Tempting(27)

“I don’t need a pity kiss, Adele.” His eyes were angry as he whipped open my door. “Instead of searching for men who have their shit together, maybe you need to get your own shit together.”





Chapter Fourteen





Counting out my share of tips from my last three shifts at the coffee shop alerted me to two things:

1. I’d need to get another job.

2. My customers were cheap mother fuckers.



I leaned back against my couch with a sigh. I had enough in the bank for rent, for my power bill this month—woohoo! And my tips would need to float me for food and my Charlie card for the subway. As much as the subway, the T, pissed me off, riding it was my only option to get around.

Leo was one of the few people I knew that had a car in Boston and he’d often given me rides to class or for shopping. But at the moment, Leo wasn’t exactly jumping out of his pants at the opportunity to speak with me.

I couldn’t blame him, not after the very unromantic kiss I’d given him. And the fact that I hadn’t texted him or called him since it had happened over a week ago didn’t do me any favors either.

It was October eighth, eight days after I had kissed Leo and seventeen days since Nathan had shoved a mirror in front of my face, showing me how stupid I was.

And looking around my apartment, bereft of normal things apartments had, I definitely couldn’t disagree.

I knew moving into Boston would be risky, financially. I anticipated living paycheck to paycheck, forgoing things like shopping sprees, food that wasn’t ramen, and my own internet connection. I knew I likely wouldn’t make many friends in Boston—that wasn’t different from growing up. But what I hadn’t prepared for was the silence.

When I pictured myself moving to Boston, I imagined long walks through the city, whale watching, museum touring, bar hopping, once-in-a-lifetime experiences that only Boston could give me. I’d needed to get away from the people at home with their snide looks and, most of all, his silence. I’d felt heavy at home, buried under the weight of his disappointment.

Except so far, I’d replaced his disappointment for another’s: mine.

And I wasn’t just talking about my lack of things, but my behavior. I’d known Leo for more than ten years, beginning the day he’d kept me entertained in gym class after I’d broken my leg and had to sit out. I wouldn’t say that growing up being called “the slut” had made it easy to make friends of the female variety. And men had lost interest in me when I’d told them my own disinterest in sucking their dick.

Throughout high school I’d only dated college guys which should have made the girls in my class feel secure that I wouldn’t reel their boyfriends in for a fling. But since it hadn’t and I’d been scarlet-lettered, I’d had the whole don’t-give-a-fuck attitude in high school, only letting my guard down when Leo had tried to make me laugh—not to impress me, but to help me drop the fuck-this-shit attitude.

And one drunken night had shown me what a great friend I was to Leo, kissing him because I felt bad, and confused, and lonely.

I hung my head, cradling it in my hands. I wanted a good drink, but since spending the last week annihilating whatever pathetic little bit of liquor I had, I was fresh out. A fact that I cursed heavily upon seeing my mother’s name flash across my phone.

“Hey, mom.”

“Hey, baby.” Her voice was breathy, as usual. I glanced at the time.

“You’re calling late.” For her. It was just after nine on a Thursday, a time which was usually reserved for her shows.

“I wanted to see how you were doing.”

I looked at my fridge, knowing she was talking about the $200 she’d sent me to fill my fridge and cupboards. “I’m good. Thanks for the money, I bought enough food to last me the rest of this month.”

“Good, good.” There was something else and I waited, to hear what it was that I’d done this time.

Instead of prompting her to tell me what that something was, I waited on the other end of the line, the awkwardness growing between us with each second of silence.

“Well,” she began, and I imagined her clutching her necklace—probably pearls—and worrying the gems between her fingers. “Are you coming home for Thanksgiving?”

It was still over a month away, but my mother was the embodiment of a housewife with her shit together.

“I don’t know,” I said, withholding the sigh.

“Dad might be joining us.” The statement from anyone else, anyone who was not my mother, would have sounded like a natural thing to say. But in the words my mother spoke, I heard what she didn’t say: So you should make sure to not upset him.