The sadness at the memory was instantly replaced with fiery rage. Fuck him for making me think about that horrible afternoon. He hadn’t answered my repeated knocking on his apartment door, and the curtainless window showed the place was vacant. The guy across the hall said Kyle had finished moving out and left a while ago.
My heart shredded further when I’d called his cellphone and it’d gone straight to voicemail. I sat on his doorstop and cried my stupid eyes out until there was nothing left but anger. Some at myself for being a fool, loving an asshole, and getting played, but most of it was aimed at him.
What a fucking coward.
I could breathe again when the elevator stopped and let us out. Henry dismissed me with a glare, wordlessly telling me I was on my own for getting back to the office.
It was sleeting outside and my feet froze in my heels instantly, so every step across the slick pavement was extra treacherous. It was close to lunch, and I didn’t have any appointments today. My pathetic frozen dinner in the freezer at work could wait. I’d treat myself to dessert first.
Despite my attempts not to think about Kyle, I somehow typed his name into the browser on my phone while I waited in line to drown my sorrows at Mac Bakery. Why wasn’t I more interested in the macaron flavors they were offering? Instead of looking at the hand lettered chalkboard menu, I peered at the tiny screen of my iPhone, demanding it tell me what he’d been up to since he’d fled Chicago.
Since he’d pulverized my heart and left me a bawling mess on his doorstep.
Google didn’t have answers. There were a few mentions of him regarding casework, starting last year, for his parents’ firm. What had happened to bring him back to the city, and gotten him to work for his parents? He’d acted like he’d work anywhere but with them.
“What can I get for you?” The woman behind the counter stared at me expectantly.
There were rows of perfectly formed French macarons stacked behind the glass. Each flavor sounded divine. Peanut butter. Chocolate mint. Birthday cake. It went on, and on, and I wanted them all in my mouth. How the fuck was I supposed to decide?
I got a box of six, swearing to myself I wouldn’t eat more than two before returning to the office. While I waited for them to be packaged, I glanced once more at my phone.
Huh.
I wouldn’t have pegged Kyle for a philanthropist, but then again, I obviously didn’t know him. On New Year’s Eve, he’d be the guest of honor at some fundraising party at the Opulent Hotel. Black tie, five hundred dollars a plate.
God, he’d look great in a tux.
Wait. No.
In fact, hell-to-the-fucking nope. Fuck him in his tuxedo-wearing ass. I hoped he’d choke on a gourmet hors d’oeuvre. That was the last I was going to think about Kyle McCreary. I paid for my macarons, snatched up the bag, and flung the door open, scurrying out into the cold.