No thanks to you,I’m tempted to say, but I hold my tongue.
“But now, out of nowhere, you’re done with it?” I shrug again, which only infuriates him because he hastily adds, “It makes me wonder why she’s dating you if she’s still pissed about all that, but hey, what do I know?Women, am I right?” The condescending manner in which he manages to debase the entire opposite sex in a single breath ignites an overwhelming urge to punch him in the face.
No, Mason, you’re not right. You’re just a tool.
I huff out a sigh. “The bet was shitty of us, Mason. Maybe I’m tired of being a shitty person.”
And it’s true. The bet might have been Mason’s idea—and the subsequent fallout entirely down to his reckless stupidity—butIstill took him up on the challenge.Istill participated and demeaned all those women, not unlike the way he’s demeaning Blondie now. I was so blinded by my own grief and anger toward my dad that I couldn’t even see what a fucking terrible person I was becoming. But now, my eyes are opened, and I don’t want to be that person anymore. Not just for Blondie, but for me.
I want to be someone my abuelo and Jamie would be proud of.
“You know, you used to be fun.”
Mason sneers, and though I try not to take the bait—not to rise to the insult—I can’t help myself. The question is out before I can stop it.
“Meaning?”
His upper lip curls as he looks me up and down, as if he’s really seeing me now that the douchey mask has been peeled away.
“Look at you,” he mocks. “Returning a fucking Maserati, playing the doting boyfriend, not even pretending to care about your rep anymore.” He shakes his head as if he can’t fathom anything being more important. “A few months ago, you would’ve laughed in my face if I told you this is where you’d end up.”
I shrug. “Well, I guess it’s a good thing I never gave a fuck about your opinion.”
As long as I’ve known him, Mason has just been background noise in my life. It was always easy enough to ignore him, only cranking up the volume when I needed entertaining or an accomplice for some stupid prank, but now, it’s time to tune him out for good. To turn off the sound on that part of my life and let something better play in its place.
Mason scoffs. “If you say so, man. I wish you the best or whatever.” He pushes away from the door then and starts to walk past me, only turning at the last moment to throw out, “I just hope Poor Girl’s worth it.”
As he retreats down the hallway, I glare at the back of the head.
“Don’t fucking worry,” I grind out between clenched teeth as I unlock my door. “She is.”
I spend the next hour pacing my bedroom, chewing on my thumbnail and casting the occasional glance at my phone where it charges on my bedside table.
Just call her!the voice in my head shouts for the tenth time in as many minutes.
He’s right.I’mright. I should just call Blondie. What’s the worst that can happen?
That thought is immediately followed by every worst case scenario I can imagine. Blondie screaming at me for showing up out of the blue at her house. Blondie telling me I suck in bed. Blondie ending our arrangement.
God, when did I get so pathetic? When did I get so self-conscious?
Where the shit is Confident Damian when I need him?
I slap myself hard on the cheek. “Come on. You can do this.” With an affirmative head nod, I cross the room, grab my phone, swipe open the contacts, tap Blondie’s name, and hit call before pressing the device to my ear.
The ring tone repeats so many times I begin to think she won’t answer. Just as I’m about to hang up, the ringing ends, and I catch a faint, “…‘ello?”
I pull the phone away from my head just enough to glance down at the screen. I definitely called Blondie, but there’s a lot of noise on her end, and I can barely hear her.
“Dornan? Where are you?” I ask, trying to ignore the sudden panic flooding my insides, drowning me from within.
I can just about separate the jumbled sound of laughter and music from her muffled voice when she answers. “Grabe Expep…Expeptasins.”
Little cartoon men wearing firefighter hats race around in my head, on high alert, screaming, “Fire! Fire!” Is she drunk? I mean, it’s not the first time it’s happened, but it’s weird that her friends would let her get so wasted she can barely speak comprehensible English.
It takes me a moment longer than I would like to decode her slurred words.
“Grape Expectations?” I ask. “The wine bar?”
