Say the Word(23)

“Hello?” My voice was huskier than usual, cracking with the remnants of sleep I’d yet to shake off.

“Babe! You okay? I didn’t wake you, did I?”

Desmond.

“I’m fine, just nodded off for a few minutes I guess,” I fibbed, rubbing an aching temple with my free hand. Pulling the phone away from my ear, I glanced down at the screen. It was 9:57 — I’d been out for nearly three hours. More of a mini-coma than a nap, but Desmond didn’t need to know that. “What’s up?”

“You never called,” he reminded me, his voice curious without being accusatory.

Shit. I slapped an open palm against my forehead. We’d had dinner plans.

“Oh, crap. I completely spaced. I’m sorry, Des. Really, I mean it.” I cleared my throat lightly. “I just had a crap day, and came straight home after work to try and get my head together.”

“And here I thought you were excited about my mac and cheese,” he teased lightly, clearly unaffected by my memory slip. “Don’t worry, though. Since it’s the only thing I know how to cook, the statistical probability of you getting to try it at some point in the future is highly in your favor.”

I smiled into the phone. This was why I liked Desmond — no guilt-trips or underhanded barbs. No manipulations or mind-f*ckery. He was surface-level: what you saw was what you got.

“I’ll look forward to that.”

“Good. Can I see you tomorrow?” he asked.

“No can do,” I told him, the smile slipping off my face. “Tomorrow’s Friday, which means—”

“Girl’s night. I know, I know. Can’t fault a guy for trying though.”

“Hey, take it up with Fae. She actually hacked into my Google Calendar app and programmed herself in for every Friday night for the next five years. Seriously, my iPhone screen flashes little ‘Fae Friday — Attendance Mandatory’ alerts every 20 minutes in the four hours leading up to girl’s night. I can’t figure out how to turn the damn things off.”

Des laughed. “Yeah, but babe, technology is really not your strong suit. Need I remind you of the TiVo incident?”

“Oh, of course you’d bring that up!” I rolled my eyes. “I’ll have you know that anyone could’ve made that mistake. The ‘delete’ button should not be located right next to ‘record.’ It’s just not practical. Poor planning by the manufacturer,” I noted. “And, really, what man needs immediate access to every single rerun of SportsCenter ever broadcasted? With your ass fused permanently to your couch, all those pretty arm muscles you spend your days building would’ve shriveled right up. So I’m pretty sure in the long run I did you a favor.”

Desmond didn’t respond. He was laughing too hard.

“Good logic, babe. Really stellar,” he choked out when he’d finally regained control.

“I certainly thought so. And at least you can laugh about it now,” I reflected. “At the time, I thought your head might explode.”

“I’ll call you soon,” he promised, and I could hear the smile in his voice.

“I might just answer,” I teased.

“Oh, you’ll answer,” Desmond said, ever confident.

I smiled. “Night.”

“Night, babe.” He clicked off.

Desmond was a good guy. Decent and kind. Funny and handsome. I should’ve been glowing after that phone call, dancing around my apartment in an unchecked display of glee because such a pretty-damn-close-to-perfect man was interested in me. And yet, the happy bubble that had formed in my chest as I’d joked and laughed with Desmond was dissipating rapidly in the face of the immense guilt I felt for leading him on.

Sure, technically I was single. There was nothing — no one — holding me back from dating Desmond. But I knew that while I could give him my body and maybe, if enough time passed and we really grew to care for one another, even a piece of my heart, he’d never get all of me. I’d given away the innermost bits of myself eight years ago, and I’d never collected the missing parts.

And Desmond was the kind of man who went all in. He gave everything — his body, his mind, his heart. He’d give me his soul in good faith, not knowing that mine had already found its mate and that I could never return the favor.

But what did you do when you’d lost your soulmate, and there was no chance of ever having him again? Did you move on, even with the knowledge that nothing would ever be quite as good? Did you try to fill the empty holes inside yourself with the misshapen parts that someone else could offer?

And, if you did these things, could you bear to look yourself in the eyes at the end of the day, knowing that you’d allowed someone to love you, to bind himself to you, in a way you could never reciprocate?

Or was it simply better to isolate yourself — to grow old alone, rather than subject an undeserving man to your own emotional inadequacies?

I didn’t know the answers to these questions.

All I did know, was that no matter how much I wanted Sebastian Covington — and I did want him, whether it was today, yesterday, eight years ago, or eighty years from now — I couldn’t ever have him again.

So for now, I’d carve out my own little slice of happiness.

I’d skip the tough questions I hadn’t quite figured out the answers to yet.