Page 62 of Lessons in Lemonade

Frowning, he reaches up to run his hand through his hair, and the blankets slide down his torso. Dark gorgeous strands stick up perfectly all over his head, the scruff from last night is longer and thus appears darker, and inches and inches of his bare skin call out to me. He is so handsome.

Letting out a deep breath, he contemplates what to say to me, and then he says the thing I dread the most. “Don’t go. Stay here with me.” He lowers his arm, rests it on the bed just in front of him where I should be, and watches me.

Why is this so hard when being with him is easy?

“I can’t. I’ve got to go.” I shake my head and lightly shrug one shoulder.

His perfect pouty lips press into a line, which turns down into a frown.

Blinking at me, he finally sees my emotional walls are up, and in that one second his open vulnerability is gone and his are slammed in place. The muscles tighten around his eyes and jaw and seeing the transition in his facial expressions kills me, but this is for the best. He shifts to his back, no longer looking at me, and says, “Then go.”

“Jack—”

“Don’t, Meg. Not right now.” He rolls completely over, giving me his back, and my eyes well with unwanted tears.

I was wrong—it isn’t the betrayal that’s trying to break me; it’s his disappointment. I’ve hurt him, again, and the pain of this is almost unbearable.

It isn’t supposed to be like this.

We aren’t supposed to be like this.

But I don’t know how to be any other way. I made a promise to myself, and standing behind that, I quietly slip away.

Blueberry Scones with Lemon Glaze

I KNEW THINGS were not going to be good the moment I woke up this morning and she wasn’t in the bed next to me. Last night I was certain we were finally turning a corner to exploring a new part of our relationship, but as she stood in the doorway wearing work clothes with a pair of heels dangling from her fingers, it was clear nothing had changed, at least not for her. If anything, I could see things were going to get worse for me.

She didn’t have to go to the restaurant today. She said so last night, she knows she did, but the minute things got too intimate for her, she decided to bolt. I couldn’t look at her, couldn’t watch her walk away after everything I gave of myself last night, so I rolled over and let her leave.

After the first time she made me feel like she was blowing me off, I had a shame-on-you mentality, but now, after the second, I’ve shifted to shame on me.

I’m not sure how long I lay there after she left. I also had no idea when she would be back, but I did know what I had to do next, no matter how hard it was going to be for me.

I have no regrets. I gave her all of me, but in the words of my father, it’s time to either fish or cut bait, and I know I have to cut bait. She isn’t going to change. I’m a nonfactor in the equation of her life, and it just sucks. You can’t make someone want to be with you, no matter how hard you try or wish it to be otherwise.

So with that in mind, I got up, got ready for the day, and headed off to work out with Eddie. I know if I stay busy, I’ll be able to ignore the emotional anxiety this is causing me—until it comes to a head with her later tonight.

Of course, Eddie took one look at me and decided it was best to keep his mouth shut. I hate that others can see my emotions on my sleeve, but this is the longest I’ve gone without saying what’s on my mind, just hoping she would meet me in the middle, and she hasn’t. It’s like the emotions are trying to bleed out of me. I’m used to being honest with people about how I feel, but she’s completely resistant to acknowledging our actions or taking responsibility for this situation we’ve found ourselves in, and I’m at a loss for what to do.

Eddie works me harder than he has before, and I tell myself the sweat pouring out of me is the tears of my heart. It’s purging because I will not cry over her. I just won’t.

By the time I get home, my knee is just as angry at me as I am with myself, and with my decisions solidified, I do what I have to do.

How did I get here?

And why did I let any of this happen to me?

This isn’t me.

Just after three o’clock, Meg walks in and finds me on the couch. She’s a little dirty, and she also looks like she’s worked herself hard. Aside from the worry that lines her eyes, she mostly looks determined, and any hope I had for us fizzles away.

Stopping next to the couch, she puts her hands on her hips and lets out a sigh. “So, we’re back here, are we?”

Back here? We both frown, and I ask her, “What do you mean?”

“This.” She waves her hand at me. “You . . . on the couch.”

“Would you like me to sit somewhere else?”