"I did the right thing, Mike. Why does it hurt so much?" Julia was crying on Mike's sofa,
still in the puffy jacket and knit hat she'd worn to protect her from the Montana cold. She
had come straight here from the Bozeman airport because she'd needed someone to talk
to. The idea of returning to her empty house to wallow in self-pity was not an option.
Much better to wallow in self-pity here.
As Colin had predicted, she'd had to stay overnight in San Jose and had taken a
flight out that morning. She'd had a two-hour layover in Salt Lake City, most of which
she'd spent mired in misery, fueled by airport junk food and the bad coffee she drank on
the plane.
Now that she was home, she was seriously reconsidering her decision to flee
California. What had Colin thought when he'd realized she was gone? Had she handled
things all wrong? Should she have stayed? And, most importantly: What if Colin Delaney
could have been the love of her life, and she'd thrown all of that away?
"Here." Mike handed her a roll of paper towels he'd retrieved from the kitchen. "I
don't have any Kleenex, so this'll have to do."
She took the paper towels gratefully, tore one off of the roll, then wiped her eyes and
blew her nose. She was being stupid, and that's exactly how Mike was looking at her: as
though she were seriously lacking in any kind of common sense.
"I know it's dumb," she said, holding the wadded-up paper towel in her fist. "I
know. I'm the one who decided to leave. It was my decision. I should just … suck it up.
Because I did the right thing!"
"Did you, now?" Mike was looking at her with his head cocked, using the expression
he most often put into use when one of the guys on his crew had screwed up and Mike
wanted to make him squirm under the pressure of his scrutiny.
"Yes!" Julia threw her hands up in exasperation. "Yes! The thing between me and
Colin was causing problems for everybody! Colin actually got into a fistfight with his
brother! And Drew was so angry, Mike. So angry. I just got him back, and things are so
fragile between us. I can't lose him again."
Mike cocked his head and peered at her. Everything in his expression said he
thought that what she'd said was utter bullshit. "Since when do you let your brother tell
you who to sleep with?"
"Since … since I started sleeping with my brother's cousin! That's when!" She
waved her hands around for emphasis.
"It's not the usual scenario, I'll give you that," Mike said thoughtfully.
"I know!"
She sniffled a little, tore another sheet off of the paper towel roll, and dabbed at her
eyes. Evening was darkening the sky outside Mike's window, shutting down the gloom
of the day.
"I did the right thing," she said, her voice small.
"Uh huh," Mike said. "If you're so sure about that, then why are you crying?"
She didn't look at him. She focused instead on the wadded paper towels in her
hands.
"Because I'm an idiot. That's why." She sniffled again.
"You'll get no argument from me."
She let out a harsh laugh, then shook her head at the folly of getting involved with
someone like Colin Delaney. "It wouldn't have worked anyway," she said. "He's a
billionaire, for God's sake. And I'm just … me. I'm just this … this mess!" She gestured
toward herself, toward the epic disaster that she'd become.
"Well, now you really are being an idiot," he said.
"Hey!"
"Take off your coat," he said as he got up and headed toward the kitchen. "I've got
beer and Doritos."
Colin left Cambria the day after Julia did. He'd claimed that he had to get back to
Southern California to work on the Palm Springs land deal. And that was true, but it was
only part of the story. He'd also left because he was afraid he'd punch Drew McCray in
the face if he didn't.
Colin knew it had been Julia's decision to leave, and he knew that she was an adult
who was responsible for her own choices. But he doubted she'd have made this particular
choice if her brother hadn't given her such a ration of shit.
Drew was at least part of the reason Colin felt the way he did—a substantial part—
and it was hard to look him in the eye without wanting to throttle him. And since
physically attacking Drew would be counterproductive to his own goals of restoring the
man to his rightful family, Colin thought it best to pack his things and go.
"You could always call her. Or, if that doesn't work, go out there and talk to her,"
Sandra had said when Colin announced his intention to return south. She'd stood there
with her hands on her hips, fuzzy slippers on her feet, that challenging look in her eyes.
"I'm not leaving because Julia went home," Colin told her. "I have work I've been
neglecting while I've been up here."
