I put it back and close the door. Brett will be home in a few days. Things will be easier then. Maybe I haven’t given him enough credit—taken our relationship seriously enough. Maybe we can be more than just roommates with benefits.
He’s uncomplicated. He’s predictable. He’s easy. And he’s not Alessandro.
He’s everything I need.
He’s all I need.
Chapter Eighteen
IT’S CHRISTMAS EVE and I’m working. So ho, ho, fucking ho. And the cherry on top is that the only person in the bar is Bill-Bob, so I’m probably looking at five bucks in tips.
Brett will be there when I get home from the bar tonight. His flight got into Newark at six. He texted me from the airport to ask if I wanted to come to the cast party. I lied and told him I wanted to, but I was working. The working part wasn’t the lie.
It’s been six weeks, and I know I should be dying to see him. I’m not. But the thing is, I have to stop thinking about Alessandro, and the quickest way I can think to do that is to drown myself in Brett.
I’ve spent the two and a half weeks since I last saw Alessandro working and walking. I’ve got a five-mile loop I do around Central Park every morning now—avoiding Bethesda Fountain. I don’t know if it’s the exercise, or the fresh air, but it’s the only time my mind clears enough that I can think straight. When I’m walking, I know what’s what. I know who’s who. The rest of the time, I find myself pining over things I can’t change. Things I can’t have.
Bill-Bob staggers off his stool and leaves a little before eleven, and when I clear his spot, I see I’m indeed clairvoyant. A wrinkled five is tucked under his empty mug, like he thought it might blow away or someone might steal it.
When the phone rings ten minutes later, I’m leaning on the bar, half asleep. I flip the phone—one of those old jobs stuck to the wall with an actual cord—to my ear.
“Hey, Hilary! How’s it hanging?” Jerry says.
“Low as your Christmas balls, Jerry. And fuck you very much for making me work tonight.” I was so pissed I had to work that I’m actually out of uniform. I’m in my most comfortable jeans instead of my ass shorts.
“Slow?” he asks.
I point the receiver into the empty room. “I can’t hear you over the roar of the crowd, Jerry, what did you say?”
“If it’s slow,” he’s saying when I stick the phone back to my ear, “you can lock up and go home.”
“Do I still get paid for the last three hours of my shift? Because I’m bringing home a whole five bucks in tips.”
He blows a laugh into the phone. “Call it your Christmas bonus.”
That’s all I have to hear. “ ’Night, Jerry.”
“Merry Christmas,” he’s saying, but I don’t wait for him to finish before I slam the phone back into the cradle.
By the time I get home, I’m tired and cranky and I just want to forget the whole freaking day. I twist my key and push open our apartment door, and when it opens, Brett is there on the couch, buck naked and totally ready, waiting for me. When I hear a long moan and a series of grunts from the TV, I know why. He’s got the porn channel on.
He stands and has me pinned against the back of the door in a heartbeat, tugging my coat off. “Miss me?” he asks, a wicked smile on his face and a bleary look in his eyes. That, coupled with the whisky on his breath, tells me he’s totally drunk.
“Yeah. How was the party?”
“You should have been there, babe,” he slurs, tugging at the zipper of my jeans.
He yanks them down, and I keep telling myself I should want this. It’s been a month since we’ve been together.
I want this.
But instead, as he gets my jeans somewhere around my knees, I shove him away and pull them up. “Stop, Brett. I had a shitty night at work and I’m way too tired for this.”
A drunken smile tugs at his lips. “Excellent. We haven’t played this one in a while.” He pins me against the door again and kisses me hard.
I cringe thinking of all our sex games when we first got together . . . his favorite of which was the “reluctant virgin.” I hate myself for ever thinking that was fun.
His hand massages my breast as he nips at my ear. “You’re so fresh, baby. So young. You feel so fucking amazing,” he slurs, starting his role-play.
“Stop, Brett,” I say, shoving him away again. “It’s not a game. I’m just not into it tonight.”
He pulls away and scans me with hooded eyes. “You’re serious.” He grabs himself as his eyes narrow into a glare. “After a month, you’re going to leave me standing here like this.”
A stone sinks in my stomach. But I can’t do it. The thought of sex with Brett makes me physically ill. “I don’t think this is working anymore, Brett.”
He pushes back from the door, his glare sharpening at my words. “What the fuck are you saying?”
“I . . . I’m moving out. As soon as I find a place.”
His face twists. “Fuck that! If you’re moving out, you’re doing it now. You can take your sorry ass and sleep on the street for all I care.” He spins a circle and throws his arms up when he swings around to face me again. “Do you have any clue how many girls I could have fucked on tour, Hilary? Do you? It was a lot. Every night. But you know what? I didn’t do it.” He turns and drops onto the couch. “This is just fucking unbelievable. You breaking up with me,” he adds with a bitter laugh. “Un-fucking-believable.”
“I’m sorry, Brett. I just—”
“Get the fuck out!”
I start to move toward the bedroom for my clothes, but he whips out of the couch and charges me, pushing me hard into the door.
“I said, get the fuck out! Now!”
I scoop my jacket off the floor and pull the door open. When I turn back from the hall, it slams in my face.
“Shit,” I say to the peephole. I turn for the elevator and stumble onto the sidewalk without a clue where I’m going. When I somehow end up on Broadway, I dig for my MetroCard and jump on at Seventy-ninth. I just need to be somewhere else. Jupiter sounds good. I drop into an open seat and fold myself in half, so my forehead is on my knees, lacing my fingers behind my head.
Breathe.
Slowly, my heart rate drops into the non-coronary-inducing range and my head clears a little. When I can finally think, I sit up and look around. Prettily dressed couples are getting on at Lincoln Center. Not every show is dark on Christmas Eve. The ones that are running tonight are just getting out.
Shit.
There goes Broadway.
What the hell am I supposed to do now? All my stuff is at Brett’s apartment, so I’ll have to go back to get it, but then what? I can’t afford a place of my own. Maybe I could bunk with Mallory for a week or two, until I figure out what I’m going to do.
I drop my head into my hands again and try to shut off my mind.
When the whirring stops and I look up, we’re just pulling into Sheridan Square, and all of a sudden, I know where I’m going. I know why I got on this train. I collect my bag and climb the stairs out of the subway onto the street before I lose my nerve. I bump into at least five people as I weave my way quickly up Bleecker Street toward Perry. When I get where I’m going, I punch the button on the intercom at the door and wait. All my nerves feel short-circuited, making me twitchy. After a minute, I hit the button again, holding it an extra few seconds.