, “I paid for a kiss. I still want it.”

I slap my palm against hers and we stand up. She taps her cheek, making it hard not to smile. I lean in quick, press my lips to her cold skin. It’s nice—completely void of raging amounts of guilt. There’s no pressure to take this kiss and try to make something out of it. She drops back down on her heels and smiles at me.

“I really hope you get him,” I tell her.

“I hope you get her, Alex with a
c
.”

I cringe a little at the nickname, finally feeling able to express how I really feel about it, and let out a sigh. “Me too.”

T
HREE WEEKS, ONE DAY AGO

Theresa has sent you an instant message.

F
RIDAY 8:31
A.M.

You left.

8:33
A.M.

I had to.

8:33
A.M.

Early shift?

8:34
A.M.

Among other reasons.

8:34
A.M.

Was I that bad at it?

8:34
A.M.

You know you weren’t.

8:49
A.M.

Did I hurt you?

8:52
A.M.

No.

8:52
A.M.

Do we need a redo?

9:10
A.M.

You there?

9:10
A.M.

No redo. I’m good. Promise.

9:12
A.M.

Okay.

9:13
A.M.

For the record, you weren’t bad either. In case you needed to know ; )

9:13
A.M.

I did. : )

P
RESENT DAY

I plop my ass on a bench in the train station and pull out my phone, flicking through the old messages as if they weren’t conversations I had just days ago. Landon’s left me so many texts I’m tempted to call him, but it’s late and I’m not in the mood to summarize the last five years, which essentially killed the night before it even started.

Do we need a redo?

I drag my thumb over the words, highlighting them in the message bubble. I’d like to redo a lot of things. Hell, if I go back far enough I could redo the decision to move to New York. I could’ve met that someone who will make the feelings I have for Theresa seem like child’s play.

On second thought, New York was a good move. There are auditions and opportunity here I couldn’t find anywhere else. My friends are here—or
were
here. Romance aside, that decision led to great things. So no redo there.

Maybe I’d just redo everything involving Theresa. Every time I sang with her, or for her, I’d keep my mouth shut instead. When everyone left us alone, I’d take it as my cue to head home too. Every time she sat behind a piano, I’d plug my ears. I’d avoid all touch, refuse to meet her gaze, stay aloof and unattached, and put in only a minimal effort, so she wouldn’t want to be around me. So I wouldn’t inevitably fall for her intoxicating personality and beauty. We’d hardly know each other today, what with the rest of our group moving on, creating families. I might get an invitation to her wedding or friend her on Facebook, but our lives wouldn’t be so reliant on each other. I wouldn’t be so aware of the void in my heart of having her but not having her. I’d redo it for the sweet oblivion of never knowing what it’s like to be so in love and not be able to do a damn thing about it.

A bell rings out through the station, and I look up at the schedule. I have five more minutes of wallowing before I can head home and forget about this night and how screwed I am.

My phone buzzes in my hand, startling me out of my reverie. I gaze down at the already opened message thread, ignoring the newest message from Landon and tapping on the keypad under Theresa’s name. I type
Redo
into the message, delete it, and type it again. I envision her face, her eyes done up nicely for the auction, her dress hugging her curves, and her wide smile. I recall the hitches in her breathing, the goose bumps rising on her skin, her closeness not being close enough, and I realize that I do want a redo, but not for sweet oblivion. I want to fight harder, say how I feel over and over again, tell her that I think she loves me too. I want to go back to our last night together and erase the words I said and replace them with
I love you
and promises of forever.

I don’t care how crazy it is that I’m here again—in the train station where I first fell for her laugh and smile and joy—three years later and I’m still just as in love today as I was then. And I’m going to tell her.

My thumb taps the send button and the bubble appears in my message box. If she’s up, she’ll see that I called a redo. She’ll know what it means.

I blow out a sigh. Then I hear the sound of a phone notification ringing through the station. It’s a short, high-pitched, robotic voice saying, “Wahoo! Text message!”

I know it well.

I’ve heard it many, many times before, and not because it’s my message tone.

It’s Theresa’s.

And she’s sitting on a bench at the other end of the station.