Five Ways to Fall (Ten Tiny Breaths #4)(29)
And I knew that, if he did, I would take him back. As strong and independent and stubborn as I am, I would have caved in a second. Because that was the only way to stem the agony coursing through my heart all conscious hours of the day.
When Lina found a note from him tucked in her mail slot asking for a divorce, denying my delusions, proving to me what a fool I was, a toxic bitterness took over to stanch the vacuous hole left. That was it. It was over.
I’ve clung on to that bitterness for months, allowing it to morph into indifference. It has been a motivation of sorts, to prove that while Jared doesn’t want or need me, I don’t want or need him either. That I wasn’t humiliated by him, too blind to see what was going on under my nose.
But now he’s given me this new feeling to hold onto—a sick sort of satisfaction, knowing that there may still be a shred of something left in his heart for me. Like hope rekindled. Or maybe it’s just my battered ego getting a steroid shot. Whatever it is, it’s altogether intoxicating.
“You’re trying to win him back?” she purrs through an exhale, watching me carefully.
“No . . . he’s married. To the woman he cheated on me with.” Win him back? Could that even happen?
“Why are you even talking to him then?” she asks, putting her cigarette out with her heel, having finished it in record time.
“I don’t know.” I don’t know this woman and don’t care if she judges me. Maybe that’s why I admit out loud, without giving it too much thought, “Maybe I still do want him back.” I pause and then add, “After I hurt him.” After I make his heart ache, let him feel lost, make him regret his choices. And then, when he has cried and groveled and suffered . . . maybe I’d take him back.
Get back what we once had.
“And then you could live happily ever after.” I can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic or not. But then her sour mask slips for just a moment, revealing a kind of sympathy behind it that tells me she knows something of my pain. “I spent years waiting around for someone, hoping he just needed time. It was stupid.”
“I haven’t been waiting around for him,” I argue.
She shrugs as a tall guy wearing a leather jacket, torn jeans, and heavy black boots exits the restaurant, heading our way.
“Yours?” I ask, nodding toward him.
A soft smile flitters across her hard face and I can tell it’s rare to come by. “Me and Fin have been friends for years. He’s always been there for me. I just finally noticed how much he means to me.”
When he reaches us, he wastes no time swooping in for a quick kiss, which she grants, tugging on his beard playfully. To be honest, he’s not at all what I’d expect a girl that looks like this—who could be stripper or an escort—to be attracted to. But, to each her own.
“How do you like it?” He eyes my bike with a reverence unique to fellow riders.
“I could use a bit more power, but I love it.” When Jack surprised me with the offer to co-sign, he had already done his research. Apparently I’m less likely to kill myself on this “starter” model.
“I was thinking of getting China one of these,” he admits, following up with a grin and, “But I like having her on my back.”
“Wow. Bike talk. Thrilling,” the woman mutters dryly. “Ready to go, babe?” She pulls her helmet on and gives him a playful smack on the ass as if telling him to go. He complies, throwing a long leg over the seat of his bike. She uses his shoulders to balance herself as she follows suit, straddling the bike behind him. Then she settles those sharp eyes on me. “Word to the wise: if you have to fight over a guy, he’s not worth it. Go for the one who’s waiting for you.” She coils her arms around her boyfriend’s waist as he starts the engine.
I watch them swiftly pull away together.
Lying on my bed with one arm nestled beneath my head, still fully dressed, I stare at my phone, deciding on how to best answer Jared’s question about Ben. I finally settle on:
I haven’t married him yet.
Humor. When in doubt, always use humor.
And yet, it’s still cutting.
As I wait for his response—which I may not get tonight; Jared was always terrible with responding to texts—I roll onto my side to reach beneath my bed. My fingers latch onto the smooth wood of my little treasure chest—the box that holds my past.
The scent of cedar tickles my nostrils as I open the box up and study the wedding picture hidden inside. The crisp white costume of the Elvis impersonator who married us can’t eclipse the wide beam on my face as I stand tucked into Jared’s side, my flirty violet dress complementing the color of my hair. The way the camera is angled, the diamond in my nose ring sparkles against the flash. Jared is looking as casual and sexy as usual in faded jeans and a fitted Kings of Leon T-shirt that hugs his beautifully sculpted body as if it were designed for him and him alone.
I used to think that Jared was designed for me and me alone.
We understood each other. More importantly, he said he loved me for me. All of me. My bitchy self in the morning, my sarcastic self at most other times, except for when I melted into something soft and approachable—almost vulnerable—in his arms. He loved that I ride a motorcycle and that I know how to play a guitar and can belt out Joni Mitchell and Eddie Vedder while making scrambled eggs, one of only a few things I can actually cook. He loved that my hair was purple and my body was pierced and that I didn’t balk at the idea of matching tattoos. Not even for a second.