Page 58 of Crazy Good
I’m angry for no good reason now. That’s what drinking in the company of people does. I’m a mean drunk. I show no mercy. The bad part is, I’m completely aware it’s happening and I can’t stop it.
“Good. Don’t even think about touching her. I’ll kill you,” I say. Steve walks away, shaking his head. Like I’m the crazy one? The fucking nerve of some people.
The doorbell rings and I know it can only be one person. Everyone coming to a party just walks in. This isn’t someone who’s been invited. Not by me, at least. Windsor. My heart leaps up into my fucking throat. I haven’t seen her for months—six months? I never saw her at the funeral. Not that I would have acknowledged her anyway.
I look at Steve and he angrily raises his glass in my direction. No fucking help from him.
Swaying on my feet, I walk to the front door and open it just enough to see her without exposing the contents of my house. Windsor and her scared blue eyes focus on my face. She looks so damn beautiful that I catch my breath. My memory of her faded over time, and it didn’t serve her right. She is the most gorgeous person I’ll ever see. Inside and out. I know it. Which is why I have to let her go.
“Hi,” she says, her gaze traveling down my chest and back up to my face. She’s seeing the miserable exterior of a deconstructed man. I’m hideous.
I can’t bring myself to do it. Not yet. I want to pretend for a second that she’s still mine. Before everything in my life was taken away. “Hey,” I reply, trying and failing to smile. A tiny half smile lights her face a second before a small bark pierces the air. I look to her car.
“Goose is pretty upset I didn’t bring him,” she explains, looking over to her car with an adoring face. She loves the dog. I take a deep breath. The life I could have had is right in front of me and I can’t take it. “How are you Maverick?” she asks. She knows I’m not good. She’s just going through the pleasantries I’d expect from a stranger.
I lie. “I’m doing better. On the road to a full recovery,” I say, mispronouncing the last word in a slur. Fuck.
Her pursed lips raise in a fake smile as she nods, eyebrows raised. “Good. I’m so glad. I’ve been worried about you,” she says, her gaze darting behind my head. I close the door a little more, feeling sick about the scene behind me. What was I thinking? I wasn’t.
“Morganna said you wanted me to stop by. I’m not sure how much of her pleas is fact or fiction, but I’m here for you in you need a friend, Mav. I know you don’t want a relationship with me anymore,” she whispers, biting her lip. “Maybe a friendship would work out better? I’d like to try because…” her words trail off.
“Because why?” I ask, my heart hammering like a God damned drum in my ears. She shakes her head. My anger grows. Still, even in proposed friendship she can’t speak what’s in her heart or her mind. I can’t take it anymore. My hand, the one holding the door, shakes. I’m losing control. “Why?” I demand, louder this time.
“Because I freaking love you, Maverick! And I know words are just words, but I'm so sorry about everything and I love you. You don’t love me anymore and I understand that, but you have to be in my life. Maybe I can help you…or make you feel better. Be my friend," Windsor says, her face red and bottom lip trembling.
I nod. She did it. She fucking finally did it.
Too little, too late. “Blow me,” I say, a sarcastic grin spreading across my face.
Her perfect bottom lip drops in shock. I take in a deep breath. This is it.
"Those were the only three fucking words I wanted to hear from you," I slur, and it’s unfortunate because it’d be more poignant if I were sober. "And you say them now? That's shit and you fucking know it. So, you want to make me feel better? Blow me, Windsor Forbes. Get down on your perfect knees and blow me.”
Her face crumples. I close my eyes and let my trembling hand open the door so it’s wide enough for her to see inside. She brings her delicate hand up to cover her mouth. That’s right—all these womenin my house. In my world.You aren’t special, Windsor. You were never special.I stare at her, committing her pain to memory as punishment for all time. I have no doubt this will be the last time I see her. She shakes her head in disbelief as she surveys my living room full of women.
“Christ knows no one else holds a dick sucking candle to you,” I say. Her gaze flicks to mine. I see the moment she writes me off forever.
It’s odd. I like it. More punishment. Her hand still covering her mouth, a heavy tear drips from one eye. She walks away like it was nothing. Like I’d said “see you later,” instead of the horrible things that I actually spoke. She didn’t lower her chin or bat an eyelash, but her proud tears fell all the same. Those tears told me she knew this would happen all along. She knew I’d fuck up…that our demise was inevitable. That hurt worse than the quiet indifference spilling down her face. Because it wasn’t supposed to end like this—no.
It was never supposed to end.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Windsor
Two more months later
“He’s the cutest dog on the planet. I don’t care what anyone else says,” I say, pausing as I watch Goose prance around the dog park. “Do you think I should put him in doggy modeling? He’s so well behaved he could star in a movie. Like those kids’ films full of animals?” I ask Gretchen while nodding at the women currently ogling my dog.
Gretchen sighs, a long and drawn out noise. “Stop transferring and being evasive. You’re talking about Goose and his cuteness as avoidance. I mean, I agree, he’s cute, but he’s late Windsor. Your date is late to your weird ass doggy park date…with your best friend. I don’t even understand how this is an actual date. People do this type of thing all the time? So weird,” she exclaims, rolling her eyes.
I admit it’s weird. I wanted to do things differently this time though. No bar or club trolling. I’m thirty now. My dating life needs refinement. I forced Gretchen to come because she doesn’t believe me. I guess it’s a hard thing to believe.
I hear him in the distance. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m late! Windsor!”
I smile, narrowing my eyes at Gretchen. Thank God he’s finally here. I turn and look at him. His hair flops as he runs, awkwardly. His turquoise polo shirt matches the seersucker stripes in his shorts. He’s waving his arms, which seem to be filled with all sorts of stuff, emphatically. I wait but the butterflies don’t come. More time. I just need more time.
I push all the hesitant thoughts away. “Told you,” I hiss under my breath. I stand and greet him, wrapping my arms around him in a loose hug. He smells like he always does—likeCrewhair product and Armani cologne. He’s used the same products for at least a decade.
