A Toast to the Good Times (23 page)

And suddenly, it all clicks into place.

And I get it.

I understand why Heather treated herself to a little holiday delight with my best friend. Her friends were all running off and getting married. I left my family behind. I asked her to move in with me. And she was scared as hell that she was going to mess it all up.

“You don’t love me, Heather.”

“I really do. You were the first guy that ever treated me well.” She sighs and smooths her slinky dress hidden under the wool folds of my coat. “The only guy, really, who’s ever had any respect for me.”

I think back to when Heather and I were in the thick of our relationship, and, while I was never mean to her, I don’t really remember treating her all that well. I don’t remember treating
any
girl especially well.

Heather steps closer to me, pressing her hands onto my chest, tracing the outline of my pecs, just like she used to. I try not to react to her touch, but it’s really fucking hard not to. It’s familiar, and it feels damn good, even if I don’t want it to go any further. She leans in and her mouth is right next to my ear.

“I promise I could make things right. If you give me chance Landry, I’ll make them better than they ever were.”

And for a split second I think how much easier it would be to be back with her. There was zero expectation from Heather. From my parents. From Paisley. No one gave a shit whether I was with her or not, not even me.

It was easy. And boring. And easy.

And Mila….

Fuck.

Heather’s nails scratch through my shirt as I pull away from her.

Mila is standing ten feet away, her arms shoved way up inside the sweatshirt that is three sizes too big for her. Her mouth tugs downward in a look of mixed shock and disgust. And it’s because of me.

Because Heather is here, in my arms, wearing my coat, lips on my ear.

I count to ten silently, hoping the entire situation just evaporates, but mostly waiting for Mila to launch into me and demand an explanation as to how I could have been inside her last night, and have Heather nibbling on my ear now.

But she doesn’t yell at me. She doesn’t beg me to explain.

Instead,
 
Mila is silent.

And that’s when I know I’ve really fucked things up. She nods like she’s seen everything she needs to know, spins on her heels, and walks away.

“Mila!”

She stops briefly and looks at me over her shoulder. Her eyes tell me everything; I’ve just proven to her that I’m exactly the person she came here hoping to prove to herself.
 

She shakes her head and keeps walking away.

From me.

My palms sweat, my heart races, and panic glues me to my frigid spot in my parents’ driveway

I don’t have any experience to pull from. Any idea what to do in this situation. Any clue what to say to make her stay.

So
, like the
idiot
that I am
, I just let her go.

Chapter
16

The train ride back to Boston is torturous.

It’s weird how the last time I was on this train, just a few days ago, I was running from Mila and the chance to be with her in any substantial way.

I’m pissed at myself. I’m pissed that I wasn’t brave enough or smart enough to grab her when I had the chance. I’m pissed that she opened herself up to me and I crushed it. I’m pissed that I let other things, other people, get in the way of letting her know my full, absolute commitment to her in every way. All I needed was one day of reassuring behavior before I could have gone back to Boston with her. But I screwed it up, and it might not be fixable.

I hope to god it’s fixable.

But I’m not sure it will be. Because every mile closer I get to Mila, I’m that much further from having any clue what to say to her to make things right.
 

When I finally stick my key in the lock, it occurs to me that there’s a good chance Mila may not even be here. I knock my forehead on the door and squeeze my eyes shut, saying the closest thing to a prayer there is for an asshole like me.

There’s no reason to hold out hope that she’ll be standing on the other side of the door, waiting for me to get home, especially after seeing me and Heather.

Damn it.

If she’d only given me a minute to explain…that I’m an asshole. That I was confused. Scared.

Mostly just that I’m an asshole.

I unlock the door, and let it creak all the way open until it hits the wall.

And then I feel myself deflate.

No Mila.

Of course.

I stumble toward my bedroom, checking each open door to see if she’s curled up in a chair, her legs tucked tightly under her, reading a book the size of a brick.
 

I kick the half-closed bathroom door open, not caring if I walk in on her.

I crane my neck into the cramped kitchen, but it’s a longshot. If she’d been in there, the smell of charred food and billows of smoke would have announced her presence before I ever needed to look.

I stalk back into the living room and yank the curtains open like the desperate idiot I am, as if I can give myself hope, just for a flash of a second, that maybe it’s just too dim for me to see her. Maybe she’s sitting on the couch, in the shadows, and I can tell her everything, anything, that will convince her to give me a second chance.

It occurs to me that I may be losing my mind in a very serious way.

I just have to accept facts. She’s. Not. Here.

I let my backpack slide off my arms and hit the floor with a thud. I don’t know why, but I really thought she’d be here, waiting for me. I thought I’d have my chance to explain. Instead, the drawing I gave her for Christmas is on the counter and the apartment is empty. At least her things are still here. I guess that means she’ll be back at least once more.

But that can’t be it.

She wouldn’t actually move out, would she?

Fuck.

I lie back on my bed that I’ve been missing so much the last few days, but it doesn’t feel like I want it to. Because I’d rather be crammed on that damn futon, fighting for covers and more than four-inches of space to myself with Mila in my arms, than sprawled out on this damned California King.

I flip over and reach into the top drawer of my nightstand. I need to try to find Mila before this goes too far. Before she runs into Reggie and he sweeps her off of her feet and takes her to Comic-book-land or wherever.

