Page 20 of P.S. I Miss You

His mouth presses into a flat line and he exhales before checking his rear-view mirror and pulling closer to the right side of the road.

I’ve gone on dates with plenty of older men before, but none of them have been as presumptive as this jackass. I should’ve known as thick as he was laying on the praise that this was his intention. Instead I was seduced by the hope he was feeding me, clinging to his every word like an idiot.

I hate, hate that Sutter was right about Robert.

“You know how this works, don’t you?” he asks when he pulls into a parking spot next to an Irish pub. “You’ve been around long enough now.”

“I’ve never slept with anyone for a part.”

“Maybe not yet … but you will someday.” His face is twisted, forehead wrinkled like he’s looking at a drowned rat and not a twenty-something blonde in a form-fitting black dress. “I could’ve changed your life, sweetheart…”

I roll my eyes at the thick condescension and blatant arrogance that certainly wasn’t in his tone earlier tonight.

“Good news is, there’s a lot more where you came from,” Robert says with a chuff. He unlocks the doors and I lunge for the handle, stepping out and breathing a sigh of relief when my heels land against hard concrete like anchors to dry land.

Slamming his car door, I tuck my clutch under my arm and walk as fast as I can to the pub and lose myself in the crowded darkness inside. For some insane reason, I feel safer in here, with all these strangers, than I do out there. They’re like a wall of protection, a barrier from what just happened. He can’t and he won’t follow me in here, not to a place like this. Men like Robert don’t set foot in places with sticky floors and stale cigarette smoke polluting the air.

I find a corner and take a moment to breathe and collect my composure. Pulling my phone from my purse, I order a ride home with trembling fingers as my mind attempts to blank out the last ten minutes of my life.

The house is dark when we pull up, but Sutter’s truck is parked out front. I’m surprised he’s not out painting the town on a Saturday evening or hosting a few of his buddies like he did the other night, but I’m relieved.

I don’t want to see anyone—and I don’t want anyone to see shame painted all over me. In one night, I’ve eaten crow, put my foot in my mouth, and bruised my ego.

Grabbing my key, I make my way up the cracked and pitted sidewalk toward the front porch. The flicker of the TV against the living room window tells me I’m going to see him the second I walk inside, but if I’m lucky, the house will be dark enough that he won’t see the way I look and won’t ask why I look like I’ve been fighting off tears for the past hour.

I check the door to find it isn’t locked, so I slide my key back in my purse and head inside. Kicking off my heels as soon as I step in, I swoop down and gather them in my arms, only when I rise, I steal a peek toward the living room and nearly choke on my spit when I see a topless girl grinding on Sutter’s lap, her hands in his hair and her breasts pressed against him.

She tries to kiss him, not realizing they’re not alone anymore, but he’s looking at me.

My mind is telling me to get the hell out of there, but my feet refuse to move.

The girl in his lap cups her hands on his cheek and giggles before whispering something into his ear, but his dead stare is laser focused in my direction—like he’s studying me. Frozen. Paralyzed.

“Oh my god!” The girl shrieks when she follows his stare and sees me standing by the front door.

“I’m … I’m sorry.” I shield my eyes and tuck my shoes and clutch beneath my arm before taking the stairs two at a time until I get to my room.

Dropping my things on the edge of the bed, I go to Murphy’s kennel and lower myself to my knees. He licks my hand through the cage door and I let him out. He paws at my chest until I scoop him up.

Screw the dog hair. I’m never wearing this thing again.

It’s tainted. Bad juju, as my mother would say.

Murphy whimpers, like he needs to go outside, but the only way to the backyard is through the living room.

“I’ll take you in a second, I promise,” I tell him, peeling out of the dress. On the way to the dresser to grab some pajamas, I steal a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Red cheeks. Mascara streaks. Puffy eyelids from all the pressure behind my eyes.

---