Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 94860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
I will never be made a fool or put myself in a position of being hurt by anyone, so I type: It’s no big deal.
It’s probably not. Maybe he has work to do or just wants to relax at his place. I throw my arms up. “I can’t read his mind.”
Quick to end this, I text her back: I’ll see you later.
She’s not as fast to return, but then I receive her reply: See you later.
I try to busy myself with my own life—get a glass of water, pop some ibuprofen, return to my room, and start searching for my red Gucci block heels while buttoning the white cotton top I’ve chosen. I fluff the puffy sleeves in my reflection in the full-length mirror, knowing me being overdressed is nothing new. I dress for myself, and even if it’s just a football game on TV, I want to feel my best.
Using a stool to reach the high shelf, I pull down the shoe bin, then set them on the floor at the end of the bed.
Jackson never strays far from my mind as I finish my makeup and then coat my lips with a ruby-red lipstick. I know he loves when I wear red, especially on my mouth. At least that’s what I gather, considering I often catch him staring at my lips when I’m wearing it. Come to think of it, he’s always staring at my lips, though.
Anyway, he dates plenty of women who wear red lipstick, and ones who like to claim him in the most childish ways by leaving traces of their presence behind. Or were they staking a claim on him? Who knows, but I’ll never be that girl if that’s what he’s looking for.
I’ve never thought twice about the myriad of women he’s brought around who I’ve met over the years. The guys I’ve casually introduced to my friends never venture to the forefront of my mind either.
Why am I doing it now?
Last night, it was just him and me.
Two friends.
Two . . . lovers.
Two . . .
I return the glass to the kitchen with my purse in hand but pause, anchoring my hand to the counter. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath, hoping to calm the unsettling in my chest.
Distract. Distract. Distract, Marlow.
Maybe it’s not a distraction I need, but to accept this is what’s best. For me and for him.
I start to switch my stuff from my clutch to a Chanel crossbody bag. I need to be surrounded by noise and friends, junk food and grease to dull the hangover—emotionally and physically—I feel. I need to get going. Wrapping the strap around my body, I rest the bag on my hip and then grab my phone as I walk to the door.
The apartment has become too stuffy with my heart full of nonsense, so I leave in a hurry. By the time the elevator arrives, I’ve ordered chips and queso from a local restaurant. I breathe a sigh of relief when I find the elevator empty and can breathe easier in the solitude, and bonus, I reach the lobby quicker.
The streets are busier at the lunch hour, people brunching under the awning of the closest café, a line weaving out the door of the coffee shop, and even the grocer looks busy through the window. New York City never sleeps, and there’s a sense of excitement in the air. A new start to the year tends to do that, but I feel conflicted.
Jackson and I need to talk.
I pick up the order and then hail a cab to Tealey and Rad’s. Call me crazy, but I lean forward and give the driver Jackson’s address instead. Is it wise to return to the scene of the crime?
I’m not sure, but I have fifteen minutes to change my mind.
Fifteen minutes that fly by as every other thought crosses my mind.
Fifteen minutes to do what I’d normally do—walk away without a second glance.
I don’t, though.
I sit in the cab parked at his curb with the meter ticking instead for another five minutes before I pop the door open. “Thank you,” I tell the driver while already stepping onto the sidewalk. I can’t pause, or I’ll turn back. With doubt filling each step that leads me to his door, I push through the uncertainty and keep walking.
“I’m Marlow Marché, dammit,” I say under my breath, my strength gathering as I move through his building. “Screw the world and what they think.” I’m doing this for me but also for Jackson. He deserves more than I gave him this morning—an empty bed and a crappy start to the new year.
Jackson isn’t just any guy. He’s my friend, and I owe him more than sneaking out in the early hours. With my chin raised high, I knock and then take a step back and wait.