But then I couldn’t babble anymore because he’d grabbed my head and pressed his lips to mine.
“I’m glad you’re here.” He moved backward, pulling me into his flat with his hands on either side of my face. “You should stay a while.”
“Well,” I mumbled against his lips, kicking the door shut behind me. “If you insist.”
After a sweaty bout of me-on-top sex, we fell asleep, and I woke up around two. Silently, I crept out of bed and gathered my clothes, not bothering to put them all on, just my underwear and top. With the rest gathered in my arms, I couldn’t resist giving Quinn a quick kiss on the shoulder.
“Hey,” he said groggily. “You leaving?”
“Yeah,” I whispered. “Sorry to wake you. Have a good trip, OK?”
“OK. Hey, can you leave your number for me?”
“Sure. I’ll put it on the kitchen counter.”
“Thanks.” He was already drifting back to sleep when I left the room.
I missed him way more than I should have while he was gone, considering we’d only been “fucking and talking” for less than a week. But the house seemed so empty knowing that he wasn’t there, which was ridiculous since I’d been living there for two months before that with no one in the downstairs flat.
He texted me every day, but it wasn’t annoying. Just once or twice to say hi or send me a picture of something cool on the street or one of his ridiculous selfies. I confess, I stalked his Instagram relentlessly. One day he posted a pic of me I’d had no idea he’d taken—it was in his kitchen the day we made the pierogies. He’d snapped it from the side, catching me in profile, grinning happily as I tried to work with the misshapen lump of dough in my hands. Miss this girl, he’d captioned it.
There was just one hashtag: #sweetpea.
I rolled my eyes, but inside my chest, my heart was pounding.
Late Wednesday afternoon, the day he was scheduled to return, he called me. I let it ring a few times, even though I was totally anxious to hear his voice.
“Hello?”
“Hey, you.”
“Hi.” A stupid grin took over my mouth before I could help it, and I huddled down inside my cubicle.
“How’s everything?”
“Good. How are you?”
“Great. Ready to get out of here. My flight gets in around five tonight. Can I take you out for dinner later?”
I almost said yes right away, but then I remembered standing Wednesday GNO. For a second I thought about faking an illness, but it would not be cool to bail on my girls for a guy. We just didn’t do that. “I can’t tonight. It’s Wednesday.”
“Oh, that’s right. Girls’ Night Out.” He sounded more amused than disappointed. “How about tomorrow?”
“That works.” But did that mean I wouldn’t get to see him tonight?
“OK, I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Have fun tonight.”
“Thanks. Safe travels.”
After the phone call, I found myself in a foul mood for no good reason. I was mad at myself for resenting GNO when I’d been the one in the past to insist we honor the date no matter what, and I was angry that Quinn hadn’t sounded sad about not seeing me tonight. I’d missed that asshole. I actually couldn’t wait to see him again, and I never felt like that about a guy. Did he not feel the same?
You see? This is why getting close to someone sucks. It’s a constant guessing game in which it’s impossible to keep the upper hand. Someone is always disappointed, and right now it’s you. Get a fucking grip.
But I stayed grouchy through the rest of the work day and didn’t even bother to go home and change before meeting Claire and Margot, because I didn’t want to take the chance of running into him. First, I wanted him to think I didn’t care that much about seeing him tonight, and second, I didn’t trust myself not to ditch the girls and rip his clothes off the moment I saw his face.
It was Margot’s turn to pick the spot, and she chose Marais, an upscale French restaurant in Grosse Pointe with an elegant bar and lounge that wasn’t exactly formal, but still likely to be full of crusty people like Tripp in coats and ties. I did like the cheese selection, though, which they wheeled out on a cart and gushed over before slicing portions onto a plate for you. I didn’t give a shit about artisanal goats, but I had to admit it was all pretty tasty, served with bread and crackers and honey. They had a great wine list too.
I forgot all about my bad mood when I entered the bar and saw my friends sitting next to each other in a huge velvet booth, Margot visibly upset and Claire’s hand on her arm.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, sliding onto the bench across from them.
“It’s nothing,” Margot said, fighting for composure. “A fight with Tripp.”
“About what?”
“You’ll think it’s dumb.”
“Margot, no, I won’t.” I sat forward with my elbows on my knees, leaning toward her. “Talk to me.”
She sniffed and pulled a handkerchief out of her purse. Claire and I exchanged a surreptitious smile—Margot was the only woman we knew who actually carried little white hankies in her purse, monogrammed with her initials. We sometimes teased her about stuff like that, but this wasn’t the time.
“It’s just—I thought we were really getting closer to an engagement. He’s dropped hints here and there, and he knows it’s what I want. He even asked me before Christmas about what sort of ring I’d like, so I thought maybe it would be a Christmas gift. But it wasn’t.”