Diary of a Bad Boy(108)
Maybe something simple is all she needs . . . is all she wants.
Only one way to find out.
Roark
SUTTON
“Stop staring at me, okay? I’m fine. I’m allowed to have two ice cream sandwiches if I want. I’m an adult, and I make my own decisions.”
Louise stares at me, a judgmental look in her beady cat eyes. I know what she’s thinking. That isn’t your second ice cream sandwich; that’s your third.
And maybe it is.
Maybe I like to sulk and indulge in pity food when I’m sad. There’s nothing wrong with that, and since I barely ate anything during the last week, I think it’s okay to replenish on ice cream sandwiches. Plus, I bought a four-pack box, which means I didn’t have much room in my tiny, tiny freezer. Really, I’m doing myself a service by not wasting money and eating food I bought before it goes bad.
That’s being a good person.
I take a big bite out of the sandwich and chew, staring at my computer as The Great British Baking Show plays. The only part of the show I actually like is the technical. Well, that’s not true, I like it when they call things stodgy or say, “what a disappointment.” The looks on the contestants’ faces are priceless.
“You know, Louise, I really think we should start using the word stodgy in our everyday vernacular. We would sound so posh. What do you think?” She hops off the bed and walks over to her litter box where she starts pushing around litter. “I’m going to take that as a no.”
Sighing, I lean against my headboard and set the rest of my ice cream sandwich to the side, not really in the mood anymore to eat. I glance at my phone on the nightstand, willing it to ring or make a text alert sound, but nothing. It’s been four days since my dad talked to Roark, and I’ve hated the absolute radio silence. And even though I don’t want to conclude it’s truly over, I can’t help but start to believe it.
If Roark really wanted me, I thought after he’d sorted things out with Dad he’d at least send me a text. That’s what we do, text each other.
But there’s been nothing.
I fall deeper into my bed, pushing my computer to the side, not really interested in Paul Hollywood destroying a baker’s dreams over focaccia bread.
My eyes focus on the notepad on my nightstand, and I reach out to flip it open.
My New Year’s resolutions. We’re still in the first quarter of the year and everything on this list feels like a joke, especially the last one.
Live life.
Try all iconic New York City food.
Go to a nightclub.
Spend a day getting lost in Central Park.
Fall in love.
Yup, that last one makes me tear up.
I can cross it off. I fell in love and I fell hard. If only that love was reciprocated. When I wrote that resolution, I thought maybe I’d find someone who’d want to spend the rest of their life with me. I never dreamed I’d end up getting my heart broken by a man with an Irish accent and soulful eyes that penetrate the heart.
Reaching out, I pick up the pink Paper Mate pen on my nightstand and put a check mark through the box that’s next to fall in love, as a single tear rolls down my cheek. I then roll over on my side and look out the expansive windows of my small studio apartment just as there’s a knock at my door.
Lifting up, I stare at the door, as if I have X-ray vision and can see through wood. When another knock comes, my breath catches in my throat as I run through my mind who it could be. My dad? It could definitely be him. I talked to him today, and he didn’t like how sad I sounded on the phone.
It could be Maddie. She was begging me to go out with her tonight, but I told her I wasn’t feeling well. She didn’t buy it.
It could be Roark . . .
Who am I kidding?
I flip my covers off, walk over to the door, reach for the knob, and open it up only to find no one.
What?
I stick my head out the door and look to the right toward the front entrance, and that’s when I see his retreating back, decked out in a navy-blue suit, his hair freshly trimmed.
“Roark?” I ask, my voice catching in my throat. He whips around, revealing two dark circles under his eyes and a worried expression on his face.
“Sutton. You’re home.”
“Yeah,” I answer awkwardly, as nausea rolls around in my stomach from nerves. “Did you, uh, want something?”
He takes a step forward, his hand gripping the back of his neck. “I was hoping I could talk to you.”
Don’t get your hopes up, Sutton. This could be absolutely nothing.
“Sure,” I say, stepping to the side and letting him in my apartment. When he passes me, I glance down at my green plaid shorts and matching top. Why don’t I wear nicer things when I’m eating my feelings?
Once the door is shut, he turns around, and that’s when I get a good look at his face. His nose is slightly swollen and both eyes have a disturbing shade of purple under them, cluing me in that he got into yet another fight.
When he notices me taking in his bruises, he says, “I, uh . . . did something stupid.”
“Looks like it.” I lean against me door and twist my hands in my shirt, unsure what I should do. My initial instinct is to throw myself at him and kiss his face until it’s better. My second instinct is to walk up to him and kick him in the balls for putting me through hell over the past two weeks. I’ll wait to see what he has to say before I take action.