Besides, God only knew what kind of mess she’d wake up in if she followed the cocktail path to avoidance again. A mess of sheets and covers...and Connor’s legs tangled with her own?
No.
She wasn’t supposed to want that. Had to stop wanting that. Or at the very least, stop fantasizing about ways in which to make it happen.
“You want nice talk? How about—”
“Girls,” Gail cut in. “This is about Megan. Her life is beyond tatters. Again. Another failed relationship. This time a marriage. Granted, we all know about the hasty courtship and may have had our own theories about the probability of success—”
Jodie gasped, hand flying up to not quite cover the smile riding her lips. “Gail!”
But Megan’s cousin simply ducked her head a pinch, holding out her hands as if to say, We were all thinking it.
At which point the three began a rapid-fire exchange rife with theories, speculations, the more pathetic bullet points from Megan’s romantic past, a tangent about Jodie buying a pair of shoes out from under Tina, something about a sweater in high school...a boy from middle school...the Laura Ingalls Wilder books from first grade...
She might have cut them off, but the sad truth was she simply didn’t care. That instant of weakness with the forbidden fantasies had opened the door to something worse—something far more devastating.
Memories. Broken bits and pieces of what had actually been. Connor...I love it when you get my name right... I’ve got you. What I want is to keep you... Everything, Megan... So this marriage thing...it’s working out for you? You’re a fantasy... I don’t want to be goddamn friends...
Oh, it hurt so bad.
“Great, Jodie. See what you did—she’s crying—”
“Me?”
“Oh, no, Megan, honey, don’t cry. So maybe the whole love thing isn’t for you. So what? Think about something happy.”
“Yes! Think about your little sperm-bank baby!”
Megan shook her head and wiped her thumbs beneath her eyes, hating her apparent inability to keep the tears at bay.
“I’m fine. I’ll be fine.” Someday. Maybe. “I just need a drink.”
Pushing up from the stool where she’d been seated, she circled around to the sink and poured a glass of water. Thought of the way Connor had so often shown up in her office with a cold drink or some healthy snack. The way he’d been so thoughtful and attentive to her, most of all when she’d managed to forget to be attentive to herself.
He’d been aware of her on a level no one ever had before.
But it hadn’t been love.
How ironic that her inability to fall in love had been the destruction of every other relationship she’d had. And actually finding it, the destruction with Connor.
Why now?
Why couldn’t she have been the wife he needed her to be?
Three swift knocks sounded at her door, thankfully drawing her out of that downward spiral of self-destructive thought.
Her eyes swung to the door, her heart tripping in her chest until she realized the security door hadn’t buzzed. Mrs. Gandle from 2C had probably signed for another package.
Chastising herself for that stupid surge of hope, she walked to the door and swung it open—
“Connor?” she choked out, shaking her head in disbelief at the scowling man standing at her door, a plastic shopping bag hanging from one hand.
“No security chain?” he demanded, his outrage potent and possessive. “First some little old lady downstairs holds the door open for me, letting me march right in, and then you open the door without even checking who’s out here? Megan, this is a decent neighborhood, but what the hell?”
She shook her head, too stunned to register anything beyond the fact that Connor was here.