"Boy, you might think I'm stupid, but from where I'm standing, I'm not the one who
doesn't have any God-given sense," she'd groused at him. She'd narrowed her eyes.
"Unless what you two had together was just sex."
"Mom!" If there was one thing that could make this situation worse for Colin, it was
talking to his mother about his sex life.
"Well, was it?" she demanded.
"No. No, it wasn't. At least, it wasn't for me." And there it was … this conversation
was officially more awkward.
"I didn't think so. I guess I know you well enough to read the signs. Well, if you've
got real feelings for the woman, you're a fool if you don't go out there. And I didn't raise
any fools. Except maybe Liam." She'd abruptly turned and scuffed off into the kitchen,
leaving him to wonder exactly what kind of fool he was going to be: the kind who walked
away from a woman he had real feelings for, or the kind who ran partway across the
country for a woman who didn't want him.
He'd decided to be the first kind of fool, because although it was painful, it was a
hell of a lot less humiliating.
He'd left Cambria the morning after Julia's departure, and he'd arrived at his condo
on the waterfront in the Gaslamp Quarter just before dinnertime. He let himself in the
front door, flipped on a light, and dropped his luggage onto the floor with a thump.
The contrast between his parents' house and his condo was stark. Where the ranch
house was warm, a little run-down, and decidedly lived-in, the condo was all cool, clean
lines and modern décor. His decorator had done the place up in black and gray, chrome
and glass. A large-screen TV dominated one wall, and another was floor-to-ceiling glass
looking out over San Diego Bay and the bridge to Coronado Island.
It looked like the cleaning lady had been here while he was gone; the tabletops were
gleaming, and there were fresh vacuum lines in the carpeting.
Too bad she hadn't brought groceries. Colin crossed to the stainless steel
refrigerator, peeked inside, and saw a jar of olives, a carton of milk that had gone bad,
and a bottle of Dijon mustard. And a single bottle of local craft beer.
He twisted open the beer, took it to his sofa, and plopped down with a sigh.
It was fucking lonely here.
And by here, he meant the condo, the neighborhood, the city of San Diego, and the
whole of Southern California. Maybe even the state, the country, the world.
He didn't have friends here; not really. He had people he knew who he sometimes
drank with, or went sailing with, or sat with to watch some game or another that he didn't
really care about. He had hangers-on, people who kept themselves within his orbit
because they thought his wealth might somehow rub off on them. He had women he
dated—the glossed-up Barbies. But he didn't have family here. He didn't have real
friends. He didn't have people he genuinely cared about, and who genuinely cared about
him.
Sure, he'd come here initially to escape his family, so that part was on him. But his
intention had been to create a home for himself somewhere that was outside the Delaney
field of gravity. He'd learned two things: This was a residence, but it wasn't really a
home. And the Delaney field of gravity was so all-consuming he wouldn't be free of it
even if he were on the moon.
He carried his beer into the bathroom, then stripped off his clothes and took a long,
hot shower without bothering to unpack. Afterward, he dressed in sweatpants and a Tshirt
and ordered some food for delivery. While he was waiting for it to come, he
composed a text message for Julia. Then he deleted it. Then he wrote another version.
Then he deleted that.
God, he was a fool. He felt like he had in high school when he'd asked Karen
Stewart to the junior prom, and she'd waited until the day before the dance to tell him she
was going with Eric Romero instead. He felt gutted, as though his insides had been
scooped out and replaced by nothing but self-loathing and regret.
The worst part—the part that made the least sense—was that he'd only known Julia
for a couple of weeks, and they hadn't even really been dating. They'd slept together
once. Once! And yet she had a hold on him that had turned him back into that awkward,
crushed seventeen-year-old who hadn't had a date for the prom.
He tried calling her again—he'd tried several times since he'd gotten the news that
she'd left—and it went straight to voice mail, as it had each time before. He decided to
leave a message this time.
"Julia? Ah … I just … I wanted to make sure you got home safely. Call me."
He sounded pathetic, even to himself.
Love—if that was what this was—sucked.