My cheeks burn, but I catch myself licking my lips. What’s wrong with me? I pick up my dress as quickly as I can and run for the door. “I’m sorry. I can’t.” As I snatch my purse off the leather couch, I feel my chest tighten and wet tears form in the corners of my eyes. I’m such an idiot.
The last thing I hear from Gavin is a frustrated groan, “You've gotta be fucking kidding me!”
I shut the door behind me, finally taking the time to slip my dress back on before hitting the down button on the elevator. I push it over and over like it’ll come faster that way, praying he doesn’t come out before I’m gone.
Good job, Angie. Good freaking job. I can’t even get no-pressure sex right.
My senses are all focused at his door, waiting for it to open, but it doesn’t sound like he’s following. In fact, I hear the heavy metallic click of a lock. It’s an angry, accusative sound that makes my heart ache even though I should be glad he’s letting me go with nothing but a few well-earned insults.
The elevator dings, a soft, pleasant chime that’s in total contrast to how I’m feeling, then I’m inside, my stomach surging as I start the slow descent back to reality.
I’m never listening to Cassie again.
Chapter 3: Angie
“So.” Mom looks at me from across the kitchen table, the corners of her soft eyes crinkled in concern. The delicious smell of dinner cooking in the oven fills the room, though I hardly notice, lost in my own thoughts.
It’s been almost three weeks since The Incident, as I’ve come to think of it, and I’ve been on edge since, hardly leaving the house. I’ve hardly spoken to Paul, though he’s called a couple of times, wanting me to come over. Mostly to fool around, I think. I just don’t know how to face him after what I did, or almost did, depending on how you look at it. One stupid night, and now suddenly everything feels weird and wrong.
I’m sure Mom’s noticed, but I haven’t brought it up and she’s let me be. I doubt that’s what she wants to talk about, though. She’s never liked Paul anyway. Not even Cassie knows exactly what happened that night, since I haven’t been willing to talk to her either. It’s stupid to be mad at her, since it’s not like she forced me out on my one-night-stand attempt at gunpoint or anything. I still am, though.
I put down my book and meet Mom’s gaze with raised eyebrows, trying to forget about my messed up life for a few minutes and inviting her to continue.
“You remember Herbert, right?” She’s playing with the hem of her shirt nervously. Usually that means she’s going to tell me something I don’t like, or that she’s nervous. It doesn’t happen often though, and I get a funny feeling about this conversation. “The man who’s been visiting my flower shop.”
Yeah, I remember him. The guy she’s been seeing for a few months now, even if she refuses to come out and say it. I think it’s kind of cute.
Mom’s got a little shop that she’s been running for years. It’s not doing that great. Everything was good for a couple of years, but then the neighborhood gentrified, rent skyrocketed, and some unexpected maintenance killed her budget. She might have to close, which is really too bad. Me and that shop are her whole world, and I’m about to head off to college.
Herbert is a super-rich CEO type. Apparently he came in one day to buy a bouquet, and somehow they hit it off. It sounds like something out of a cheesy romcom, but she’s happy, so I hope it lasts. She’s been alone a long time.
Four years, eighty-two days, but who’s counting?
I put on an encouraging smile. “Yeah, sure. Well, not that you’ve let me meet him yet. Why, what’s up?” This is it, right? When she finally admits they’re a couple? I get why she’d be nervous, but this seems over the top.
She smiles, but it doesn’t take away any of the anxiousness. Her fingers have left her dress, but now they’re tapping a tattoo on the table, her long nails clacking quickly on the imitation wood. Her anxiety brings it out in me too, and I have to consciously keep my fingers in place so I don’t do the same as her. She’s about to spring something big.
Straightening in her chair, she chews her lip nervously. “Angie. This is going to seem really sudden.” She clears her throat. “You know I loved your father. I still do, but he’s been gone four years.”
Oh God, she had to go there. Even now, my chest gets tight. I was fourteen when it happened, but it hurts just as much now as it did then. Dad was a hot shot helicopter pilot in the Navy, but after flying who knows how many missions in Iraq, he was given the option to come home and become an instructor and he jumped at the chance.