Page 115 of The Tryst

Another reason my heart beats for this woman. “Thank you.”

“Nick,” she says, her voice stretched thin. “I’m sorry.”

I shake my head adamantly. “No,I’msorry. I should have said something to him that night at the diner. Thinking I could forget Miami ever happened was the real mistake.”

I hang up and check the time. David should have arrived five minutes ago. He’s not often late. I don’t want to assume the worst though.

He’s not a guy who usually shuts down. He’s not someone who typically closes in on himself. He wears his big heart on his sleeve.

But he also stresses. And when he reaches a certain point, not only does he stress, sometimes he just…stops.

Shit.

This is the guy who freezes when he’s overwhelmed. And what the fuck did I do to him? I piled on. His girlfriend is banged up with a broken leg, and he just discovered his dad leaving his ex’s home the morning after he had to bail on his passion project.

I call David.

It rings and rings and goes to voicemail.

I pace around my home, tapping out a text.Want me to meet you somewhere? I’ll come to you. Just let me know where you are.

But five minutes later, there’s no reply.

He doesn’t answer when I call again. Or text again.

And again.

And…fuck this.

I know my kid.

I grab my wallet and go.

* * *

Thirty minutes later, I’m banging on the door to his building. He gave me a key code when he signed the lease, but I don’t want to barrel in.

I’m just cautious. Hopefully he’ll answer.

My instincts are right when his familiar voice comes over the intercom. “You have the code.”

But his voice is distant, removed.

Of course it is, jackwad.Get the fuck in there and fix this mess you made.

“Thanks, David,” I say, then punch in the code, open the door, and rush up the steps to his third-floor sublet.

I’m lifting my fist to knock when the door swings open. He’s behind it, so I can’t see his face until I step inside. When he shuts it, I’m…devastated.

David’s expression is cold.

That’s not his style at all. He’s funny, emotional, needy, happy, worried.

But never…unfeeling.

Now he is, though, and he retreats to the couch, slumps down, folds his arms across his chest. Then meets my gaze. And fires straight in my heart. “You didn’t need to come all the way here to tell me you’re fucking Layla. I figured it out. I’m notthatclueless.”

My heart plummets to the floor, crashing in a heap of missed opportunities and bad decisions. I handled this whole situation horribly. I cross to the couch and sit on the other end. “I’m sorry,” I begin, but that barely covers it. I restart with, “I should have told you sooner.”

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