Page 52 of The Pucker and the Princess
“Oh, I’ll come with y’all. You said you were going to give me a ride back to my car, right?”Right, y’all? Right??? That’s what you said!!
I send out my telepathic signals of distress.Don’t abandon me here with Dozer! Please!!!
But they’re either oblivious or they’re ignoring them. “Sorry,” Nick murmurs, leaning close. “She gets really chatty and sentimental when she’s had a few drinks. If I don’t get her home soon, she’ll start bawling about how fast the kids are growing up.”
“They are!” she practically shouts. “They’re getting so big! Where are my babies? They were just tiny little babies yesterday! And now Shelby’s in Kindergarten and Noah! He’s in preschool!”
“See what I mean?” Nick mutters. “You can get Marissa back to her car, right, Dozer?”
“Course,” Dozer answers, sounding gruff and defensive. They exchange a meaningful look, and my spidey senses start tingling. Is this a setup?
I wait for them to leave before I finally face Dozer. “Nice setup.”
Holding up his hands, he scoots to the edge of the booth and turns to face me. “I swear, none of this was my idea. This has Tina’s fingerprints all over it.”
“Suuuure. Throw Tina under the bus. Nice, dude.”
“I swear!”
I can’t help laughing, especially since I’m really just giving him shit at this point. Even though I can tell this was planned, I believe him thathedidn’t plan for it to end this way. He gives me a tentative smile, his shoulders relaxing a fraction as he lets his hands down, one hand going to the back of his neck and rubbing, a telltale sign that he’s nervous or uncomfortable.
Good. He should be uncomfortable. Even better if he’s nervous too. He’s put me in an uncomfortable spot. It’s only fair I shouldn’t be stuck in it alone.
Sighing, I contemplate the remains of the beer still in my glass. Part of me’s tempted to get another. Or maybe a shot or two. Obliterate this fiasco from my memory. I could make Dozer just take me home and pick up my car tomorrow.
But I’m not sure drunk me can be trusted around Dozer. There’s a fifty-fifty chance I’ll either throw myself at him or rip into him for how he acted after the kiss. Both of those seem disastrous, especially if I aim to get so drunk I won’t remember anything tomorrow.
Decision made, I drain the rest of my drink and set the glass down with a definitive thunk. “Why don’t you take me back to my car?”
He finally lets his hand drop from the back of his neck, eyeing me warily. “You’re ready to go?”
I raise my eyebrows and dip my head in a slight nod.
“Really?” he pushes. “We used to have a drink or two and talk after a game.”
I lift the glass and give it a little wiggle. “We had a drink. We talked.”
“Tina talked,” he says in a flat voice. “Wedidn’t talk. And even if we each said a few words, this is the most we’ve talked toeach othersince …” He trails off like he can’t even bring himself to mention the elephant in the room that’s stifling conversation.
A humorless chuckle escapes me, and I shake my head, facing the table and contemplating my glass, wishing it still had something in it. God, maybe Ishouldget some shots.
“Look, Marissa,” he says, his tone somehow businesslike and pleading at the same time, “you have to understand?—”
“Don’t.” The word is sharp, a knife cutting through his excuses, my hand flying up to reinforce it. I close my eyes and shake my head, surprised at the vehemence of my objection. Well, the vehemence that comes out, anyway. I’m not at all surprised by the strength of my feelings, I’m just usually better at keeping them on lock. “Don’t say anything else.”
“Please, just let me?—”
“No!” Opening my eyes, I twist to face him fully. “Stop! God, what don’t you understand? Idon’twant to talk about this. There is no reality in which this conversation will be anything but painful for me. And I’m so, so, so goddamntired, fuckingexhausted, of flaying myself open to assuage the consciences of the men in my life. So no. I won’t listen to your apologies or excuses or whatever you want to say to makeyourselffeel better. Because I can guarantee it won’t make your rejection feel like anything other than that. No amount of, ‘It’s not you, it’s me,’ will soften that reality. And god, don’t you dare fuckingapologize.” I spit the word out like it’s something filthy. “Like kissing me is something to be atoned for.”
He studies me when I pause, his expression full of compassion, and if anything, that makes me even more mad.
“You know what?” I say, grabbing my jacket. “Fuck you. Fuck all of you. This is bullshit. Let me out. I’m leaving.”
He holds up his hands again, sliding out of the booth. “Okay. Just let me make sure the tab is closed, and I’ll give you a ride.”
“No.” I shake my head. “No. I’m not going anywhere with you. I’ll get a cab or an Uber or something. I’ll fuckingwalk. But this, this, this”—I wave my hands in the space between us—“whateverthis is? Or was? It’s over. I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep hurting myself this way. It’s not healthy.”
“I’m sorry for hurting you,” he says softly. “I never want to hurt you. I didn’t—” He turns his head, looking away and taking a deep breath, and I’m torn between wanting to hear what he has to say and wanting to flee. He’s still blocking my exit, but I know if I pushed my way past, he wouldn’t stop me. Not Dozer. He’s not that kind of guy.
