Make Me Sin

38

“But I never would’ve acted on it. I made a stupid mistake that night, and believe me, I regret it. I’ve been kicking myself over it for a month. But you didn’t give me the chance to explain, or make it up to you, which I think at the very least I deserved, seeing as how we were together for six months before that happened. You just completely froze me out. And if the situation were reversed, maybe I would have done the same thing as you and walked away, but at least I would’ve let you say your piece before I did.”

I fold my arms protectively across my chest, and stare in misery at my feet. I should walk away. Part of me wants to. Another part of me is glad I finally got to apologize, because what I did to Eric is one of the lowest things I’ve ever done.

No matter what Grace says.

“Hey.”

The softness in Eric’s voice makes me glance up. He seems taller than I remember. Maybe it’s because I’m slumped over so far in shame.

He looks away, then back at me, and I can tell he’s having a hard time deciding what to say. I don’t let him off the hook. I just stare at him, waiting, trying to ignore the old Vietnamese lady sitting at a table near the end of the hall, openly eavesdropping.

He blows out a short breath. “I, uh . . . you’re right. I kind of freaked out.”

When I give him the stink eye, he relents. “Okay, I really freaked out. I’ve never felt that way before. I lost my mind. I just wanted to break something.”

I refrain from reminding him he did break something: my favorite vase. He also put a sizeable dent in my self-respect, not to mention the living room wall. I know it was a crap situation, but in retrospect I think he might have handled it with a little more maturity. Or at least a little less Raging Bull.

His voice grows even softer. “Especially after what I’d told you, not even two minutes before.”

I love you. It’s amazing how three such small words, when spoken together, can either take you to heaven or shoot you in the hooha with a high-caliber rifle.

“I know,” I whisper. “If I could take it back, I would.”

Watching his reaction to my words, the way his face softens, the vulnerability in his eyes, I’m having a ton of crazy mixed emotions. I still have feelings for him, most of which, if you made a list, would fall in the pros column. He’s (usually) thoughtful, kind, and polite. He’s (usually) sweet, responsible, and funny. He’s always charming. Until now, he’s always been upbeat. He’s the kind of guy parents love, because he’s easygoing, well-educated, and successful. He loves kids. He has a great relationship with his own parents, and has a core group of nice, stable friends.

In short, he’s good marriage material.

In the cons column, underlined in red, would be his jealousy. If I were more like Grace, I’d get it, but I’m not. Prior to the A.J. incident, I’d never given him any reason to distrust me, yet he often acted as if I had the male escort line on speed dial.

Just below the red-lined jealousy would be a big question mark after the word “beer.”

Because I’m pretty sure I smell beer on him right now, at eight o’clock in the morning, and I don’t know what to do with that disturbing fact.

“Chloe!”

The barista calls my name; my order’s ready. I’m so relieved I want to burst out in hysterical laughter. I don’t think I can take this tension one second longer.

I light a match under the unwelcome thought that if I were standing eyeball to eyeball with A.J. with this kind of tension, I’d never want it to end.

“That’s me.”

Eric nods, glancing at the barista like he’d like to remove the poor guy’s spleen. His voice drops. “Listen . . . can I call you? Maybe we could just talk a little more?”

When he looks up at me, his eyes are dark.

Though I’m wearing a sweater, I rub my arms for warmth against a sudden chill. “Sure,” I say, nodding. “Okay.”

He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear like he used to do, one of those intimate gestures lovers make when they’re in public. As his thumb brushes my cheek, I notice the man standing across the street beside the bus stand, staring in through the windows of the coffee shop.

Sunglasses obscure his eyes. His hands are shoved into his pockets. He’s tall and broad, motionless as a statue, until one hand reaches up to pull the hoodie he wears farther down over his forehead.

By the time Eric turns to follow my stare, A.J. is gone.