Page 32 of Those Heartbreak Scars

It’s pathetic. The hold she still has on me when she let us go so easily. I need to move on. Not with America. With someone else.

I’ll take her the book. Get us back on solid footing. As friends. Back to the way we were. The way we should be.

Carrying the little bag with the heavy book, I make my way outside. It’s overcast, but the sun breaks through in places. Much better than yesterday.

A group of women in activewear exit a building to my right. They carry gym bags on their shoulders and phones in their hands. They talk boisterously to one another as they part ways.

Braids all tucked up in a scarf. Bright little beads poking out. A Chicago Bears jacket that she’s pulling the zipper up on. “America?”

“America.” Another masculine voice drowns mine out as the other women disperse.

She glances in the direction the other voice came from. Her fingers freeze mid-pull on her zipper.

The man from the bookshop walks across the road toward her. “I need to talk to you.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t want to talk to you, Alfie.”

“I miss you. You’re not coming to my lectures anymore.” He doesn’t notice or doesn’t care that she is backing away from him. “I know I should have told you about her.”

“She’s your wife.” Rica wraps a hand around her throat and continues to back up.

“I’ll leave her.” He reaches for her. “Divorce her. I want you. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Her muscles lock up and she gets that deer in the headlights look. The hand at her side contorts, her fingers tap out a pattern without her realizing. She always does that in high-stress situations.

“Rica, sweetheart.” I call out, letting her know that I’m here.

I let my gaze run over her appreciatively—especially noting the relief that fills her expression and smooths her shoulders down from her ears—and then turn my cold gaze on him.

Guys get the wrong idea about Rica. They think because of the way she looks she wants this kind of attention. They think because she’s sensitive and doesn’t want to upset anyone that she hasn’t spent her entire life cultivating—or at least trying to—the ability to fit in without upsetting anyone. They don’t realize the alarm they often cause her.

I’ve been around long enough to know her better than that. I didn’t at first, but then when she got her ASD diagnosis EJ and I did the research to better understand.

He wanted to make sure that his pseudo little sister felt as cared for as his real sister and it seemed like a good idea, so I did it too.

America is neurodivergent. And she’s beautiful. People, especially men, assume because she’s beautiful that she understands the social games between the sexes. As intelligent as she is, she has an innocence when it comes to men.

She makes friends and they think she’s flirting. She likes someone even a little and they either think she’s super clingy, or they only see the interests and personality aspects that they share enthusiasm for, and then they become obsessed. When they ghost her after they get to know her, she doesn’t really get why.

I’m not going to ghost her. But I do need to make amends for the way I’ve treated her. I need to make sure we don’t end up in the same predicament again. I don’t want to be one of those assholes. Not to her.

“Babe.” She smiles and slips into my arms when I open them for her. She grabs my face with both hands and presses up on tiptoe to suck on my bottom lip, playing up this pretense that we’re in a relationship. “I thought I was going to have to call you and remind you to pick me up for a minute.”

Her lips are soft and sweet. Slightly glossed with coconut lip balm. When she starts to pull away, I seek out another taste before I can remind myself it’s a pretense. Tightening my arms around her waist, I focus on the man who helped me pick out a book he was obviously thinking about buying for her.

He has a full head of dark hair and a mouthful of bright, white teeth. He probably gets a lot of attention from coeds who think he’s intelligent and distinguished.

“Does your wife know how you like to spend your Friday mornings? Stalking a student you’ve apparently become obsessed with?” I would love to give him a few gaps in those perfect pearls. “It wasn’t enough to make Rica give up on her doctorate?”

His eyes widen and fill with animosity. “I don’t know what she’s told you, but—”

“She’s barely told me anything about you,” I say. “You’re not a topic of conversation we’ve had more than once. But I knew Rica ten years before we got together so I know enough to fill in the gaps about you.”

“Your girlfriend is a frigid bitch.”

She sucks in a pained breath, her body turning stone-like. I feel the way those words hurt her. It’s like he reached deep into her psyche and pulled up a memory from the hardest year of her life.

Did she tell him about those asshole boys who wouldn’t leave her alone? Did she trust him with that? Because only an absolute prick would knowingly throw that in her face.

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