With a chuckle, he shakes his head. “Stories are easy, my friend. Everything works out in the end. There’s no Happily Ever After guarantee in real life.”
My stomach twists. I knew that was coming, and still, it stings. “True, true. But I have to try.”
“And that is what you need to focus on. Trying.”
We keep up a fast clip. “I sent her an apology note last night.”
“That’s a start,” he says.
“But it’s only a start?” I ask, though I know the answer.
He cuts his gaze my way, holding up a thumb and forefinger. “You’ve got a long way to go. Maybe start with groveling.”
My eyes widen.
Holy shit.
That’s it.
That’s exactly what I needed to hear. “Your pen is genius,” I say.
He cracks up. “Drinks are on you.”
I salute him, then cut the run short and head to a bench at the end of The High Line. Panting and sweaty, I sit, open my phone, and start at the beginning of our story.
I read every letter Bellamy and I exchanged, from the first one after my party to the one late last night. I savor every word about the Joker and Batman, spinach in teeth, schadenfreude and its arousement cousin, her crush on Coco, my love of her lips, and the ones when she told me what she did for me.
She fixed my business problem.
She saved my ass.
And I repaid her by fucking up the entire night.
TJ was right. I don’t just need to apologize. I need to grovel big time. Because these letters tell me everything. But there’s one revelation that stands out above all the rest. The thing I denied vehemently.
I love her.
I don’t want to lose her, no matter what.
With a renewed purpose, and the start of a plan, I head home and take a fast shower, then I sprint to the chocolate shop where we started.
Thirty minutes later, I head up the steps to Bellamy’s place in Chelsea, a whole new fleet of nerves parking in my chest. Maybe a squadron.
I backed down last night, but I won’t back down now. When I reach the top step, I press her buzzer, and I wait.
I wait a minute, buzz her again.
Wait some more.
She doesn’t answer. Finally, I unlock my phone and call her.
“Hey,” she says, but there’s reserve in her voice.
“Hi. I’m at your place,” I say.
“Oh. I’m not there.”
“I figured as much. But I was hoping to see you. And to apologize again.”
There’s a pause, then panting breath. Music comes next—pop songs—and the grind of equipment. “I’m at the gym. And you apologized last night. It’s fine. I said it was fine,” she says.
And the hurt.
Dear God, the hurt.
Bellamy Hart has never been good at masking her emotions, and she’s shit at it now.
This gives me hope and steals some hope away.
“I’m so sorry. I want to talk to you, though. Is there any chance I can speak with you in person?”
I hear a heavy sigh from her, and I don’t know if it’s due to the workout, or the request.
“I’m on the StairMaster. I’ll be done in an hour. I can meet you at Doctor Insomnia’s on Seventh Avenue.”
I get the message. She’s not cutting a workout short for me this time.
An hour later, I spot her outside the coffee shop, chatting on the phone, a soft smile on her face.
My heart thunders. I can’t believe I nearly lost her.
Slow down, cowboy. You don’t have her back yet.
And maybe I won’t ever, because the smile slides off her face when she comes inside and beelines for me. No coffee, no drink, nothing.
She’s all business as she grabs a seat. “Hey.”
“Hi.”
Awkwardly, I push the box of chocolate caramels across the table. The idea that seemed brilliant an hour ago feels remarkably short-sighted now. Chocolate won’t make up for being a top-notch asshole.
“I got you your favorite chocolates to apologize,” I say, since that’s what I rehearsed, but it sounds awful out loud.
“Thank you, but like I said, apology accepted.”
The chilly professionalism in her voice scares the fuck out of me. Is she going to leave? My heart jackhammers at the thought.
So, I try again—with words, this time, instead of sweets. “I should have done a million things differently last night.”
“Okay.”
“I shouldn’t have sabotaged your evening.”
“You’re right. You shouldn’t have.”
“I was off all day. By the time the party began, I’m pretty sure I was spiraling.”
I expect her to fire off something caustic and justified, but Bellamy doesn’t punch below the belt. “It wasn’t your best moment.”
That’s a generous assessment, and I shake my head. “I shouldn’t have busted up your evening like I did. I was eaten alive by jealousy, and I feel like such a shit for letting that happen.”
She frowns. “I don’t care about you ruining an introduction. That’s not what truly hurts. Don’t you get it?”
They’re the same words she used last night, but her tone is different. Where she was vulnerable then, now she’s erected ramparts and installed a moat filled with crocodiles. But I’m willing to swim past predators and scale castle walls for a chance with her.
“I do understand,” I say. “And I should have listened last night. And I should have listened to your podcast before the party. And I should have listened at the café yesterday when you said you wanted to talk.”
Her expression softens. “Thank you for saying that but . . .” You’re missing the point.
It’s as clear as if she’d said it out loud.
I do get it now. I’m still dancing around the truth—the terrifying and wonderful truth.
“I love you, Bellamy,” I blurt it out, and it hurts to say.
But it also feels incredible.
She sounds wildly doubtful. “You do?”
“I do. I love you. I want to be yours,” I say, laying it out there for her, hoping she believes me.
She shifts back in her seat, giving herself space to take a good look at me. “That’s not what you said last night. In fact, you said the opposite.”
“I was wrong. I was stupid.”
The silence hangs heavily between us for a beat before she speaks. “Last night you seemed pretty sure that I came to your parties to meet men. As if I’d done something wrong when you asked me to attend for literally that reason. I wasn’t interested in any of those guys, but they came over to talk to me, and I was being polite to your guests at your party. Then you acted like you were the honorable one to ignore your dating app. But I went to the party for you, and what you said hurt so much . . . because you knew I wanted to talk to you about the bet and about us.”
Us. There isn’t even an us to talk about because of me. “You did say that, and I didn’t deal with it well,” I say, regret rushing through me like a rocket.
“I’d been trying to tell you for days how I felt about you. I got on air and told you, for all intents and purposes.”
She fires truth bombs left and right, and I do my best to catch them and defuse them. “I wish I could go back in time and do last night all over again.”