Page 35 of The Swiping Game
I march into the kitchen and find it sitting on the kitchen counter. “I need to know why he did it.”
“He didn’t tell you?”
“No,” I say, turning it on as I make my way back to the couch. “He told me how it happened and that it got out of control. But we didn’t get to why.”
“How did you not get there?”
My eyes grow wide as I remember that I might have, sort of, left out the kiss that people wait their whole lives for. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Tara, I love you, and I know you’re hurting, but is this a good idea? You’ve had, like, a bottle and a half of wine in an hour. Maybe you shouldn’t text him right now?”
“I’m not sure if it is or not, but I have to know. I won’t be able to sleep until I do.”
I take a breath, another big drink of wine, and type out my message. In it, I ramble, and it probably makes no sense., but he has to know everything I’m feeling right now. I need to have an answer. And thanks to my friend, bottom-shelf chardonnay, I have the courage to get it.
Tara: I hate that I miss you. I hate that so quickly you’ve become the person I want to tell my day to. I want to tell you that I had a really shitty day, but guess what, you know that. And yes, this is the wine talking.
Tara: But I have to know. Why? Why did you not tell me? I get the how, though I still don’t agree with it, but I get it. But why? Why did you let me believe you were someone else? Why did you not tell me? Why did you let me start to fall in love with you when I truly didn’t know who you were? Just why?
I put down my phone, feeling like I did what I needed to do, when I hear someone knocking at the door.
“Did you order something?” Tawny asks.
“I meant to order a pizza,” I say, stumbling up from the couch. “Maybe I did?”
“How do you not remember?”
“It’s been a long day.” I get my bearings back after a few steps and make my way to the kitchen. I open the door without looking at the peephole, which was my first mistake.
“Dean? What are you doing here?”
I’m stunned as I stare at him in my doorway. I don’t know if it's the wine, the emotions of the day, or just the plain truth, but I hate how good he looks. He’s not in his sleek suit, and his hair isn’t perfectly styled. He’s in jeans and a sweatshirt, his hair is mussed, and all I want to do is kiss him.
But I can’t. Because he lied. And I still don’t have my answer.
“You love me?”
My eyes grow wide at his words. “What do you mean?”
“Your text,” he says, taking a step inside my door. “You asked me why I did what I did. Which I am ready to tell you and answer any question you have, because it has been five hours without talking to you and that is five hours too long. But you said in your message that you love me. Do you?”
Apparently, opening the door without looking was my second mistake. I run back to the living room, leaving Dean in the doorway, and pick up my phone to reread the text message.
And there it is. Clear as day are the words “fall in love with you.”
I’m never drinking again.
