I Think We Missed Our Turn - L.A. Witt Page 0,11

knew the bridge-tunnel and the Eastern Shore meant minimal signal, and even if I’d had five bars, we were both vehemently against texting while driving.

So what the fuck was the problem?

As if I didn’t know. Sinking onto the edge of the bed, I sighed and rubbed my eyes with the heels of my hands. This was exhausting. Things had been volatile between us for a while now, and for the last year or so, we’d spent more time fighting than not. And after last night? After I’d stupidly believed that we’d settled the argument about me traveling with Marques? Something told me we were about to rehash the entire thing all over again, only this time I’d be like two hundred miles from home with the man she insisted was one lingering look away from stealing me.

I groaned into the silence. What was it going to take? Marques wasn’t someone who would interfere with another person’s relationship, and even if he was, I wasn’t a cheater. Period.

God. I was always open and honest with people I dated, but I was seriously regretting telling Tanya that Marques and I almost dated before I met her. That we’d flirted, and circled each other, and even touched a little, before we’d backed off in the name of staying friends and not making things weird at the gallery.

I’d thought telling her would convince her to trust me more. I didn’t hide the fact that there’d been some chemistry and maybe feelings between us back then. If I was going to cheat, why the hell would I tell her any of that?

But it had blown up in my face, and it had continued to blow up in my face ever since.

“I’d feel a lot better if you two had dated and then broken up,” she’d told me one night not too long ago. “Because then it would be out of your systems and you probably wouldn’t be talking to each other anymore.”

That conversation had bugged me ever since. The insecurity grated on me because what the fuck was a relationship without trust? It also bothered me that she would have preferred if Marques and I had had the exact kind of nasty, friendship-killing breakup we’d nixed dating to avoid.

What does it say about us when you’d be happier if my friend and I weren’t speaking anymore?

Right then, my phone chimed with Tanya’s ringtone. I swore softly, and I immediately felt like a dick for it. She was my girlfriend. I loved her. Why was I dreading talking to her?

Because she can’t stand the man in the next room, that’s why.

With a sigh, I grabbed my phone. Schooling my voice, I said, “Hey.”

“I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” Sarcasm oozed off every word.

“No,” I said as calmly as I could. “We just got to the hotel a little while ago.”

“Is he there?”

“He’s next door, yes.”

“But he’s not there.”

I fought back my frustration. “No, we’re not staying together. And by the way, I tried to text you earlier, but we were in and out of dead zones. Plus I was, you know, driving part of the time?”

“Whatever,” she muttered. “I’m sure you hated being stuck with him all day.”

I closed my eyes and rubbed the bridge of my nose. Tanya generally was a completely reasonable person, but when it came to Marques, she was all suspicion and resentment, and I had no idea what to do about that. “What do you want me to say?”

“It doesn’t really matter, does it? You’re with him for the next few days.” I could almost hear the pissed-off shrug. “Guess that’s that, isn’t it?”

“But I don’t want you to be upset about it. I’m not doing this to upset you. We’re just going to get some art and come back. There’s nothing—”

The sharp little sigh of annoyance made my teeth grind.

“Tanya, we talked about this.” I raked a hand through my hair. “Marques has a boyfriend, and even if he didn’t, I’m not going to cheat on you. If you really don’t trust me, then just say so.”

She didn’t respond.

Seriously, this was beyond draining. I was exhausted. Just…utterly exhausted. From this ongoing battle. From all the other fights. From constantly feeling like even when things were going okay, we were one misinterpreted comment away from shit hitting the fan. If it wasn’t Marques, it was money, housekeeping, grocery shopping, laundry, whether we should get a bigger apartment closer to her job, how much I worked, whether what I’d thought was a