Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 105311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 527(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 527(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
When I reach my block, the door is opened before I reach the awning. It’s Mike’s night. He’s fine, but he’s no Gil.
I could really use a strawberry donut right now . . . and some of Gil’s great advice. If I texted or called him, he’d be here, but it’s his day off, and I need to give him a break. I’ll just have to wait to see him tomorrow.
Comfy clothes are my sole mission as I hurry upstairs. I shouldn’t, but just to torture myself a little more, I pull on a pair of his sweatpants, tightening the strings at the waist so they don’t hang low on my hips, and tug my NYU sweatshirt over my head.
Twisting my hair into a knot on my head, I pad back into the kitchen to see what I can find to eat. It’s not from lack of food, though. I started the week fully stocked. But for the fifth night in a row, I look in my pantry and fridge, and nothing inspires me. I don’t know what happened, but I’ve lost my motivation. Did Drew take my joy of cooking with him too?
I check my phone, a bad habit I’ve picked up, but there’s nothing new. No messages. No calls. So I set it back down on the counter. It’s been hard not to text Drew when we used to have so much contact, to tell him about my day, to spend the night in bed together.
I’m still so confused. There were no other offers. Every decision he made was based on the business. What about me? I thought we were closer since we had just talked about moving in together. What a mistake that would have been. Bullet dodged.
Why wouldn’t he even offer to split his time between the two cities? Am I supposed to pack my bags and leave indefinitely? I would have. If he’d asked again.
Although, for me to leave, I’d need to find a replacement, and that’s not that easy. I could have contacted the temp agency to help find the proper fit.
I have a good reputation with them, and companies request me on a regular basis. CWM has put me out of commission for a minimum of eight weeks, and it sounds like Melissa was taking the extra two Drew gave her.
If there had been an offer from him to travel along, would I now be seen as a flake? It doesn’t matter. If he would have asked me to go with him, I would have found a replacement. If he’d wanted me by his side, maybe there could have been a temp job in the Seattle office. Doesn’t matter if I was working or not. I would have gone. I hate that I wasn’t a thought—personally or professionally. I hate that I didn’t get the choice at all.
But did Drew? As CEO?
My grandmother told me never to drink to comfort your emotions. I pour a glass of wine anyway. I’m angry, sad, frustrated . . . lonely. I drink half of it fairly fast and then pull up Drew’s text chat.
A few sips more and the tears begin to fall. Seeing the photos we took and the memes we shared, the inside jokes we had, and the flirtations exchanged. Every emotion I restrained for the past week surfaces all at once.
It doesn’t matter what I feel. It all comes back to him and the choice he made.
Am I looking at this all wrong? Did he leave because he didn’t have a choice? Logically, that makes sense. He runs the company, and that branch needed his attention. But that doesn’t help my heart. I trusted Drew and let him in to my tightly controlled world, proving Gil was wrong. It wasn’t good to open my heart. It fucking hurts.
Why didn’t Drew just leave me alone?
With wine clouding my rational thoughts, I get angry, remembering it was me pushing to be friends. Friends. Fucking friends. Nothing more has ever worked out for me, and I just proved it again. But the anger doesn’t fill the hole in my chest.
Only he can.
Looking at the screen again, I type: I miss you.
But I don’t send it. I’m confused. Why’d I type that? The lights are dim in here. Maybe I’m seeing it wrong. I click on the lamp, and yep, I typed that. Thank God I didn’t send because Drew hurt me, and even worse, he continues to. I reach to delete, not willing to give Andrew Christiansen the satisfaction that I contacted him first.
I’m about to delete, but when I’m startled by a knock on the door, I accidentally hit send. “Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.”
What have I done?
35
Drew
Did she just beat me to the punch?
Don’t get me wrong. Juni did what I couldn’t. I give her full credit for that. I had a lame ‘can we talk’ sitting in our text box for three days and didn’t have the balls to send.