“Too late,” I mutter softly, but it’s loud enough for her to hear me.
Her voice is sad. “I’m sorry, Ben, but right now, I have to focus on my career. You understand, right?”
I nod because I do. I get it. It just sucks. I could really get into this girl.
Who the fuck am I kidding? I’m already into her.
It’s more than that, though. I think I could love this woman. I mean really love her. And believe me when I say, I’ve never felt that way before. Not once.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Alison
“God, Ali, you’re such an idiot.”
Yes, I’m talking to myself. I’m walking away from Ben’s place on my way home, talking to myself. Nobody cares. It’s New York. They’ve seen this kind of thing on a daily basis. I’m not special.
But he is.
Ben Schilling is special. Sure, he’s gorgeous, that’s a given, but that’s not what makes him special. It’s everything else. He’s sweet, kind, and probably the sexiest man I’ve ever been with. The things he did with his mouth in the short time I made out with him, well, let me tell you, it was spectacular. My brain was mush by the time we got to his bed. All I wanted to do was strip him naked so I could lick every inch of him, and if what I felt between my legs was any indication, I’d say he’s got quite a few inches to lick.
I snicker at my own dirty thoughts. The woman walking past me just now gave me the side-eye, but I shrug it off. She must be new to New York. I giggle again. Hell, why am I laughing? I just essentially ended something that was just getting started. Something that felt real. Something with possibilities. The possibility of more. Something like love.
And with those thoughts, my giggles and snickers stop as sadness takes over. “God, I’m such an idiot.”
I’m not a late sleeper ordinarily, so I surprise myself when I open my eyes and check the time. After eleven. I frown at the clock because it’s ridiculous—a waste of a good morning. Not to mention there’s no reason for it. It wasn’t like I was tired from the day before.
I snort at the thought. Quite the opposite, actually. No, my Saturday was spent doing, well, nothing. I should have been doing productive things like cleaning my apartment, going to the laundromat—things of that nature. But I didn’t. Why not? Well, for one, it rained all day long, which only added to my melancholy. So, instead of doing what I should have been doing, I stayed in my bed and read sappy love stories. Gah! I’m so stupid. Even more pathetic than that, I pictured every hero in every book with dark hair, blue eyes, and dorky glasses. And when I read the naughty parts, I pictured the same man, only naked. Gloriously naked.
“I’m such an idiot.”
I could have had that. I could have had that sexy hero naked and wanting me. Me! Alison Grace Kirby. But I ruined it. So now I get to spend my Sunday the same way I’ve spent it for the last, well, forever.
Alone.
I look out into my apartment from my spot on my bed and contemplate my next move. I could a) stay in bed and finish the book I started last night, or b) I could get my lazy ass up, go get coffee and a newspaper (my guilty pleasure on Sundays), and then I could get on with it. I’ve got so much work to do, and I need to look at that green folder with fresh eyes. I’ve been missing something.
It’s settled. Rolling out of my comfy bed, I search the floor for something to wear that doesn’t look like I slept in it. Finding my leggings from Friday night, I slip those on along with an extra-large sweatshirt. I move into my bathroom and nearly shriek at the sight of my hair and face. I guess I forgot to shower yesterday, because the makeup from Friday is still there, sort of. It’s dry and flaky now, but the mascara and eyeliner I had on are holding steady.
I ponder a shower but decide against it. It’ll delay the coffee that’s needed to get my blood pumping. With a warm washcloth, I wipe off my face, brush the rat’s nest that is my hair, and pull it up into a bun at the back of my head. I shrug at myself in the mirror, unimpressed with my reflection, but it’ll have to do.
Wallet and keys in hand, I make my way to the coffee shop. There’s a moment when I first grip the door handle that I hesitate. What if he’s here? It’s his favorite coffee shop too. Shaking my head, I make myself open the door. I’ll have to see him at work. I might as well get it over with.
Scanning the small shop, my heart drops with a thud in my chest. He’s not here, and it’s not relief I’m feeling. It’s disappointment.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I order my usual, then stop by the newspaper kiosk around the corner. That’s when I see him. He’s got Sky in his arms. He’s talking to her, and my heart does that thing again. The urge to run to him is strong. I want to wrap them both up in my arms and tell him I was stupid. Dumb. That we should see where this thing could go.
Then he sees me. We stare at each other for a moment. A long moment. His small smile and wave as he turns away are all I need to make my eyes burn with tears.
“I’m such an idiot.”
Back in my apartment, I shake off the blues by doing one of my favorite things: reading the Sunday newspaper. The first thing I do is spread out each section in front of me, then put them in order of importance. Arts & Leisure, then Book Review, Sunday Styles, and Small Business are in the favorites. After that, I read the front page and the New York section. I admit I do my best to avoid the section on Politics. Yes, I should read it, but it depresses me. It can’t be helped. Then I save the best for last. Ask Ida. When I get to that part of my Sunday morning, I curl up on my couch with a blanket and a throw pillow and I indulge in some kickass advice. Most of it’s ridiculous, some of it makes me cringe, and much of it makes me laugh. Whoever writes that stuff can be pretty funny. I’ve considered writing to Ask Ida, especially after a bad date or even a bad day at work. I never have, though.
Maybe I should Ask Ida about Ben?
No matter. It’s time for me to get comfy and read some spot-on advice.
Dear Ida,
I just found out my ex-girlfriend got a new dog and named it after me. I can’t help thinking this is a good sign. Do you think she wants me back? —Scout, Manhattan
I crack up at the first one. Scout? That’s hilarious. Then I read Ida’s response, and I swear I nearly pee myself.
Dear, erm, Scout,
They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. In this case, however, I think you should just assume it’s a coincidence. Maybe forget about your ex and get a dog of your own.
The next one isn’t quite as funny.
Dear Ida,
My wife of fifty-five years passed away twenty-three days ago. I can’t seem to figure out what to do with my day, my life. I miss her. She’s all around me. I can’t sleep or eat. I just want to be with her. —Sad, Brooklyn.
Oh, wow. I’ve got tears in my eyes over this one. The poor guy. I read on to see what Ida has to say.
Dear Sad,
I’m very sorry you’re having such a difficult time. While I haven’t experienced that kind of loss, I understand. So do many other people. There are several grief support groups in Brooklyn, some of which are online, but I would suggest finding one nearby where you can sit and talk with others who are going through the same thing. I know I speak for all of us when I say we hope you reach out for help. We care.