Page 77 of The Perfect Mistake

He leans back in the booth and stretches his legs out under the table. “She’s really beautiful, isn’t she? I didn’t realize until I met her at Connie and Gabriel’s wedding party.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“No? Well, I’m sure you won’t mind if I ask her out,” Nate says.

My hand tightens around the beer. It’s irrational, the anger, but it rises to the surface anyway. And it’s tinged with an emotion I haven’t felt in years.

Jealousy.

Of Nate. Who’s charming and funny, and doesn’t have two kids to take care of and a company to run. Isabel could do worse… like me. And that’s not a happy thought.

Nate chuckles. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

“You live in London,” I say. “It wouldn’t be practical.”

“Mm-hmm. Smart,” he says with a nod. “Look, just be open and honest with her, okay?”

I cross my arms over my chest. “About what?”

But Nate doesn’t waver. “About what you can offer her, and what you can’t. Have you even been with anyone since Vicky died?”

I don’t answer him. This convo is the last thing I wanted out of tonight, the absolute last fucking thing, so I glance over my shoulder. But Connie’s still in the bathroom.

Nate’s staring me down like he expects my response. I stare back at him, daring him to cave. But he doesn’t. Seems like both of my siblings are determined to be rebellious tonight.

“Yes,” I finally admit. Twice. Both had been quick, rushed meetings in hotel rooms. Women I knew tangentially, women who wanted the same thing that I did. But even so, I’d regretted both times.

“Good,” he says. “That’s great. Just treat her right. She’s Connie’s best friend.”

“I know that.”

He holds up his hands. “And treat yourself right, too, okay?”

“What does that mean?”

“Just… It's been five years. It’s okay,” he says with a shrug. “To move on.”

I don’t have a single thing to say to that.

Move on? Is that what he thinks I’m doing with Isabel? It’s another one of those nebulous terms, like still grieving and treat her right. I don’t know how to do any of those things, or even if I’m doing them right now. The empty platitudes people have offered me over the past few years have never made much sense to me.

Being honest about what I can offer Isabel means shutting down whatever we’re doing right now, before I hurt her, and before I get her hopes up. I doubt she has any at the moment, not beyond the physical, and that feels like a blessing.

I run my hand over the back of my neck and feel like the asshole I am. Because I want her too, more than I’ve wanted anyone in years, and far more than I know how to handle. Making her come the other night in my bathroom, her thighs around my head, and the taste of her on my tongue, has only enflamed that need.

I shouldn’t have done that.

I can’t be responsible for her and Connie’s friendship blowing up, or for her losing her job. It’s very possible that she may want to quit after she realizes just how little I can offer anyone. Even someone as beautiful and kind as her.

Maybe that’s what hurts the most. I know, that if I was ten years younger, without responsibilities and obligations, it would have been easy to be the right man for her. I would have enjoyed that.

But I’m not that man.

It’s not my job to guide her as she discovers her own pleasure or help her verbalize her needs, and it’s sure as hell not my right to take my own pleasure. It’s someone else’s. Someone better, and more suited for her. I hate the thought of that bastard, but it’s true. The guilt eases down my throat at the decision. Settles a little bit. I’m still an asshole. But one who won’t act on his desires.

Connie returns a few moments later. She sits down next to Nate with a sigh and complains about the long lines for the women’s restrooms. I nod along and drain the rest of my beer, listening to the easy conversation between them.

When I arrive home late at night to the quiet apartment, both of my kids soundly asleep, I find Isabel’s Kindle lying in wait for me on my bedside table.

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