I find a Sharpie in my drawer and dig around for a piece of paper to write Mila a note telling her to stay put in case she comes home while I’m still out looking for her.

Instead of a Post-It, I find a check.

The check
.

From Mila.

Before she left the bar that first night I met her, she insisted on getting my address so that she could pay me back for the drinks. A few days later, I had a notecard with Snoopy on the front, a quick thank you scrawled inside, and a twenty-dollar check from Mila.
 

I never cashed it.

Having drinks with her that night was worth every cent and more. I see that now, but the fact that I never even shredded the check, what does that mean? What about the fact that I hung on to it all this time? That I didn’t just give it back to her?

I trace my finger over my name in her handwriting.

I loved her before I even realized I did.

That’s what it means.

Why else would I have this in here? I’m not a nostalgic guy. I don’t surround myself with little pieces of my youth or hold onto many things for sentimental value. But I held onto this check, from this girl, because...she felt like home the minute I met her.

She’s why I never ran back to Jersey. Not because she made things easy or gave me good reasons to stay. Because she was home, immediately. Because I never even had to fall for her; I loved her all along, since the first time she smiled at me.

I’ve loved her from the second she ordered that Tom Collins. From the minute I asked her to be my roommate and she clapped her hands together and squealed like such a typical girl.

I’ve loved her every time she burned French toast, but still insisted on making it for me anytime I had a bad day because it’s the only thing
she halfway knows how to cook and I’ve let her believe it’s her specialty.

I love her in
all the little ways that seem
inconsequential, and all of the big ways that make my heart want to explode with passion and pride because she’s as amazing as she is and she still chooses, day after day, to hang around with me.

I love Mila.

“Hey, Landry,” Mila says.

And there she is, standing in the doorway, leaning against the wall like it’s no big deal that we’re here, together, finally.

She’s wearing her yoga get-up and glistening a little from a thin layer of sweat on her forehead. Her hair is piled on top of her head in some kind of messy bun, and I don’t think she’s ever been more beautiful to me.

“You’re here?” I say it like it’s not obvious that, yes, she is standing right across the room from me.

I want to run over to her and kiss those sweet lips, but the look on her face tells me everything I need to know. And that’s that it’s a bad idea.

She crosses her arms and pinches her lips together. “Yep. I just got home.”

She touches her hair self-consciously, and I want to tell her how goddamn beautiful she is, how I’ve never been more turned on by any girl, ever, than I am by her right this instant.

“I was, uh...just...I was leaving you a note,” I stammer. I start to hold up the check in my hand as evidence, but catch myself and slide it back into my drawer.

She nods slowly, and the painful
squint
of her eyes tells me that this whole conversation is sheer torture for her.

“Oh, yeah?”

I have to ignore how uncomfortable and stilted this is. We have something. Something amazing, and I’m not willing to give up on it. No matter what.

“I was going to go look for you…”

“Well, here I am.”

She shrugs, and, from the bite in her voice, anyone who didn’t know her would think she couldn’t care less. But I know Mila inside out, and I know that she’s hurt as hell but maybe, just maybe, might be willing to listen to my argument for why she should let me have a second chance.

I start to cross the room toward her, but she screws her eyes shut, shakes her head, and holds up her palms to stop me.

“Look, Landry, please, let’s just get this out of the way so we can forget about it all, and brush the awkwardness under the rug, okay? What happened in Jersey was…”

Mila pauses, presses her lips together, twists the cap off her water bottle with shaky fingers and takes a gulp before she continues.

“It was a mistake. Obviously. A big mistake. I mean, you said it yourself before you went home.” She takes another sip, and blinks her eyes too fast. Is she blinking back tears? “You and I just don’t work.”

I come closer, careful not to get too close too quickly. But I want her to know that I’m here.

For her.

That I’m not going anywhere. And that she can forget every idiot thing I said before I came to my damn senses.

“Yes we do.”

Mila purses her lip and flings her hands up in exasperation.

“Landry, it’s fine. I mean...it’s not, you’re
such
a jerk…” She presses her hands to her temples, and I wonder if she even realizes she said the words out loud. “But it’s okay, because I knew that going in. You don’t do relationships. So, really, I guess...”

She tries to swallow back the low, strangled sound deep in her throat. When she looks up, her eyes are shiny with tears. She wipes them with the back of her wrist and takes a deep breath. “I guess
I’m
the jerk.”

The thought of her crying pushes every single crazy panic button in my brain, and I run full speed, breakneck towards fixing this before it all crumbles in front of me.

“It was just like, this blip, like this moment of confusion, Mila. I swear to you. That’s it. Everything was just so much...it was all so fast.” I try to look at her, but she’s staring at the floor, arms crossed over her chest in a tight knot. “But
you
, you’re what I want. And nothing happened with Heather. I swear to you, Mila, I thought about what it would be like to be with her again, but nothing happened. It’s not her that I want.”

My voice is shaking, close to cracking, and it was all wrong.

It was everything I wanted to say, but the way I said it was wrong and twisted and sounds lame and stupid.

Mila’s eyes snap up at me, sparking and narrowed, all remnants of tears replaced by pure fury.

“Nice, Landry,” she scoffs. “Thank you. Thank you
so much
for proving my point. You’re a fucking jerk, you know that?
A heartless
,
bastard jerk.”