Page 120 of Casanova LLC

“Okay, yes.” I held up a hand. “You’re right. I did it for myself. For a way out of…” I shut my eyes because I couldn’t keep looking at her looking at me the way she was: like I’d morphed into another person. “But I convinced myself it was just another deal. Hell, that’s what I do. For a new roof or property taxes or even…a fucking Rolex.”

“But you make those deals with the women. Not behind their backs.”

That caused my eyes to open back up. “Okay. Yes. You’re right again. I have nothing left. No more excuses.” There’d never been an excuse, that was the truth. I’d known that then and I knew it now.

I could have avoided all of this if I’d just stuck to my original plan. One word. Just one perfect word. Stay. Pandora’s box had been opened and nothing could be put back. So I just lamely said, “Anyway. I hope this gives you some closure.”

Her laugh caught us both off guard. “Me? I already had closure. Last night was my closure. But if you feel better, great. Glad you got this off your chest?”

I didn’t feel one iota better. In fact, I felt a hundred times worse. “I’m sorry, Claire.” So absurdly inadequate.

“For what exactly?” Her eyes were a test. “This convoluted almost-betrayal from five years ago? Or when you left me flat on my back? In your bed, with my skirt around my waist? An hour ago?”

“I was trying to help.”

“Help?”Her voice went so high it broke.

“I was trying to manage expectations.”

“Whose?”

“You have every right to be upset, but Claire: you literally said, ‘I don’t want us to be over.’ That set off alarm bells?—’”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” she cried. “Of course I don’t want us to be over! Do you?! But that doesn’t mean I don’t know we have to be. Again, make it about me! I repeat: this is about you!” She started pacing. “Manage expectations, Jesus Christ. You know what my expectations were? That we’d finish that chocolate torta. Make love again. Share a cup of coffee in the morning. Then you’d play me your song, we’d go to the airport, hug and kiss and I’d probably cry a little. Why? Because I’d be sad that this was the end, but God, so grateful for what we’d shared. Forever in three days.” She stopped pacing and just stared at me. “Those were my expectations and you know why? Because you gave them to me.”

I put my hands in my pockets. “Well, I mean…we can still do that,” I offered. “If you want.”

She laughed. Somewhat hysterically. “Oh, fuck what I want. You…” She studied me like a particularly abstruse piece of art. Then she walked away from her suitcase and toward me. Yes, I thought, yes, closer, please. Murderously closer, even, I didn’t care. She stopped right in front of me, lifted that chin, clenched her fists. “I gotta tell you, if this had been my expectation, having a man stand before me and lie while I can feel him dripping out of me”—she gestured harshly at her core—“I could have gotten that from any self-proclaimed Casanova in New York.”

That sucked the breath right out of me.

We stared at each other, her hurt and confusion and rage so heartbreakingly clear on her face. Until she turned and walked back to her suitcase.

How did we get here? How did I let this happen?

No. I made this happen.

She was right: I was a fraud.

Her hand grabbed her bag and I said what I’d wanted to say since the beginning, “Stay.”

She just scoffed.

“Stay.” No response. “Claire. Stay. Cara?—”

“Don’t Cara me.” She whirled around. Her eyes locked on mine and they were flint. Sparking, fucking flint. “Don’t Casanova me. If you want me to stay, tell me the truth. Be honest. Why did you want to leave?”

I couldn’t answer. Because there was no answer. Because it was the wrong question. The right question was, why did you leave when you wanted to stay?

That truth was ringing out inside me. I couldn’t ignore it any longer. “I didn’t want to leave.”

“So why did you?”

“Because I wanted to stay.”

“What?”

My heart was beating outside my chest. “Because of you.”

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