Okay, so I didn’t think this through before accusing her.
Holy shit. She’s so pissed.
She whirls around all of a sudden, storming to the spot where she left her shoes. After slipping them on, she grabs her keys and purse from the coffee table and twists around to glower at me. I brace myself for the torrent of words I’m sure she’s ready to throw at me, given that fierce look on her face.
Instead, she shakes her head and walks out of the apartment. The sound of the door slamming reverberates inside the small space, and the ferocity of her anger still crackles in the air.
I take a step forward, ready to follow her, but instead, I sit my ass back on the couch. I drop my head in my hands, confused by my own reaction.
I open my phone to send her a text, but every time I go to type, words fail me. Eventually, I settle for a piss-poor I’m sorry.
She doesn’t reply.
I don’t blame her. When I first thought out this little plan about becoming Grace’s friend, I guess I underestimated how complicated everything would be later.
I yank the cap from my head and throw it on the couch, then bury my face into my hands. What the hell am I going to do? Regret churns inside my stomach as sweat beads my forehead.
We can’t part like this. I need to talk to her.
God, what a mess.
I dial her number and press the phone to my ear. The call goes to voicemail after five rings. I try again, and the same thing happens. On the third try, I wait until I hear the beep, then say, “Grace, I’m so sorry. I should have explained myself better instead of biting your head off.” Inhaling deeply, I forge ahead. “I meant to say that doing it is not a good idea. I have a feeling if we do it, I won’t be able to get you out of my system. And I need to see this through. I can’t do that to us, Grace. Please call me when you get this, okay? It’s okay to be angry with me, but please, please don’t shut me out.”
I disconnect the call and storm to my room. After changing into a pair of running shorts and a T-shirt, I grab my cell and headphones and head out for a run.
I’m sorry.
Guilt knots in my belly as I stare at those two words.
It’s been four days since I stormed out of Sol and Ivan’s apartment. The thing is, I can’t stop thinking about him. And I can’t stop the ever-present weight on my chest, pressing and pressing until I feel like I’m suffocating. I drop my head in my hands as another wave of guilt washes over me, causing my hands to tremble.
God, I feel so stupid. It wasn’t fair to ask him to have sex with me. I realized that the second the words left my mouth. But I couldn’t go back and apologize. I was so embarrassed. I didn’t want him to hate me. When I’m around him, it’s like my brain short-circuits.
What if he does, though? He wouldn’t say sorry if he did, right?
I shake my head to get rid of that thought.
I took a chance with him. It was stupid. And now I know sex wasn’t the way to go.
My feelings for him cloud my judgment. And the fact he’s leaving for Boston makes this emptiness in my chest even more tangible. All I want to do is hold on to him in any way I can.
When I’m close to him, I can’t think straight. I desperately want his mouth on mine, his hands on my body. Is it even normal to feel like this? Should I be repulsed by sex after what happened to my mom?
I shake my head. No, what happened to my mom was horrible. This, this is sex. And it can be beautiful. With Sol, I know it would be.
I’ve been going in circles, like a dog chasing its own tail, bouncing between accepting his apology and spending the last few days before he leaves with him, and ignoring his text. He’ll leave, find new adventures in his journey with God, and forget about me. Staying away is a win-win situation for the both of us. We won’t need to say goodbye.
I hate goodbyes.
Sighing, I inform my mom I’m heading to Casco Bay Culinary Institute to sign us up for their weekly cooking class. Two nights ago, I found a flyer stuck between the wipers and the windshield of my car advertising the newly opened institute. I thought it would be a great mother-daughter bonding experience on top of the therapy sessions.
I leave the diner and head for my car when a hand grasps my bicep. My body tenses and I spin around, my foot raised, ready to slam it down on whoever touched me, but the scent of motor oil and sunshine fills my nostrils.
“Whoa! It’s me, Gracie.”
And just like that, the tension melts away from my body. I should be worried Sol has that kind of power over me, but right now, I’m too busy drinking him in like he’s water and I’m parched.
“You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that.”
He looks offended. “I wasn’t sneaking up on you. I thought you heard me walking up to you. I even called your name.”
“Well, I didn’t.”
“Obviously.” His lips twitch as he stares down at the foot that almost knocked him on his ass. His forehead creases slightly with a frown. “Look, can we talk?”
Panic grips my throat once again. It’s as if I don’t know how to be around him anymore, yet I want nothing more than to fall into his arms. “Right now? I kind of—”
“I just need a few minutes. I’m driving to Boston tonight for orientation. Can we talk in my truck? I have to go to the apartment to change my clothes before leaving. I can drop you back here when we’re finished talking.”
I nod reluctantly and allow him to steer me toward his truck.
We drive in silence until he cuts his eyes to me and says, “Aren’t you going to confession today? You’re the only person I know who attends confession every week.”
“Not today.” I find myself smiling at him. I can’t help it. Not when he’s looking at me with such gentleness. “The sins I would’ve confessed didn’t quite happen,” I say pointedly.
“I’m sorry I was an ass. I shouldn’t have said those things to you.”
I sigh and twist my body to face him. I pull one leg up, tucking it under me. “About what happened . . . I’m so sorry for putting you on the spot. It wasn’t fair to ask you that.” Unable to hold his gaze, I drop mine to his fingers drumming a quick beat on the wheel. “Your friendship means everything to me, Sol. I don’t want to lose it.”
He’s quiet for a few seconds. I can feel the heat of his gaze on my face before he returns his focus to the road. “I didn’t want to leave knowing you’re still pissed at me. I won’t be able to live with myself, Grace.”
“I was angrier with myself, I think.”
He pauses. “We’ll still be friends, right?”
Friends.
“Yes.” I smile, hoping I’m good at hiding the desperation overwhelming my heart.
“So we’re good?”
I make sure he’s looking at me when I say, “Of course.”
I look out the window and realize we’re parked outside his building already. And when my eyes move back to him, he’s carefully assessing me. Then he murmurs, “Good,” and turns to open his door, hiding his eyes from me.
By the time I unbuckle my seat belt, he’s already opening the passenger door for me. He’s such a gentleman. Why, oh why did he have to go and be a priest? I jump out, and we head for his apartment.