Page 80 of The Influencer

Which is not normal or healthy or right or good. Between beating myself up and overindulging in the minor aches and pains of not seeing him since Thursday, I have questions, too. Did he go through with it? Is he still with his girlfriend? Does he have to move? Does she? Would he like a place to stay?

See? Like I said. Wrong feelings. All inappropriate, and they make me sound like I actually like the man because I do, in fact, like the man, and I want to cut out all those feelings and burn them in my fireplace. They don’t work with my life. Feelings, in and of themselves, don’t work in general for me.

I take matters into my own hands Sunday night, after trying to exhaust myself with pushups in the middle of my living room and not getting any closer to sleep. I DM him. According to the app, he’s not active when I send the message, which is a super flirty: How’s it going? and after ten minutes of staring at the screen waiting for him to come online, nothing. I throw the phone after that, and this is why I shouldn’t have allowed myself to share my spreadsheets with him.

What the hell had I been thinking?

Normally, when I’m feeling this restless, I Grindr my way out of it, but I have no desire. None whatsoever to see some random man naked, which proves I’m probably coming down with something again. It would explain the constant sick feeling in my stomach anyway.

Monday evening, which is the one I’ve been sort of dreading, rolls around, and before Gage arrives at my place to sixty-nine me, I need a drink, and I’m out of vodka. This isn’t usually a problem since I live on the same block as a liquor store, but leaving my condo is something I’ve been trying to avoid. Unfortunately, my need for a screwdriver overrides my desire not to wear pants.

I’m only out for maybe fifteen minutes, so it comes as a total shock, and a fright, if I’m being honest, to find Asher outside my door. He’s sitting on the floor, one leg bent and one leg straight, the buckle on his motorcycle boot glinting in the sunlight from the window at the end of the hall.

“How did you get up here?” I breathe because there’s barely enough oxygen to sustain me.

“I guess the doorman was on a break. I just came right up.” He grimaces like he’s embarrassed. “Is this okay?”

“I—of course.” I try not to gush, but I’m not sure I’m successful. Bliss at the sight of him is practically bleeding from my pores. But I’m proud of myself for not doing what I pictured doing the second I realized it was him, dropping to my knees and crawling to him à la Jennifer Grey in Dirty Dancing during the “Baby Oh Baby” scene. Yeah, so I don’t do that. I walk over all casual and offer him a hand, which he takes and stands.

“I should have texted,” he admonishes himself.

“It’s fine. Really. I don’t mind at all. I’ve been thinking about you.”

Okay, could have held that in a little better.

“I didn’t get your message until about an hour ago. I crashed in the shop last night.”

“Oh?” I ask as I unlock the door to let us in.

“Yeah, the whole breakup thing—it didn’t go how I expected.”

“Did she kick you out?”

“Not exactly.”

I frown up at him before he shrugs. Putting a pin in it for the moment, I walk down the hall to put my vodka on the kitchen counter. He follows. When I turn to look at him, he’s close, but not quite close enough to kiss. Not unless one of us makes a move. In my current state, I’d bet good money that person’s going to be me. “What happened?” I ask. “Did you end up breaking up?”

He leans an elbow on the counter. “I mean… I did.”

I study him closely, looking for signs of distress. He’s got a line between his brows, and some puffiness beneath his eyes that make me wonder if he slept okay. He does seem distraught, and I don’t love it, but I would love to give him a hug to see if it makes him feel any better, which again proves I can’t think clearly when it comes to him. “What did she do?” I ask.

“She told me we’d work it out when I got home.”

I scowl. “Huh.”

“I don’t know what’s happening,” he says.

“Maybe denial…?”

“I flat out told her I was fucking someone else.”

“Oh.”

“And she was like—you’ll come around, baby.”

I know my jaw is hanging open, so I snap it closed before the unattractive image has a chance to imprint itself on Asher’s brain.

He reaches out, plucks at my shirt and frowns. “What is this?”

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