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“Yeah.”
I hold on tight as he takes off. We haven’t even hit the main road before I’m regretting my decision to get on a motorbike. If this is Ben driving safely, I don’t want to be his passenger when he’s driving dangerously.
“You okay back there?” he yells.
I nod before realising he can’t see me. “I’m fine,” I yell.
“Can you loosen your grip, then?”
Crap. I’m squeezing the living daylights out of him. Immediately, I comply and try to muster up some courage.
By the time we hit the freeway, I’m absolutely freezing. Thank God I’m wearing jeans and my thickest winter jacket.
The trip should take about twenty minutes, but Ben breaks all the speed limits along the way. It can’t be much more than ten minutes before he turns into my driveway. My extremities are so cold that it’s painful and difficult to get off the bike. I’m grateful no one but Ben is around to see my graceless dismount.
When Ben takes off his helmet, I take mine off and hand it to him. “Thanks for the ride home.”
“It’s fine.”
I glance back at my small but modern and stylish two-bedroom unit before looking at Ben once more. “Do you want to come in for a bit?”
During the ride here, I thought I wanted to be alone. Now that I’m faced with the prospect of having nothing but my miserable and self-pitying thoughts for company for the rest of the evening, I’ve changed my mind. Plus, I’m not quite ready to say goodbye to the only person in the world who understands how I feel right now—someone who shares my pain.
Ben shakes his head. “Thanks, but I want to get home. I need a drink, and I’d rather be somewhere I don’t need to drive home from.”
“You could always crash on the couch,” I offer impulsively. “I have an unopened bottle of bourbon we could christen.”
“One bottle won’t be enough.” His voice is flat, his expression distant. “Sorry, Lainey. I’m going to pass.”
I understand, but I still don’t want him to go. I really need someone to talk to. Sure, there’s Cass, my best friend, but she’s probably tucked into bed already. And Ben looks so defeated, I want to hug him and console him. The only thing that stops me is the thought he really isn’t much of a hugger.
Ben puts his helmet back on and flips up the visor. “I’ll catch you ‘round.”
He’s gone before I can think to ask him when I’m going to see him again. It seems unlikely I’ll run into him anytime soon. His regular hangouts are places I do my best to avoid, and it’s not like we’ll be going on any more double dates with Amber and Lucas.
As I fish my keys out of my purse and let myself into my place, I realise I haven’t just lost the love of my life. I’ve lost my group of people—my regular companions. How many Saturday nights have I spent with Lucas, Amber, and Ben, bowling or watching movies, or going down to the pub? Countless. The four of us have gotten together every weekend for the past year. But those days are over now. I can’t be friends with Lucas anymore. Nor Amber. And I guess there’s no reason for me to see Ben again.
A fresh wave of grief swamps me as I close the front door behind me.
After walking into the dining room, I put my handbag down on the table where I usually work. Right there, next to my laptop, are the first few chapters of the latest novel I’ve been working on.
A loud laugh devoid of humour erupts from me as I pick up the unfinished manuscript. The book is about a woman who fights for and wins the love of a man seemingly caught up in another woman—another woman who just happens to be the hero’s best friend.
I guess this is what I get for choosing to ignore the common cliché. Best friends always end up together, I know that. God, I’ve written that book. When Ben started dating Amber, I hoped my future with Lucas was safe. Despite Ben doing everything he could to win Amber over, it still wasn’t enough. It’s definitive proof that the best-friends-to-lovers cliché beats all others.
I don’t think twice about ripping the bundle of pages in my hands in half. Of course my work is saved to the cloud and my hard drive, but I’m not interested in writing that story anymore. It didn’t work. My heroine was pretending she had a chance, in denial about her ability to make the hero see her as his leading lady. The hero wanted someone else, and my character was foolish to believe he could love her the way she wanted him to. Nobody cares for a fool. Readers will only tolerate a small amount of stupidity.
With a sigh, I sit down at the table, tearing a piece of paper from my notebook and grabbing a pen from the extensive collection I keep in a box next to my laptop. Then I start making notes about a story now circling inside my head.
As my new plot emerges, dark and depressing, I realise I’m not plotting my usual romance. There won’t be any happy ending for my characters, just denial, betrayal, heartbreak, and loneliness.
