It’s all sorts of fucked up.
Jude won’t give up and behind him, Sebastian is headed toward us. He’s been giving me odd looks for the last week and a half. Based on the intensity of his expression, if he reaches me, he’s going to do more than just ask like Jude is doing. He’ll dig in and pry and won’t let anything lie until I spill my guts.
And considering I have no desire to do that at a family team meeting, I set down my water bottle.
“You know what? I’m outta here.” I slap his shoulder playfully.
“Seriously? You won’t talk?”
“Nope.” Not until I have something to talk about. Shooting my shot and ending up the loser isn’t a situation I’m familiar with, but I didn’t get to where I am by being a quitter either.
I’ll give Jillian until the weekend, try one more time, to text, and then she has forty-eight hours to respond before we figure this out.
Because losing the woman I love is killing me.
But losing one of my best friends?
That might just hurt worse.
Hey. Work going okay? We still on for our Sunday run? Lunch after?
It’s the exact same text I’d send her every week. If she wants us to be friends, I’ll start there.
Unfortunately, it’s been twenty-four hours and like the creep I am, I did a drive-by of her home last night, lights on, car in the driveway, which means she’s not out of town for work and didn’t bother letting me know.
Nope. She’s ignoring me.
But I’ve promised forty-eight hours to give her time to come around so I do nothing when I see her home and head back to my own place where I run another four miles on the treadmill to burn off the sinking sensation in my gut.
Lacing up my skates for another round of conditioning in a locker room full of guys is the last place I want to be, especially after punking out last night at the party. Half of my team looks green, probably enjoying the night far more than they should have. My recent kamikaze skating is going to look even more insane if all their asses are running on fumes and yesterday’s alcohol.
“Hey.” Sebastian drops down next to me, laced up, dressed, and ready to go. “What’s going on? You’ve been quiet all week.”
“You know that thing we do where we tease each other about acting crazy and it all comes out it’s because of a woman who’s got us twisted up?”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t really want to do that with you or anyone right now.”
“Ah. So the weekend with Jillian didn’t go so great.”
“Nope.” It went perfectly. I’d thought we were on the same page. Outside her family drama and the bullshit with Roman that at this point is laughable—the man’s on his honeymoon for Christ’s sake, probably thinking of a woman he still loves and can’t have.
A woman I also love who doesn’t want to be anything more than friends with me.
I finish lacing my skates and stand, grabbing my helmet from my locker. “Remember when I said I didn’t want to talk about it?”
“Yeah, but I don’t really listen all that well. Drives Gigi fucking crazy.”
“I imagine.”
“So Jillian?” He stands, helmet already in his hands. Like it or not, I guess we’re heading to the ice together. It’s too bad you can’t run fast in skates and full gear.
I seriously do not want to sit around, mulling this over with guys and drinks, acting like I didn’t spend the weekend making a fool out of myself.
And if only I could pinpoint where it all went wrong.
What happened?
What changed?
“We had a great weekend. It ended shitty. We came home. That’s it.”
Because it was a great weekend. All up until the wedding reception. Hell, she’d been smiling with her mom, laughing with Nana. She was having so much fun, until….
The bathroom.
I pull to an abrupt stop.
“What?”
I ignore Sebastian.
The bathroom. Her red eyes from crying. Something—or someone—hurt her, or pissed her off or made her cry—and if it was anyone else who said or did something to piss her off or make her cry, she’d come to me. She’d tell me. She wouldn’t brush me off and run without me and say nothing for three hours. Hell, Jillian’s never been silent for more than ten minutes around me.
The girl’s a talker.
And my best friend.
She’d tell me.
Which means the person who hurt her is me.
“Oh fuck,” I groan. “She fucking heard.”
And it hurt her.
Which means she doesn’t want to be friends any more than I do.
Fucking hell. How stupid are we?
26
Jillian
It takes me almost two full days to respond to Klaus’s text message. Two days where I debate, where I cry some more, and where I get really, really pissed off.
I’ve run through so many emotions over the last week and a half it feels as if I’m stuck on a rollercoaster, no off switch in sight.
But still, I think back to what Becca has said to me, what I’ve ignored all week, and what I felt with Klaus.
Something has to change, so I finally reply to his text he sent me Thursday.
A run sounds good. Tomorrow, 8am, Freedom Park?
Now, all I have to do is get through another brunch with Becca where we talk about nothing else. I’m mentally prepping myself for this, psyching myself up and dressed to kill the lazy Saturday ahead of me in a messy bun, unwashed hair. No makeup on and I’m barely dressed in something better than pajamas, my cut-off sweat shorts and a pink tank top that says: RISE AND SHINE, IT’S MIMOSA TIME. It used to be a sparkling silver print, but it’s now faded due to the years and millions of washes.
I look a hot mess and am more than ready to start drinking the orange juice and champagne I’ve already mixed when my doorbell rings.
“It’s open!” I shout from where I’m at in the kitchen. Becca usually barges on in, last Saturday’s surprise visit not the first time she’s helped herself to her key of mine. While I’m expecting her, I also expect her cheery voice as the door opens. I’m anticipating her immediately launching into something about Klaus so with my back to the room, I begin loading the dishwasher from last night’s mess I haven’t cleaned up yet and say, “If you’re going to rag on me all day again about Klaus, we’re ending this conversation now. He’s on our do not speak of list of conversations today.”
“Oh? And why is that exactly?”
I freeze, bent over the dishwasher, loading a blue dinner plate.
Oh freaking shit.
That is not Becca.
The plate clatters into the dishwasher and I stand, drying my hands on a towel. Klaus is on the other side of my island, running shorts and a white athletic shirt that clings to muscles I’ve now run my fingers and mouth all over.
His arms are crossed over his chest, sunglasses perched on top of his side-swept hair, and those oceanic blue, stormy eyes of his I love so much hold a wicked gleam.
“What are you doing here?”
“Couldn’t wait until tomorrow. Thought we could talk.”