Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 83180 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83180 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
“The thrill of the chase,” he said. “I was never like that but—”
“It’s not that.” I had never been into the chase. “That’s Tristan, not me.”
Beck nodded, and I could tell by the controlled movement he was dying to ask more questions.
“I don’t know what it is,” I said. “She’s American. And . . .” I had dated American women before, so that wasn’t the reason I liked Hollie. It was more that she managed to be both wide-eyed innocent and devilishly suspicious at the exact same time. She was direct enough to refuse to give me her number and to ask for my card, but not so open that she’d tell me why she was refusing to have dinner with me
“Maybe it’s because you like to torture yourself a little,” Beck said, fishing out the lemon from his water and placing it on the table. “Bloody lemon.”
“I like an easy life. That’s why I end things whenever they get heavy. I’m not into self-torture at all.”
“That’s total bollocks,” Beck said. “I can’t let you get away with that, mate.”
“What?” I said, offended. “I like women. I like sex with women, friendship with women, but I’m not into torture. I’m not a masochist, physically or emotionally.”
Silence echoed off him in waves. Beck rarely held back telling me what he thought. None of us did. Meeting when we did—facing the challenges we’d faced together—had created an intimacy between us that meant we were brutally honest with each other, and as open as it was possible for six guys to be.
“You don’t agree?” I asked him.
“What about Bridget?” he asked.
“What about her?”
“You like to torture yourself about her.”
“I blame myself. That’s not the same as torture.” I’d been young when it had all fallen apart, but that was no excuse.
“I’m not sure about that. I think you two breaking up has become almost mythical to you.”
“What the fuck are you talking about? It is what it is. We were together. We were happy. We were in love. I screwed it up by ending things over some stupid argument. When I finally got my head out of my arse and tried to get her back, she’d moved on. I’m an idiot. That’s not self-torture. That’s facts.”
“Well they’re not the facts as I see them.”
I liked Beck. Loved him. Not just like a brother, but as my best friend and confidante. Tonight, though, he was pissing me off. I checked the time on my phone. Where the fuck was everyone?
At that exact moment Gabriel swept in. “I swear to God, if I was ever gay, it would be Gabriel I’d have the hots for,” I said, watching him as he strode over to the table.
“Is this your coming-out party?” Beck asked.
“You’re gay?” Gabriel asked, looking at me as if he’d just asked me whether I was enjoying my water.
“Nope but if I was, I think you’d be my type.”
Gabriel rolled his eyes and pulled his pint of Guinness from the small circle of drinks in the middle of the table. “Good to know.”
“He’s trying to distract us because I just told him some home truths.”
“Interesting,” Gabriel said, taking a seat beside Beck. “Go on.”
“No, you didn’t. You just floated some ridiculous theory about me enjoying self-torture.”
Gabriel’s gaze flitted between us like he was at Wimbledon.
“Because of the Bridget thing,” Beck said as if that explained everything.
“Oh, right, yes,” Gabriel said as if he completely understood.
“What do you mean, yes? Beck is being ridiculous, right?”
“Look, mate. I just got here—you two keep your playground fight between yourselves. I’m going to sit and enjoy my Guinness until some sane people arrive.”
“You’ll get splinters sitting on that fence,” I replied. “Beck just said I like to torture myself about Bridget and I said stating facts wasn’t the same as self-torture.”
“I’m not sure it’s self-torture,” he said, giving Beck a look that said don’t be so dramatic, “but it’s weird how you just write yourself off as never being able to find happiness because things didn’t work out with the girlfriend you had at nineteen.”
It took all my effort not to stand up and walk out. Was he serious? These guys knew me inside out, or at least I thought they did. Maybe they didn’t at all. Maybe I knew them. Understood how each of them ticked, what their strengths and weaknesses were, but perhaps that knowledge wasn’t reciprocated. Because I wasn’t torturing myself about Bridget. I was accepting responsibility. I wasn’t bitter or broken by what happened. I just understood that I’d messed up and would never be in love again. “What we had was special and that doesn’t come along twice in a lifetime. I’m completely at peace with that. No torture. No drama.”
Gabriel started to chuckle. “Yeah. No drama at all.” He raised the back of his palm to his forehead. “I’ll never love again. It only happens once in a lifetime.”