Page 46 of A Love Letter to Whiskey
What, he thought I was going to walk in here devastated? Crying and begging him to tell me why he never texted? Why he never called? He thought he had the upper hand, and maybe he did, but I was determined not to let that show.
It was just a mistake. It’s fine. Shit happens. Don’t make a big deal out of it.
I repeated the same thoughts, again and again, willing them to be true.
“What are you doing?”
I jumped a little at the boom of his voice, the plates rattling in my hands as I pulled them from the shelf.
“Making tacos. Want some?” I avoided his eyes, setting the plates on the counter before opening each styrofoam takeout box with the ingredients.
“Don’t play dumb, you’ve never been good at it.”
“Because you know me so well.”
“I do,” he said loudly, grabbing my wrist that had just been reaching for the taco shells. We both glanced up at Ethan and Shayla, but it was like we weren’t there at all. “I do fucking know you,” he said again, his voice lower. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“B,” he warned, and I tugged my wrist from his grip.
“Nothing. I’m fine.”
“You’re fine,” he deadpanned.
I sighed, piling the first shell with grilled chicken before dropping it to a plate and facing Jamie. I set my face first, hoping like hell he wouldn’t see the way he’d hurt me. “Yep. Are you going to help me with these or not? Because otherwise you’re kind of in the way right now.”
Jamie let out a sharp laugh. “That’s fine, I don’t mind being in the way. Seems to be my favorite place to be actually.”
I narrowed my eyes at his insinuation.
“What’s gotten into you? Did I do something?”
“Why would you think that?” I brushed it off, still aiming for calm, unaffected.
He scoffed, crossing his arms before stepping closer. “Oh, I don’t know, less than thirty hours ago you were forcing my hand between your thighs and now you won’t even look at me? Yeah, maybe that.”
“Shhh!” I scolded, my eyes flicking to Ethan, who was oblivious, before snapping back to Jamie. He was standing so close, his words like flames that licked at my stomach. “Stop. It was a mistake.”
His head snapped back like my words had struck him. “A mistake.”
“We were both vulnerable, it was a heavy moment. Shit happens.”
“Shit hap—” he didn’t even finish the sentence, just threw his hands up, raking them through his light brown strands before clasping them to rest on his head. He let them fall again, hands hitting his thighs. “What are you even saying right now? Do you hear yourself? Do you see yourself? You’re shaking, B.”
He went to reach for me and I backed away, my lower back hitting the counter. “I see just fine, thank you. Well enough to see that whatever happened the other night clearly didn’t stop you from shacking up with Tina yesterday.” I met his eyes then and watched the argument drain from them.
“What? Tina?”
“It’s fine, Jamie. I saw you two together, but it’s okay. What happened with us… it didn’t mean anything to me either,” I lied. “So we’re cool. Like I said, shit happens.” I kept plating the tacos, done with the conversation, done with him.
“Wow.” Jamie shook his head before sliding closer, invading my space. “I don’t know what you think you saw, but if this is really how you feel, I’m glad your twisted little mind made this shit up to make you feel better about it.”
With that, he pushed off the counter and walked away. I watched every move, every flex of every muscle in his back until he disappeared inside his room, slamming the door behind him.
“Jesus, what’s wrong with him?” Shayla asked.
Ethan looked at me, brows bent, asking me the same question. I just shrugged.
“Guess he doesn’t like tacos.”
Shayla laughed and Ethan offered her a forced smile, but his eyes found mine again and I felt the accusation in that gaze. I ignored it, finishing their tacos and hand delivering them along with two bottles of water. Then, I made my own plate, sat down next to them, and talked campaign plans.
It was almost five when I made my way back to my own dorm, mind heavy with Jamie’s words as I walked. I’d been so set on seeming indifferent to what had happened between us, but now I wasn’t sure that what I’d seen had really been what I thought. But if it wasn’t, then why didn’t he ever text me back? Why didn’t he call? Why didn’t he do something, anything to reassure me that what happened between us had been real?
I’d never been so fucked up mentally in my life. Nothing made sense, and for reasons I couldn’t explain, the first person I wanted to talk to about it was my dad. I wanted a man’s opinion. But as I pulled out my phone and brought up his contact, I paused, heart breaking as I realized he wasn’t a man — not a real one. A real man wouldn’t do what he’d done to my mother. A real man would have owned up to his mistakes, would have asked for forgiveness, would have given the explanation he owed to his daughter.
