Page 163 of A Love Letter to Whiskey
I almost cheated on my fiancée. I almost threw it all away. I almost…
My jaw clenched, and I shook my head, shame rolling in and fiercely replacing the carnal need that was just coursing through me.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
B immediately shook her head. “Don’t be. It’s just lust, Jamie.”
A lie. A lie in my honor, but a lie, no less. She and I both knew it had always been more than lust between us. It was love, pure and passionate, unyielding even after all this time, after all we’d put each other through.
But just as I loved her, I loved Angel.
Angel, who had chosen me, too.
Angel, who wouldn’t hook up with me and then just leave, telling me a hook-up was all we could be.
B would never be mine, not the way I wanted her to be. She didn’t have that in her to give.
It broke my heart. It killed me. But it was the truth.
B sat up, ready to flee the tent, but I stopped her.
“Wait,” I pleaded. “Can you… will you just stay? Just lie here with me.”
Her brows folded together, but she nodded, letting me take her in my arms and hold her as she laid back down.
For most of the night, I laid awake, committing the feel and smell of her to memory.
This was it.
And I fully accepted it. I said my last goodbyes with gentle kisses pressed to her hair throughout the night, with silent tears soaking my pillow, with my heart aching fiercely in my chest.
Then, the next day, I found out Angel had cheated on me.
And everything I thought I knew went up in flames.
• • •
I felt like a fool.
Not in the cute, humorous way. Not in the way you might feel slightly embarrassed to yank on a door that clearly says push.
No, I felt like a blind, naïve, wool-pulled-over-his-head, rose-color-glasses-wearing fool.
I was thankful, at least, that Angel had had the balls to tell me what she’d done. Although, I still think the only reason she did is because her best friend, Claire, warned her that she’d tell me if Angel didn’t.
I didn’t care to hear her excuses, especially not when she tried to blame me for her infidelity. Seeing a picture of B with me and the rest of the groomsmen, she just assumed that because my arm was around her, I was fucking her, too.
And so, Angel tried to beat me to the punch, I guess.
It was childish, and selfish, and so fucking unbelievable that my lip visibly curled any time I remembered how pitiful she was, sobbing as she told me the story.
She’d thrown our life together away over pure jealousy and false accusations.
Well…
Somewhat false.
I supposed I couldn’t blame her for seeing what everyone else saw, what B and I knew deep down — which was that we’d always have feelings for each other, no matter who else came into our lives.
And if I were being honest with myself, I wasn’t completely innocent. Before B stopped me, I’d been seconds away from doing just what Angel assumed I would do.
Stopped us.
I grimaced at the thought of it all, stomach roiling as I took another sip of whiskey. My head was hung low between my shoulders, the noises from the hotel bar muted around me.
After I’d discovered the news, I couldn’t be around anyone — least of all B when she showed up and watched me storm out of the venue, questions in her eyes. I didn’t want to answer them, not hers or anyone else’s.
And so I got in my Jeep, and I drove.
I drove and drove until the sun set and long after. Finally, I pulled into the DoubleTree parking lot where B was staying, and I parked myself at the bar.
I knew she’d eventually find me, and when she did, she just pulled up the seat next to me and sat down, ordering a drink for herself.
I didn’t know what to say, so I just sat there beside her, drinking and drowning in my misery.
“You want to talk about it?” she asked after a long while.
I spun my empty glass on the bar. “No.”
She nodded like she already knew the answer before she asked.
Then, she reached into her clutch, throwing cash on the bar to cover our tabs just like I had a couple nights before. She stood. She drained her drink.
And then she flicked down a hotel room key card on the bar in front of me.
The key to her room.
I knew it without her saying it, and she assumed as much, leaving me there without a word otherwise.
I stared at the key, at my empty glass, at my fingers drumming an unsteady rhythm on the bar. Part of me wondered if I should just call a cab and go home, sleep it off, call B in the morning and talk to her when I had a right mind about me.
