Page 104 of Accidental Blind Date
And in that same vein, what motive could possibly constitute as a good enough reason to lie about your identity? I mean it’s bad enough thatJaxwas there for a one-nighter, though I can’t point accusatory fingers for that. I was doing the same thing. But to lie about being said anticipated O.N.S…that’s a new low. Lower than low. It’s creepy and honestly just terrible.
Which leads to the other menagerie of questions circling through my head rent free. Mainly, the question of – why?
Why pretend to be someone you’re not?
Do they know each other? Or worse yet, were they working together? Shit, they look so much alike I can’t help but wonder if they are brothers.
Oh, my fucking God…
I roll over and cover my head with the blanket to block out the sun (because how dare it shine so bright when I feel like this!?)
I am spiraling. This is low; low for a normal person and very, very low for me. The problem is, in my heart of hearts (and trust me, as an eternal optimist, I have a lot of fucking hearts), I know the reason. I know his motive.
Dax needs to be in a steady relationship if he wants to have any chance of winning the custody battle against Jenna.
I’m not even saying the words out loud. But just the thought of it makes me sick to my stomach. Sick enough that I haven’t had anything to eat or drink since I figured it out. I’m withering like a grape turned raisin in my bed because I was stupid enough to think that decent men existed, a lie I promised myself upon the death of my marriage that I would never ever believe. Andyet here I am thinking that Daxton Hemingway, my one-night stand turned enemy turned lover, could actually be one of those fictional decent men.
I am an idiot.
And I’m heartbroken because I am an idiot.
When I can no longer hide under my blankets because there is no air, and I’m pretty sure I’m getting bed sores because as an eternal busy body, let’s face it, I never lay in bed this long, I get up and make my way to the shower. I need to change crying locations, mostly so I can sob loudly without my neighbors calling 911.
And that’s exactly what I do. I turn the shower on and then go back out to the kitchen. Coffee. I need coffee because it makes my heart happy, not because I want to wake up. I fully plan on laying back down, or at the very least sitting on the couch in a pile of blankets, scornfully watching Bridget Jones’ Diary for the rest of the day. I’m not the sulking type but I think everyone deserves a little breakdown once in a while. And this is my time.
I managed to at least steam myself under the hot stream of water. I feel a bit like a lobster, slightly disappointed that it never reaches boiling point. Afterwards I sip on a cup of perfectly roasted coffee with cream and sugar and whipped cream and a sprinkle of cinnamon. Because if there is anything coffee houses have taught me, it’s that there is nothing a dollop of whipped cream can’t cure.
Today, the dollop constitutes for half the cup. No regrets.
I make it through the entire homemade latte (and an extra squirt of whipped cream halfway through) and two thirds of the movie before I hear the doorbell buzz. Someone is trying to come in. To my apartment. The nerve.
I ignore it for a moment. Maybe it’s a package or the wrong apartment number. If I pretend I’m not here, they’ll go away right?
BUZZ.
Or…not.
Joni knows better than to come around without calling first. As my best friend she knows well that I have the door (and my life) barricaded at this point. After all, I am one pint of ice cream away from locking myself in the bathroom with the lights off, belting out a Demi Lovato song from a full-blown emotional breakdown.
So, if it’s not Joni, then who?
It’s obviously not Kai because he would rather send a carrier pigeon than talk to me in person. A fortnight is probably too soon for communication for either of our tastes.
When it buzzes again, I regret to inform myself that I know who it is. And he’s not going away until I answer.
So, I drag myself off the couch, out of the comfort of homemade, caramel, whipped cream latte, fleece blankets, and Renee Zellweger’s angsty tears, and over to the call box on the wall.
“What?” I ask. At this point I don’t care who it is. They should know better.
“Libby? Libby, it’s Dax. Please talk to me. Please let me explain.” His voice comes through the machine, and my lips tighten, walls of armored stone shooting up around my heart like some kind of ancient Greek barricade.
“I’m sorry? Who?” I ask but I don’t listen to the answer. “Did you say Dax? Or Jax? Because apparently, I don’t know the difference.”
“Libby, please. I can explain.”
I chew my lip trying to decide if there is any way he could possibly actually explain. And even if there is, I also have to decide if I want to hear it. Realizing that he’s never going to stop interrupting my self-pity section, I give in. If nothing else,to shut him down so I can get back to my movie and whipped cream.
“Fine. Come up,” I say and take my finger off the button. Dax doesn’t answer. Instead, I wait precisely fifteen seconds before hearing the anticipated knock on the door.
