Take the Chance (Top Shelf Romance #9) - Brittainy Cherry Page 0,290

the whole hot farmer thing. Maybe I was only attracted to him because he was the anti-Tripp. Maybe the affair was just one big rebellion against rules for Thurber women. Maybe I’d get home and realize he’d never have fit into my life, I’d never have fit into his, and thank God he’d broken things off when he had.

But there were what if’s too.

What if I’d come here for a reason? What if he was the something missing from my life? What if I wasn’t supposed to give up on him? What if he needed me to help him heal? What if I never met anyone who made me feel the way he did? What if we were supposed to be together?

The mental and emotional anguish was too much. I craved the familiarity of home, the feeling that I belonged somewhere. At six the next morning, I packed my bags, left a message for the property manager and the key on the counter, and drove home.

On the two-hour drive, I chugged crummy gas station coffee and cringed repeatedly at the memory of his rejection. It was like reliving the breakup with Tripp all over again! What was the matter with me? Why didn’t anyone want me? Was I fundamentally unloveable? Was the prospect of a future with me so terrible? Did I smell? I sniffed my armpits.

Since it seemed like my deodorant worked, it had to be something else, and by the time I got home, I was convinced of my general worthlessness and repugnance.

Dumping my bags at the door, I went straight to my room, traded my shorts and blouse for pajamas, and flopped into bed. But I’d had so much coffee on the drive that sleep was impossible. I lay there, getting more despondent by the minute, until I finally gave up and called Jaime.

“Howdy,” she said when she answered. “How’s life on the farm? You get your four orgasms already today?”

“Not even close. I’m not even at the farm anymore.” I pictured the sun coming up over the lake, shining on the horses in the pasture, creating shadows behind the barn perfect for kissing in. Was Jack awake? Had he even slept? Was he doing chores and remembering when I’d helped him?

“What happened? You sound miserable.”

“I am.” I closed my eyes. “Maybe I shouldn’t be, but I am.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“Yes. Where’s Claire? Can you have lunch?”

“Crap, I can’t. And Claire’s looking at houses this afternoon. How about drinks right after work? Around six?”

“Where?”

“Bar at Marais? You probably missed your fancypants martinis.”

“Not really,” I said glumly.

“Damn, you are depressed. I’ll text Claire.”

“OK. Hey, can you do me a favor?”

“Of course!”

“Can you call Georgia Valentini and tell her I had to come home suddenly but I’ll be in touch tomorrow? I’ll forward her contact information.” I couldn’t bear to talk to her.

“Consider it done. Now go get a massage or something. A mani-pedi. Or a blowout! Those always perk you up.”

“I’ll be fine. Maybe I’m just tired.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. “I’ll take a nap and see you after work.”

We hung up, and I messaged her Georgia’s number before tossing my phone aside. I didn’t want a massage or a manicure or a blowout. None of those things would make me feel better, and in fact it kind of made me feel shallow and vain that I was the sort of person who regularly enjoyed those luxuries. Why didn’t I use my resources for more meaningful things? What was I even doing with my life? How was I contributing to the greater good? Millions of people lived in poverty and I did nothing to help them! No wonder no one loved me!

I curled into a ball, knees tucked under my chest, butt in the air. “I’m a terrible, useless person,” I moaned into my pillow. “My life has no purpose.”

Eventually I got hungry, so I went downstairs to find something to eat, but even the contents of my fridge depressed me—suspicious cheese, expired milk, a jar of pickles, rotting lemons, mysterious takeout containers—and the freezer contained only ice cubes, a bottle of gin, and some frozen meals for one that spoke of my sad single status and inability to cook. “This is my life,” I said as clouds of cold air billowed out. “Gin, loneliness, and Lean Cuisine.” Sorta sounded like a country song.

In the pantry I managed to find a box of crackers that had probably been left over from a cocktail party in 2014,