Page 8 of Severed Rivalry
“You’re making a huge assumption that he has any interest in me.”
In dramatic fashion, my most trusted friend—the woman who has been my surrogate mother—wildly opens her arms as if presenting the flowers to me behind a curtain. “He called youcaptivating. That’s not a boy who’s playing games. How old is he now? Is he married?”
I calculate out everything I know of the incredible man who stole my heart and never gave it back to me. “Thirty-six. There was no ring. And he’s most certainly the ring type. And he said he wants to catch up. So…”
“So the man of your dreams is single and interested, and you wonder what? If it’s worth the risk?”
“It’s not that easy. It’s not just me anymore.”
“From what you know of him, you don’t think you can trust him with your daughter?”
“Rosie, please.”
“Think it through, Sariah. If you’re going to play what-ifs, then what if you could have it all?”
With Cian Murphy? I’d risk everything—everything but Renée, that is—for a chance.
“What’s that look?” she asks, trying to pull the smile back into her mouth from where it stretched across her face. “You went all wistful.”
“Just thinking about the what-ifs.”
“I need to get to group anyway.” With a kiss to the cheek for me and a wave to Renée who’s emerged from her room, Rosie leaves about the time the delivery guy arrives with our pizza.
“Nice flowers. They’re your favorites, right?” Renée asks, asshe bites the point of her second piece of mushroom and olive pizza.
I really hope this vegetarian thing is just a phase. Yeah, it’s cheaper than a carnivore alternative, but, man, I miss pork on my pie. Then again, if we were back in Chicago, I would’ve insisted. There’s no such thing as deep dish without the meat.
“Who are they from?”
“You know I lived here, well, in Fort Collins anyway, before you were born. I knew a guy there. I bumped into him last night. He sent them.”
“Like a boyfriend?”
No need to make it into some high drama. “Sort of.”
“So are you dating him again?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Lots of reasons. One, we don’t know each other anymore. Two?—”
“Was it a bad breakup?”
Brutal. I nod.
“Was he a dick?”
“Mouth. I’m all for creativity, but becreative, not crass. And no, he wasn’t. It was all me.”
“Why then?”
“One day, I’ll tell you.”
“That’s always your answer.” She stands from her chair and leans over the table. “It’s always ‘someday’ or ‘one day’ or ‘when I’m old enough.’ But you know what? Eventually I’ll stop asking. Because I won’t trust you.” Her words pierce me straight through. Something on my face must say her words hit true, because she looks me over before she storms off.
I clear the table, throw the leftovers in the fridge, and wipe down the kitchen.
