I blink at her a few times, convinced I must have heard wrong. Then I figure I’ll go for humor instead. “Afraid I’ve left the cat at home, tonight. Figured he wouldn’t appreciate all the noise.”
A few of Mindy’s friends titter at my reply, yet she only shakes her head in exasperation. “So I take it you’re still holding out on us, oui?”
“What on earth are you talking about, Mindy?”
Her eyes meet mine with no sign of guile in them as she says, “Hannah, of course. She told me you two were thinking about going back on.” The moment the words are out of her mouth, she must realize the misstep. Her eyes widen, her perpetual smile dipping into a faint frown. “I’m sorry, did I misunderstand her?”
I ball my hands into fists beneath the table and school my face into a practiced, blank expression. “No. No, I’m sure you didn’t. Excuse me, I need a drink.”
Sorry, Drew mouths at me as I rise to go. I shake my head, and hope it conveys what I mean.
Don’t worry about it. Because he shouldn’t. It’s not Mindy’s fault that Hannah’s using her to get to me.
It’s not Mindy’s fault that everyone around me seems to take Hannah’s side.
It’s not Mindy’s fault that this morning only reinforced what I already knew, had been sure about ever since the year Hannah and I went out—I’m not the settling-down type.
Granted, Hannah never made me feel even half of what Harper did in just one quirk of her lips. I’ve never lost control of myself with Hannah. I’ve never fucked her like that, never nearly blacked out when I came, never pushed her across a desk or forgotten myself so badly I left marks behind.
Sex with Hannah was so . . . well . . . British. Polite, gentle, orderly. No muss and no fuss.
No heat and no fire.
But what Harper and I did . . . If we kept on like that, someone would get hurt. Me, or even worse, her. Not physically hurt, because we clearly both enjoyed that. But emotionally; fire like that would drag us both through the ringer. Hannah and I didn’t even have half that kind of chemistry, and look how badly our tepid relationship messed her up. She’s descended to the level of lying to my friends about being with me.
I’m not delusional. I know it’s my fault, my screw-ups, that drove her into becoming that kind of person. After all the other serious relationships I’d ended, I thought, here’s a woman who fits me to the T. Every detail matches on paper. I told myself if it didn’t work with Hannah, clearly it would never work with anyone. Not long term.
The final breakup with her a year later proved that theory.
Better to cut Harper off now. I’ll never be able to give a woman the full package. Never be able to do what my parents, my sister, Mindy, Drew, what everyone wants me to, and just settle for some polite, gentle, orderly relationship. I’m just not capable of it. I’ve accepted that, made my peace with it. But I need to keep reminding myself: the people around me have not.
I reach the large central room, the one with the bar in it, and sidle up to order a neat whisky (Scotch, Laphroaig 10 year, which tastes like inhaling a forest fire, just the way I like it). If nothing else, this will fix my head on straight again. Or at least, help me forget all this shit for long enough to relax for the duration of the game.
That’s when my eyes snag on her.
Goddamn it. It’s like the universe wants to punish me. It just keeps throwing her in my path headlong, heedless of the consequences.
Harper hasn’t seen me yet. Her head’s thrown back as she laughs, full and throaty (though I notice with a rush of amusement that she’s wearing a turtleneck to hide the bites I left behind).
Watching her head fall back, the way her hair sways against the small of her back, and imagining her arcing her neck that way as I drove into her, it makes me hard again in an instant. Goddamn, it’s like I’m fucking fifteen.
Speaking of fifteen-year-olds, she’s with a group of undergrads now, I notice. People her own age, students like her. The way it should be.
She belongs with them, and I belong alone.
Then one of the kids with her, some punk-ass idiot with his hair slicked full of grease and a faux leather jacket on like he’s starring in a production of Grease, slides his arm around her shoulders.
My whole body tightens. I want to throw him off of her. I want to grab her and take her right here in the middle of the pub, everyone watching, so they’ll all know she’s mine.
Which, of course, is exactly the opposite of what I’ve just convinced myself is the right thing to do. As hard as it is, I force myself to turn away from her, trying to block her out of my mind.