Page 98 of Double Pucked

She hesitates. But not like she’s unsure, more like she’s weighing everything, then she says, “Is this what you want?”

Like what I want matters. I want her. I wantthis. But if this thing between us could get toppled so easily…

“This isn’t about what I want. It’s about doing the right thing,” I say, emphatic and resolute.

But just so I’m not a unilateral dick, I turn to my buddy. “You good with this?”

He sears me with his eyes. He’s the grump all over again. The guy in the limo with the hard edge. The one who doesn’t trust people.

I can’t fix that right now though.

I turn to the woman I was falling for to see what she wants to do tonight. But she’s already down the hall, and when I follow, I find her throwing shirts and dresses into her suitcase, gathering her things.

That’s clear then.

36

DRESS HANDKERCHIEF

Trina

Rushing through Chase’s home with an aching heart, I stave off a torrent of tears as I grab my lotion and toothpaste, then send a quick text.

This is so ridiculous, the way I feel. It was nine days. I shouldn’t feel a thing, and yet my throat is terribly tight from fighting off all these emotions.

I call a Lyft, then beeline into Chase’s gigantic room, squinting so I don’t have to see every single corner of the place that feels like my new home. I grab the few shirts I left here, then I hightail it back to the guest room I never used. I toss my clothes into my duffel bag, then a few books, and I stop, frozen as I stare at all these gifts.

What do I do with these dresses they bought me the other night? I hold up a red one with pockets. Ugh. I want to bury my face in it and use it as a handkerchief to soak up all the waterworks I’m holding back.

“Take them. They’re yours,” Chase says from the door behind him.

I squeeze my eyes shut.I want more than dresses, you idiot.

“But you don’t have to leave tonight,” Chase adds, perhaps trying to lessen the blow.

Good luck with that, buddy.

“It’s fine,” I chirp.

“Trina, I didn’t mean to suggest you had to go now,” he says, trying again.

But I do. I really do. I stuff the dresses into the bag. “It’s no problem.”

He sighs, then asks, “Can I help you with anything?”

This is who he is. The helper. Giving me a place to stay, helping with my sex woes, and then offering to sort out this new mess.

It’s hard to be mad at him for not wanting me the way I want him. For not falling for me the way I fell for him.

His heart is in the right place, but I still shake my head, squeaking out an “I’m fine” as I shove the rest of the clothes into my duffel.

I shouldn’t be upset because no one made any promises. No one offered me a single thing. Both of these guys were totally upfront from the get-go. This was just sex. This was just a week of fun. This was just a to-do list, and we did it all and more.

I’m the idiot who got caught up. I’m the one who saw a happy ending that was definitely never on the list. And I won’t overstay my welcome ever again.

After I zip the bag, I rush back to the living room, scoop up my dog and snap on his harness, then hunt for his leash as he tilts his head, as if askingwhat’s up.

I stop to pat him for a sec. It’s not his fault I was rejected. “I love you,” I whisper to my trusty companion.

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