“Ugh. I need to take about fifty showers. I’m going to go do that and then coat my body in disinfectant.”
Spinning around, not giving me another look or word, Brooke clears traffic and hurriedly crosses the street.
I watch her get into her car. I watch her pull away and disappear around the corner.
I stand there, dumbfounded, my mouth slack, my mind reeling with confusion.
What the fuck? Is that it? Is that how this is going to end between us?
Sure, Brooke has every right to be angry with me. Sure, I fucked up dragging her out into the middle of nowhere this weekend and pushing her to try new things, but what about everything else?
The dates. Our talks and the way she opens up to me when it’s just us. Last night in the fucking tent. Does none of that matter?
I slump back against the side of my car and scrub both hands down my face. Tension pulls at my muscles. I feel stiff and tight all over.
I need a long run. Hours on the pavement.
I practice yoga daily. It calms my mind, but nothing substitutes the mental and physical workout a hard as fuck run will give you. I want to be too tired to think. Running will do that.
Haphazardly unloading my camping gear into the studio, not even bothering to take it upstairs, I lock up behind me and go through a few stretches to loosen up. I hit the footpath with quick strides, running down and back up Fayette Street, through alleys and behind businesses. I run faster, harder, down streets I’ve never been down before and ones that are familiar.
The sun lowers in the sky, dipping between buildings. Sweat soaks my shirt and trickles down my face.
My feet beat on the cement, a steady, relentless pace I push myself to keep even after my muscles ache and my lungs burn.
I think about Brooke and our weekend, but not the shit that happened today. I think about holding her last night in the tent. Her soft body curling against mine, pulling me closer in her sleep. Her breath against my neck and the smell of her hair.
Christ, being with her like that was everything. And fuck me, if I don’t want it every single night.
My infatuation with her started out as an idea. A glimpse of a woman I wanted to know and understand. A delightful interest. But the more time I spend with her, the more desperate I feel.
To have her. To keep her. I’m completely mad for this woman and I may have cocked it all up.
Three hours later and I’m staring down at the drain in my shower as cold water beats on my back.
My body is fatigued, my muscles aching and worn, but I don’t have the clarity I usually feel after a long run. My goddamn head feels heavier somehow.
So much for de-stressing therapeutically. I debate getting dressed and walking to the nearest liquor store.
Cutting the water off, I step out and cinch a towel around my waist, moving out of the bathroom and toward the bed. I unplug my phone from the charger and send out a quick text.
I did promise to keep her informed of developments. This is, unfortunately, my latest development.
Me: I fucked up with Brooke.
The phone barely touches the dark wood of my nightstand before it starts ringing.
“That was fast,” I tensely answer, wiping a quick hand over my face to collect the water dripping from my hair. “Please tell me you weren’t expecting that message and waiting around for it. I like to think my chances with this woman weren’t doomed from the start.”
“How the hell should I know about your chances? I’ve never met her,” Tessa replies, her tone helplessly clever. “And last time we talked, you said she was warming up to you, and that you’ve been seeing a lot of each other. Quite a bit, I believe were your exact words. Based on those two facts right there, I’d say you were doing better than a chump who was doomed from the start. I doubt she would’ve spent any time with you if that were the case.”
“Right, well, as lovely as that thought is, our time together may be over. I’m not sure how warm she is to the idea of me anymore after what I’ve put her through.”
“Oh, Christ. What did you do? And please, don’t skimp on the information. Reed still likes to leave out important details to stories just to make himself sound better. It never works. If you want my advice, I’m going to need to know exactly how you fucked up. Like you can’t tell me Brooke hates you now because you took her for a moonlit walk last night after your date, because I’m going to hear that and think ‘what the fuck is this bitch’s problem’, when really, you’re leaving off the part where you ran over some poor old lady with your car, left her to die in the middle of the street, and then ditched your vehicle because it was evidence. Making someone an accessory to murder is a valid reason to hate you.”