Manwhore (Manwhore #1)(81)

I don’t think I can bear to hear a reply, any reply, whether it’s to soothe, to reassure, even to agree, which might hurt even worse, and because I’m being stared at by the three of them as if I just grew a thousand worms out of my head—because I’m evil and that’s what happens to evil bitches like me—I push to my feet and head down the hall to my old room and close the door, breathing as I sit there on a stool before my mother’s unfinished canvas, my eyes leaking tears. I don’t even know why I’m crying. It shouldn’t have been this hard. I never expected it to be this hard. But my friends and my mother are starting to think I’m making a mistake.

I groan and lie down on the floor where my bed used to be, staring up above. I stared at this ceiling when I was just a little girl who wanted a dad, who had dreams, who wanted to make a difference, who wanted to write because writing made something . . . it made something out of nothing.

I used to lie here as a girl, and before I met Gina and she met Paul, I would wonder if I’d ever fall in love with a man the way my mother fell in love with my dad. My mother loved my dad before he even had the chance to disappoint her or break her heart. My mother has the purest view of men in the world, that they are inherently good—the yang in the world, the perfect complement to our yin. And I used to be a girl who would wonder who my yang would be. What he’d do. How he’d look. How hard he’d love me.

Never did I imagine twinkling green eyes and dozens of smiles, and a man who challenges me, teases me, is about as flawed as he is perfect, and makes me want to know him down to his every last thought.

My girl . . .

God. I’ve made such a huge mistake.

By fighting him, I’ve only intrigued him more.

Yielding to him, I’ve only doomed myself to pain.

My mistake wasn’t accepting the assignment to write the exposé, it was that I dropped my walls and got close to him to the point where he feels like part of my soul. My mistake was taking his shirt in my hand, and going to his club, and to his yacht, and moving my lips beneath his, and going to his place and begging him to make love to me even after I promised myself it would never happen.

I need to put an end to this, but I can’t rationalize right now. The thought that I need to end it makes me crave to see him all the more.

I impulsively pull out my cell phone and dial. His voice mail answers. He’s probably f*cking some other chick, I tell myself negatively. I leave a message: “Hey, it’s me. I guess . . . nothing, really. Call me. Or not. ’Bye.”

I hang up. Then I wipe my tears and get a grip. I had a goal, a chance to write an exposé, to get my name out there, advance my career, reveal the real Saint and not the legend. Maybe I can open a girl’s eyes and avoid one broken heart. Maybe they can realize that Saint won’t love them. Nobody is going to love them except themselves, if they work hard at it. And their friends, if they choose wisely. And their families, if they’re lucky. This is my side of the story—the side of the little girl who grew up wondering what it would be like to live with a man’s love, then grew determined to prove to herself she didn’t need it. I know there are a lot of girls out there like me. Those who didn’t get the guy at seven, at thirteen, at fifteen—they didn’t even get the guy when they were born. Why will we get the guy now, when we’ve grown up already? We don’t need him now.

He calls me back. “Hey. You all right?” he asks.

“I . . .” Something unknots in my stomach at the sound of his voice. I’ve never felt so connected with a guy. Where you can hear the concern in his voice, and you’re sure he can hear the sadness and frustration in yours. How can this be? I wipe the corners of my eyes. Hate, hate, hate crying. “Yes, I’m okay. I just wanted to talk to you.”

I clear my voice, hating that it wavered a little at the end. There’s a tense silence. Way to go, Rachel. Say goodbye to Saint now. Do you think he wants to deal with a crybaby right now?

“Where are you?” he asks.

“I’m at my mom’s. Heading back to my apartment.”

“Otis will be there. Spend the afternoon with me.”

My voice gets shy and I admit, “I’d love that, Malcolm.”

He’s quiet, as if taken aback by how vulnerable I sound. And then he surprises me too, his voice just as low and fiercely husky and tender. “Me too. I’ll see you soon.”

I hang up and stare at my phone, my heart literally in pain inside my chest. Am I in love with him? Why am I so consumed and so confused? It seems like my brain points me in the direction of my logic and my lifetime career dream, but the rest of me doesn’t want to go there if it means having to leave him.

I glance at my mother’s painting and am struck by its raw beauty. It’s like nothing she’s ever painted before, as if all these years what she couldn’t paint just simmered inside her, creating a powerful force that, once set free, fired up and took over the canvas. Even the room itself.

Just like an affair with Saint is taking over me.

25

NEEDING A SAINT

Two hours later I reach the docks, and when I see him waiting for me on the deck of The Toy, I inhale, long and slow. I’m wearing a yellow dress that’s quite informal, because I hadn’t planned to see him today, and I need to flatten my palms to my thighs to keep the dress from going up when the point is for it to fall down.