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I’m not what he wants and he’s figured it out.
Only, he doesn’t say that.
He just raises an eyebrow and says, “If I’m not mistaken, you work a lot of Saturdays yourself.”
“That’s not the point.”
“I don’t need this right now.”
“Dex, stay.” It’s more of a whisper, a plea, and he freezes on his way back up. “Don’t go to work. Just for today.”
“I wish I had the option. This can’t wait and it’s just my reality, Junie,” he says slowly, turning and heading upstairs.
He doesn’t quite say ‘take it or leave it,’ but it’s what he means.
I don’t understand how we’ve been torn apart.
I don’t have a clue how to sew up the damage either as I drag myself after him.
He sighs and runs a hand through his damp hair.
“I’m sorry.” He sounds like he means it. “I don’t mean to take this shit out on you. I’ll be back for dinner, I promise.”
I could fight him, but what’s the point?
“Let me make you a coffee,” I tell him as he runs to the bathroom. He flashes me a quick smile and he’s gone.
The worst part is he’sright.
I do work unholy hours that usually include weekends. The only reason I’m not at the Sugar Bowl today is because I wanted to spend that time with Dexter, because I thought we could finally talk about the future.
Because right now we’re trapped in a very confusing present.
And I shouldn’t care so much.
This was never meant to last and being with a businessman born into generational wealth means putting up with his insane hours.
So, yes, it’s fine,I tell myself as I flick the fancy coffee machine in the wall on and lean against the side. It’s fine that I’m spending Saturday alone.
It’s just another day of putting off the conversation—or the apocalypse that ends us.
There’s a loud knock on the front door.
I start. I’m pretty sure the gates are supposed tostoppeople from just barging in, but when I open the door, it’s Delly Rory standing outside.
“I’m so sorry for dropping in on you unannounced.” She walks in with a burst of floral perfume and perfectly styled hair. “I didn’t realize how early it was.”
I glance at the clock out of habit.
Eight a.m. on a Saturday morning and his mom’s dropping around as a fun little surprise.
Also, she’s flipping gorgeous.
She looks like American royalty in her burgundy designer dress and gold earrings so bright they leave stars in my eyes. There are highlights in her hair that lighten her complexion, and her makeup is exquisitely done, her nails long and painted peach.
My self-esteem isn’t stellar at the best of times, but Dexter’s mom looks way more put together in her fifties than me. Bye-bye, confidence.
I’m standing here like a dope, still wearing my pajamas—an old Easterly Ribbon t-shirt with her silhouette and moody lyrics and gym shorts—and my hair is one big rat’s nest at the back of my head.
