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I stare at the message, suddenly questioning if I should even reply after my night with Brontë. I flinch at that thought. Brontë and I aren’t a couple. I need to make sure those kinds of ideas stay far removed from my brain.
Venus and I have had an on again, off again relationship for the last few years. She’s a wonderful woman, but she wants more than I can give her. I’ve told her as much, which is why we broke up in the first place. Every now and then though, she ends a relationship with someone else and comes back to me, hoping I’ve changed my mind.
I’m about to toss my phone on the table when another text comes in that instantly has my heart in my throat. It’s from Jonas. In all our years as friends, not once have I been scared to see his name come across my phone… till now. I try to mentally prepare myself on the off chance that somehow he found out about what the things I’ve done to his daughter, but it’s no use. I slide the text open and instantly let out a sigh of relief.
Jonas: Hey, Chantelle wanted me to remind you about Brontë’s birthday party tomorrow. She said skipping it isn’t an option. Be there. Don’t make me be the bad guy and defend you when you don’t show up.
My relief is short-lived when I realize that not only am I going to spend my weekend hanging out with the one woman I’m not supposed to be hung up on, but her entire fucking family will be there as well and I have to look her dad in the eyes.
“You’re a fucking idiot, Beckham.”
I type out a response and hit send.
Me: Only if it’s an open bar. I’ll be there.
I don’t know what I hoped to accomplish with a day off, but it’s turned out to be a whole lot of nothing. Did I really expect one afternoon away from constant temptation by her mere existence was going to do anything?
The only thought that has been consistently playing through my mind tonight is Brontë telling Trish about her date.
I pace back and forth in my bedroom, glancing at my watch. It’s just after six which means Brontë should be home from work. I have no idea what time her date will be, but maybe if I stop by her place now, I can catch her before she leaves.
I head to my closet and start pulling out different shirts, suddenly very aware of what I’m wearing.
What am I planning to do once I get to her place? What am I going to tell her?
Hey, I think I’m pretty fucking hung up on you and can’t seem to get you out of my head. By the way, fuck this date, come home with me.
“Shit!” I toss the two shirts in my hands on the floor in frustration and walk out of the closet. I decide on a shower instead, hoping that maybe it will clear my head. Then I come up with what I think is a pretty convincing plan.
Maybe if I go over to her place, I could use it as a chance to apologize for being rude to her yesterday. Then I could segue into asking about her plans for the night and when she mentions the date, I could use it as a chance to remind her about not falling for these fuckboys’ attempts to just take her home.
I get dressed and give myself a third glance in the mirror as I finish with a spray of cologne before heading out to drive over to her apartment.
I park down the street from her building, sitting in my car for several minutes, deciding if I seem desperate or crazy. I don’t want to linger on it too long because I think I already know the answer to that. Both.
I have a clear view of her building. I shut the car off and open the door, stepping out just as I see the front door open and Brontë step outside with two other women. I sink back down in my car as the three women laugh and talk as they take a few steps in the opposite direction before Brontë stops and then quickly looks down into her purse like she’s searching for something.
I squint at the other two women. I can’t be certain, but I think they were the ones that were with her the night we met. Suddenly Brontë pulls something that looks like her cell out of her purse, holding it up as if to say she has it, then they turn and start walking down the sidewalk again.
I’m about to shut my door and head home when I wonder why she’s heading out with her friends instead of on her date. Was she telling Trish that in the hopes I would overhear and get jealous? Did he cancel on her? Maybe her friends are going to go with her and hide out in case it goes south and she needs an escape plan. I’ve heard of women doing that.
Against my better judgment as a forty-five-year-old man, I get out of my car and make my way down the sidewalk to follow them.
They don’t go far, only a few blocks, and then enter an already rowdy-looking dive bar named O’Malley’s with giant corny gold letters across the top in a Gaelic-looking font and a four-leaf clover.
I wait several minutes to walk inside, keeping my head down as I head for a dark corner in the back.
“What can I getcha, sugar?” A short woman with black hair approaches my table.
“Guinness.” I smile, clearly inspired by the Irish setting.
“Tab?” she asks and I nod, handing her my card before she walks back toward the bar.
It smells sticky in here with a touch of mold. Not my kind of place and honestly, it doesn’t seem like Brontë’s either. I scoot further back into the corner as I search the room for her, spotting her almost immediately.
It’s only now I get to fully take in her outfit. She’s wearing a pale-pink top that hangs off both shoulders, sitting just above a long white skirt that has small matching flowers. She turns and I notice a slit that runs all the way up her mid-thigh. She looks delectable. Like an easygoing Sunday morning.
Her blond hair flows down her back in soft curls, swept to one side like she brushed her fingers through it at some point and tossed it to the side. She laughs unapologetically at something one of her friends says and it makes my stomach clench.
