The Lineup(102)

I raise my hand to the door I’ve grown quite familiar with and before I can chicken out, I give it a few knocks.

This is going to be simple. I’m going to lay it on the line for him and what he does with the information is up to him.

I hear him approach and hold my breath as he opens the door. Wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants and a shocked face, he grips the side of the door and asks, “What the hell are you doing here?”

Hostile. It’s the only way I can describe his voice. There’s no hurt, there’s no confusion, just pure hostility.

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“We’re done talking. Did you not get that last Friday?”

“No, I did.” My throat tightens, making it hard to squeeze out my words. “But”—I swallow hard—“I wanted to tell you something, before you shut the door on me.”

He doesn’t say anything, but stands there, waiting. I guess that means I continue. “My intention wasn’t to use you, Jason, nor was it to make you feel that what we had wasn’t true. Before you knew who I was, I felt something for you, this strong force pulling me toward you, a force I wanted to ignore for as long as I could because I was scared.” I clear my throat. “When I made a slip-up in my business meeting, claiming you as my boyfriend, I knew it was stupid, and the minute the words fell past my lips I instantly regretted them. After the meeting, I convinced myself that because you were trying to get me to go out with you, I could give in to my feelings and take you up on a date.”

His jaw clenches and I know he’s seconds from slamming that door in my face.

“I met with the Carltons this week and told them the truth. Like I expected, it was a deal-breaker, but I wanted to be honest anyway—”

“I’m glad your conscience finally kicked in.” His hand grips tighter on the door. “I don’t have time for this shit.”

He starts to close the door, but I shout, “Jason, wait. Please let me finish.”

“No, Dottie, I’ve heard everything I want to hear. Nothing you say is going to change how I feel. We’re done.” Shocking me, he slams the door, the sound of a steel lock clicking into place, and I know. Opening it will never be possible . . . ever again.

I haven’t seen this side of Jason before, so angry, so unforgiving, which only means one thing: I hurt him to his core, and it seems there’s no recovering from that.

Heart heavy, I gulp hard as hot tears slip down my cheeks. I knew it wouldn’t be easy, but I didn’t expect it to be this hard, this painful . . . this devastating.

Then again, I’m sure this is exactly how Jason felt when he read that email.

I wish I could challenge Jason for doubting the truth of my feelings rather than simply believing the initial lie that set things in motion. But maybe Lindsay was right. Maybe I hadn’t given him enough of me, I had held back parts of me.

This overwhelming misery is on me.

On a choking cry, I cover my mouth and tear away from Jason's door. I once thought that Nick destroyed me. He didn’t. He never touched my heart.

Unlike Jason Orson.

He owns my heart.

Even in its shattered form.





Chapter Twenty-Nine





JASON





Ten years later . . .





“Dude, you look like shit,” Carson says, clapping me on the shoulder.

“This is my best sweater, and it’s supposed to make me look devastatingly handsome.”

“It’s olive green,” Carson says with a question in his raised eyebrow.

“Leave me alone.” I rest my head on the counter. “It’s been ten years since my heart was broken and it still aches.”

“Ten years?” Carson laughs. “It’s been ten fucking days.”



Ten days later (That’s right, sorry about that) . . .





“I know, but ten days has felt like ten years. And I thought wearing my green sweater to Friendsgiving would be a nice pick-me-up but you just peed all over that idea.”

“Does anyone like this sweater besides you?”

“I get a lot of once-overs whenever I wear it. I think it’s how the color brings out my delicate green eyes.”

“Or it’s the cross-stitched mountain range on the front.”

I glance at my sweater and then rub my fingers over the cross-stitch. “I used to pretend it was brail and it would read, ‘You’re handsome, always have been, always will be.’”

“I don’t understand how we’re friends.” Carson shakes his head.

“Running pole-to-pole suicides at Brentwood together formed an unbreakable bond.”

“God, you’re right.” Carson takes a seat next to me at the bar and picks up a bacon-wrapped scallop from the appetizer platter. This is no ordinary appetizer platter; this shit is fancy. Emory, Knox, and his mom went all out and when I said I wasn’t coming, they told me Dottie went to California to have Thanksgiving with her family, so I had no choice but to come for a while before I went to my childhood home to spend time with my family.

As promised, I brought the yams, but to hell if I was going to bring homemade stuffing on Dottie’s behalf. Ohhh, no. I wasn’t about to slave over the stove for her. Not again.