Wild Love (Rose Hill, #1)(18)

My phone vibrates in my back pocket, and I pull it out to find Ryan’s name flashing across the screen. With a heavy sigh, I swipe to answer.

Maybe the warm sun will make this conversation feel better.

“Hey.”

“Babe. Hi. How’s the family visit?” he says, sounding totally distracted. I know he’s probably at work right now, scanning emails or reviewing his formal invitation to the Old Boys Club. Something crunches, and he’s clearly chewing. It shouldn’t annoy me—everyone needs to eat—but the sound is like nails on a chalkboard.

Probably because I took off on the heels of something that clearly upset me, and he seems completely nonplussed about the entire thing.

“Yeah. It’s good. Gonna head up to see my parents for dinner tonight.”

“Nice. Say hi to them for me.”

Yeah. ‘Cause that won’t be awkward. “Will do. So, listen?—”

“When are you thinking you’ll head back?”

“Right, so… that’s the thing. I sort of… I got a job here.”

The crunching finally stops.

“You got a job there?” He sounds floored, and I instantly feel guilty.

“Yeah.” My lips roll together, and I look out over the field where I grew up playing soccer. “Kinda just fell into my lap. And well, you know I’ve been trying to find a job.”

“Yeah. But there?” He says it with a scoff that rankles me. Has me standing up just a little bit taller. Feeling defensive of this place. I’m allowed to rag on Rose Hill—it’s not perfect, but it is mine. He’s not from here, though, and it rubs me all wrong that he thinks he’s allowed to shit-talk my town.

“Yeah. It’s a great opportunity. And I need the space.”

“Space?”

I wince. I can imagine him now. The air of boyish confusion on his face as he turns that word over in his head.

Space.

“Yeah. Space.”

I’m met by silence at first. “Is that figurative or literal?” he says, finally. “Like the space around you that you get out there? Or space from me?”

I swallow, regarding all the parents waiting to pick their children up. They chat happily, and I get the odd curious glance. I grew up here, sure. But I don’t come back often enough to register for most people.

“I think both,” I say in a hushed tone. More silence.

“I’m sorry, Ryan. I’m just… I want to be straight with you.”

“Is there someone else?”

I think of all the dirty looks Ford shot me this afternoon. And the way he tugged on my ponytail last night.

I shake my head. “No. There isn’t.”

His heavy sigh tells me he’s relieved. That flash of jealousy after him seeming so disinterested lately catches me off guard. Too little, too late.

“Okay, good. Listen. I—can I come visit you there? I’d love to just sit down and really talk this over. See what we can do to give this our best shot.”

I want to tell him no. I want to tell him I’m done. I want to say it’s not me, it’s him. I also want to ask him why he was so damn comfortable brushing the Stan situation under the rug.

But I also don’t want to talk about that at all—to anyone. And I don’t want to be mean like Ford told me I am. I don’t want to make such a final decision when I already feel so lost. And I don’t want to be the kind of grown woman who dumps a long-term boyfriend over the phone.

“Yeah, sure. Of course.”

“Okay, great.” I can hear the smile in his voice and the creak of his chair as he adjusts himself in it. “I’m looking at my calendar now. Would the second weekend of next month be all right for you?”

My mouth hangs open so wide that a fly and its entire family could move in. “Next month?”

“Yeah. I have some really important projects right now. Workload is impossible to get out from under.”

Really important.

His matter-of-factly scheduling to woo me four weeks from now strikes me silent. If the situation wasn’t so painfully lackluster, it might be funny. If I wasn’t so offended, I might laugh. He should be dropping everything and rushing here. To talk. To apologize for not rubbing my back when I told him about what happened to me at work. For not sharing my rage when HR served me with a bullshit dismissal letter detailing my subpar performance—which conveniently followed one of their company presidents sexually assaulting me.

The bell rings and I am saved by it, literally. Because with more peace and quiet and warm sunshine, I might have said something mean to him.

And I know I’m not perfect. I know I haven’t pulled my weight in making things work between us lately. But I can also see that neither of us wants to pull our weight. We’re just here because we’re comfortable. Safe.

The doors blast open, and the squeals of happy children fill the air.

“Sure. I’ll check my calendar,” I mumble.

And then I hang up. Agitation courses through me, followed by a deep sense of shame that I’ve never felt before.

Shame because I’m too embarrassed to do anything about Ryan and my old job. Shame because my boyfriend of two years feels no inclination to take up for me over the whole debacle. And shame because I shouldn’t be letting it bug me this much. I’m happy, funny, good-time girl, Rosie Belmont—but I feel like a dulled-down version of myself.