Page 14 of The Right Move

“I do.”

He holds my stare, unwavering. Realizing this honesty might be a non-negotiable to living here, I tell him. “My ex and I lived together for a long time. We dated for a long time, and that all ended about six months ago when I came home early from a work trip and found him in our bed with someone else.”

Ryan’s jaw tics as if he’s grinding his molars together. “I know most of that. How long is a long time?”

“Six years.”

Blue-green eyes widen. “You were together for six years?”

“Yep, but we’ve known each other our entire lives.”

“Six years and you weren’t married or engaged yet?”

“We were getting there. He had the ring. I was waiting for him to be ready for the next step.”

I keep looking down at my plate because this is humiliating. I used to love our love story. It made us unique, connected. Childhood friends getting married. I was excited to display our kindergarten pictures at our wedding one day.

But now? Now, it’s mortifying. We’ve known each other twenty-two years, dated for six of them, and I still couldn’t get the guy to marry me. I couldn’t even get him to remain faithful.

“You should never have to beg someone to be ready for a future,” he says, and the words come out more tender than I think he anticipated.

“Regardless of your apartment décor, life isn’t always black and white, Ryan.”

“It is when it comes to love. Either you want each other, or you don’t. Six years and a lifetime of memories is more than enough time to figure it out. He was stalling. You need to move on.”

“Jesus. A little harsh there. I’m trying.”

“No, you’re not. Not really. You were crying last night because of him. You can say it was because I’m an ass and what I said was mean, but it was because of him. You’re living here because of him and that hurts your feelings. He didn’t want you. He proved that by waiting six years to propose, and he practically screamed that from the rooftops when he decided to fuck someone else in your bed. So, yes, Indiana, it is black and white. You need to move on. He doesn’t deserve shit from you, including your tears.”

Ignoring the nickname, anger bubbles inside of me. “Maybe work on a softer approach there, Roomie. You have no idea what it feels like to have your entire future ripped out from under you, forcing you to start over.”

He swallows, eyes staying locked on mine. “Trust me, I know better than anyone.”

Shit. The vulnerability covering his annoyingly beautiful face tells me I struck a nerve.

I soften my tone. “My name isn’t Indiana, you know. So the nickname makes absolutely no sense. Not to mention it’s longer than Indy.”

“Your real name is Indy?”

“Indigo, actually. But I prefer Indy.”

“Indigo? Like the color?”

“Yes, like the color. My parents had an interesting phase when I was born. They had one kid and went with ‘Indigo.’”

“So, your name is Blue?” He genuinely laughs and it’s the first time I’ve heard it. Regardless that he’s laughing at me and not with me, I like the sound.

“My name is Indy,” I remind him. “So, can we stop with the Indiana nickname that makes no goddamn sense?”

He smiles. Wide and perfect, not holding back. He’s even got dimples, lucky son of a bitch. “Sure thing. I’ll stop with the nickname, Blue.”

“No. Absolutely not. It’s Indy, just Indy.”

He takes my now room temperature coffee and pours a bit in the sink before turning back to the fridge and filling my mug with ice. Pulling a small carton of milk from the refrigerator, he sets them both down in front of me.

“I don’t have any creamer, so hopefully milk will do. You’re not lactose intolerant too, are you?”

There’s a nervous bounce in his eyes as he looks at me, as if he can’t handle another thing I won’t eat or drink. “Milk is great. Thank you.”

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