The Fake Mate(96)

I close the door behind me, making myself another promise not to come back even while knowing I’ll probably break it. Again.

Time for another drink.





25





Mackenzie





“That’s it. We’re getting drinks tonight.”

I blink, remembering where I am, noticing Parker grimacing at me mindlessly stirring my soup. “What?”

“I actually cannot sit here and watch you space out like a depressed zombie for another day.”

“I’m not depressed,” I lie, frowning down into my soup as I stir more aggressively.

Parker rolls his eyes. “You’ve been giving me ‘Anne Hathaway in Les Misérables’ vibes for the past week, Mackenzie.”

“I don’t understand that reference,” I mumble.

“Well, I can’t help it if you refuse to culture yourself.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“I’m serious. You’re making me depressed. I’m worried about you.”

My brow knits. “I’m seriously fine.”

If seriously fine means crying myself to sleep like some downtrodden heroine in a romantic comedy after being viciously dumped counts as fine, that is. But Parker doesn’t need to know about that.

“Whatever. You don’t have to cry on my shoulder or anything, but you can admit that you’re hurting.”

“What’s there to hurt about? It was a fake relationship.”

“Most people don’t take heat leave with their fake relationship,” he accuses. “And they don’t call me crying from outside a café because their fake relationship broke things off.”

“I wasn’t . . . crying.”

He rolls his eyes again. “Right. Sure. Regardless—We are getting drinks tonight.”

“I don’t really feel like going out,” I protest feebly.

“Well, I don’t really feel like watching you wither away in front of me because of that asshole.”

It’s strange; my first instinct is to defend Noah, even now. To tell Parker that he’s not an asshole, he’s just delivering all the things that we expected from the beginning. Why is that? Maybe it’s because I had (quite literally) just opened myself up to something more, to trying out something real—only to have my entire heart stomped on in an old booth of a café I used to really enjoy. Which is a double whammy, because now I don’t think I’ll ever be able to go back.

“I’m sure it’s just some hormonal bullshit,” I offer. “It’ll pass.”

“Mackenzie,” Parker sighs. “You can feed that shit to someone else, because I know you. I saw you with him that day when you were going into heat. I don’t know what the fuck happened between you two when I wasn’t looking, but something changed. And it’s okay to admit that you’re hurting.”

I say nothing, setting my spoon on the cafeteria table before running my fingers through my hair, which I didn’t bother washing today. Come to think of it, I’m not really sure when I last washed it.

“Just come out with me,” Parker urges. “We can forget about men for a night.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” I grumble. “Your relationship is going just fine.”

“And I will be happy to make up several shortcomings to bitch about over cosmos.”

My lip twitches despite it all. “Fine. Whatever. We’ll go for drinks.”

“Perfect,” Parker says happily. He checks his phone. “I have to go back. I’ll meet you when you get off?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

He leaves me sitting at the table alone, and my soup remains woefully untouched, my appetite nonexistent. Is this what it feels like to be heartbroken? I’ve successfully avoided the feeling romantic-wise for almost the entirety of my adult life, and now that I’m experiencing it firsthand, I would be happy to give it back.

I’ve gone over that day at the café again and again in my mind, trying to pick it apart and find sense in the way that Noah had been so eager to pursue something more with me days before ending things entirely. By all accounts it makes absolutely no sense, but the aloof expression on his face as he’d told me it was over, that it wasn’t the right time for him and me . . . it left little room for doubt.

And what’s more confusing is how deep it stings, how much the hurt of it lingers like a wound that won’t heal. I had been so confident that I could keep things casual, that I could explore his body while keeping a tight hold on my heart—so why does it hurt so much?

Deep down, I know the answer. Of course I do. I think I’ve known it since the first time he touched me, but I’ve been so desperate to keep him at arm’s length that I’d somehow managed to push Noah directly into my blind spot. I held him where I couldn’t see the way he was carving a place for himself inside my heart.

And now I’m experiencing the fallout, all alone.

I’m not letting you get away from me, Mackenzie.

I have to shut my eyes tight to hold back tears, refusing to let anyone at work see me give in to that weakness. I grab my bowl and my spoon and the rest of my trash and carry it to the can to throw it away, a bitter emotion I’m becoming accustomed to trickling into my chest as Noah’s empty words play over and over in my head.