One fact was undeniably clear: I was miserable without him. Like a fool, I’d powered on my phone after the long flight home, desperate to see missed calls, voice mails, or texts from him begging me to return, or promising me things would be different. But my phone was eerily quiet. Not a peep from him.
I’d sucked it up and returned to work, desperate for the distraction. I shot death glares at my boss and coworkers when they asked about my trip and why I was back early. Because I decided to start thinking with my brain instead of my vagina for a change.
Several days later, I heard from him. One lousy text. I’m sorry I can’t be who you want me to be. Which I translated to mean that he wasn’t even going to try. He could have fixed this all so easily between us if he really wanted to. Invite me over to his place, agree to meet up with me for coffee somewhere, tell me he was ready for more . . . but nope. He hadn’t promised me a thing, and I was done grasping on to false hope and illusions for what would never be. The realization stung. I truly was just his bed buddy. The sex had been great, I wasn’t about to lie to myself. It had been truly off the charts. He was the best lover I’d ever had—by far. That was the worst part of it all, because now I’d lost everything—no chance at love, and no more mind-blowing sex to take my mind off that fact. Fuck.
Worst of all, I felt like I’d lost a friend. Braydon and I had bickered nonstop when we’d first met. But it had all been in good fun. There was always an underlying electric current flowing between us—a spark. I’d felt so alive and carefree around him. He made me laugh easily and often. Those days were done. And even worse, he was best friends with my BFF’s husband. There would be no way we could avoid each other forever. I guess I really should have thought that through before I started fucking him. Oh well. You live and you learn, I supposed.
I watched the calendar change days, throwing myself into routine. Work. Home. Gym. Laundry. It was all rather pathetic. I should have just let him go, wiped the slate clean, but I couldn’t keep myself from looking at photos of him online. It started off innocently enough, with me checking Emmy’s updates online. She posted photos of Ben regularly, like any good assistant would, from the various projects he booked. The latest were a series of shots from Hawaii. Deeply sensual poses of Ben and Braydon underneath a jungle waterfall with an exotic, fair-haired beauty between them. She appeared to be nude, just their hands covering her private areas, while they modeled a luxury line of men’s swim trunks. My eyes zeroed in on Braydon. His expression was pure pleasure, primal and carnal. His look was so erotic, my sex muscles clenched, throbbing uncomfortably. My stupid vagina missed him. She’d gotten me into this mess in the first place. Well, no more, missy. No soup for you!
My stalking progressed from looking at photos from the Hawaii shoot into an hours-long obsession searching every last corner of the Internet for any trace of him, as if I could find something that would help me understand this man. I ate everything in sight, drank copious amounts of wine to help me sleep at night, and stalked him online, searching out every last picture while stuffing my face with pizza, cookie dough, and all the other foods I never let myself have. It was a full-on pity party for one.
True to his word, Braydon was usually photographed alone—he went sans date to most functions, occasionally escorting a fellow model. But as I tracked back in time, I realized things weren’t always that way. The pictures that were a few years older showed him with a woman. She appeared on his arm during several events, and there were even candid shots of them together on the street. There was something familiar about her. And though her hair was darker in the pictures, I realized who it was. Katrina, the skittish girl I’d met at the photo shoot. I didn’t know why it surprised me to see them together—she’d hinted at their history—but seeing his arms around her, the happy expressions on their faces . . . it was beyond strange. She seemed to be the one and only girl he’d been regularly photographed with.
I thought about his hesitation to be seen with me and I wondered if this woman, who he seemed all too happy to be photographed with, had anything to do with the sudden change.
Pulling my quilt up over my legs, I struggled to piece together the puzzle of Braydon. Maybe he had his heart broken and he was cautious about jumping into another relationship. Or maybe I was reading way too much into it and being way too generous. He could just be a player who acted on his baser instincts, like my subconscious first warned me about. He’d hinted at something in his past holding him back. Knowing I was no closer to solving the mystery, I did the only thing I could do. I went to grab the scrap of paper Katrina had given to me that was currently stuffed in my wallet. Maybe she held the key to his past, and maybe she could help me understand why he was the way he was.
Summoning my courage, I pulled the slip of paper from my wallet. Her neat, curvy handwriting covered the entire length of the scrap. I punched her number into my phone and typed out a text.
Me: Hey! It’s Ellie from the photo shoot . . . remember me?
A few minutes later, her reply arrived.
Katrina: Hi! Of course I remember. How are you?
Me: Eh, I’ve been better. I was actually wondering if I could ask you a few Braydon-related questions . . . if that’s not too strange.
My heartbeat thumped unevenly. I felt like a superfreak stalker. I hoped I didn’t sound as pathetic as I felt. But something told me Katrina would be willing to share her experience.
Katrina: Oh no! What happened?
I couldn’t tell if she was mocking me or genuinely interested in helping. If Braydon was single again, would that put her back in the running? I blew the strands of loose hair out of my face and plopped down on the couch. I had to try. She could help me piece together his past. And he’d cut me too deep. I had to know.
Me: I was tired of feeling like a plaything—I don’t think he was ever really going to commit . . . so I sort of left him in Hawaii.
When I worded it like that, I sort of sounded like a badass. I had put my foot down, it was true. I’d left him in a hotel and flown halfway across the globe. If I weren’t feeling so utterly crappy, I might be proud.
Katrina: Dang, girl. How are you feeling now?
It was like she could sense that now that I was back home and all alone, the glow of pride in my decision had worn off. It was hard to feel proud when you were in sweatpants and a T-shirt and your heart felt like it’d been put through a blender.
Me: Basically like shit.
The smiley face was pure sarcasm, but seriously, I didn’t mean to be such a downer.
Katrina: Sorry. Been there. Done that. I understand.
It was weird to think this stranger understood my situation better than anyone. Better than Emmy. But it would be nice to have someone to talk to about all this. I wondered if she still regularly Google-stalked Braydon. I wondered if a girl could ever really move on after someone like him. Probably not.
Me: I’m sure it sounds pathetic, but I was wondering if maybe you’d want to meet up for coffee or something . . . swap horror stories? It might help me to understand him better.
Katrina: It doesn’t sound pathetic at all, and sure, I’d love to. You just let me know when you’re up for it.
Me: Thanks. I will.
Heading back into my room, I felt the tiniest bit better. At least I had a plan. It might not have been the most noble of plans—to pump his ex-girlfriend for information—but hell, it was a start. I collapsed on my bed, curling into the sheets. There was no way not to notice that my pillowcase still smelled like him. I pulled the pillow to my face and inhaled deeply, letting his scent envelop me.
