Must Be Love: (Nicole and Ryan) (A Jetty Beach Romance Book 1) (17 page)

I should have seen my relapse coming. I know the signs—what to look for. But that's the thing about depression. It sneaks in and waits, hiding in the shadows. When it senses weakness, it doesn't pounce. Instead of hitting hard and fast, out in the open, it slithers in through the cracks. It lodges itself in your vulnerable places and takes root. Before you know it, you're slogging through its depths, and it can be hard as fuck to pull yourself out.

Nicole leaves for Seattle the next day, assuring me she has a place to stay with a friend from work. I think about driving up with her, maybe staying the week. I have a shoot on Wednesday, but I can reschedule. In the end, I hold back. We shared a couple of amazing days together, but I’m rushing. I’m falling for her headlong, and when I crash back to Earth, it’s going to hurt. Better to keep my distance and let her go. I'll see her in a week. After that, we'll see what happens.

Tuesday dawns and I stay in bed half the morning. Getting up doesn’t seem too important, so I don’t bother. My brother calls and I ignore him for a few hours before finally calling him back. I don’t answer when my mom tries to call me either, but I text her to say I’m busy and I'll talk to her tomorrow.

The days go on like that, and weeks go by. I don’t sleep well at night and spend my days tired and irritable. Nicole comes down every weekend. I offer to come up and see her, but she’s rooming with a friend and says it won’t be very comfortable to have me stay there. She also turns down my offer of booking a hotel. I respect that, although I feel guilty that she has to do all the driving. Still, I live for weekends. I shuffle through life during the week, knowing that as soon as she shows up at my door, I'll feel better. I'll feel alive again.

And I do. We watch movies, take naps, eat out, and make sweet, hot, exquisite love—on my bed, on the floor, in the studio. Even once on the beach, although it’s cold as shit. Afterward, we take a hot shower together and decide maybe that’s an experience best not repeated.

And every Sunday night, she packs her duffel bag, gets in her car, and drives away. Back to her life.

There’s no way this is going to last.

It pisses me off that I’m so despondent over her. I shouldn't need another person, even a person as incredible as Nicole, to make me want to get out of bed in the morning. How did I survive before I met her? I was doing well. I bought the church, worked hard on renovations, kept my business going. I traveled to shoots on location, and took on new clients when my studio was finished. My parents invited me to dinner at least once a week, and it didn’t seem like a chore to go visit.

After Nicole has been gone a few weeks, I find myself spending long days on my couch playing
Halo
. I look up at the clock and realize I spent an entire day just sitting, doing nothing. And the worst part is, I don’t really care.

Late on a Thursday night, I get a text from Nicole. I hardly spoke to her all week. She had an event at work and she put in long hours getting everything ready.

Hey, event is done! Went great. Boss gave me tomorrow off. Mind if I come early?

It should make me happy. I should be excited at the thought of seeing her tomorrow, instead of waiting until Saturday. We'll have three days together, instead of two. Isn’t that good news?

Then why do I stare listlessly at my phone, not sure what to say?

Sounds great.

Yay! I'll get up early so I can be with you sooner.

I figure I should reply, but I feel like the emptiness is eating me alive. I toss my phone back on the couch and stretch my legs out. Have I eaten dinner today? I have no idea. I don’t really care.

***

"Hey, sleepyhead."

Nicole's voice rouses me and I turn over. I was sleeping in my clothes. I rub my eyes and blink at her. "What time is it?"

"Ten," she says. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," I say. "Just overslept. How was the drive?"

"Amazingly, not bad," she says, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "I figured traffic would be terrible on a Friday morning, but I guess I got lucky."

I sit up, still feeling groggy. I was awake, staring at the ceiling, until at least four last night. "Good."

"Are you okay?" she asks.

No. I'm sinking. Don't believe what I say.
"Yeah, I'm fine. Sorry, I just had trouble sleeping last night. I could use some coffee."

"Well, you're in luck," she says, getting up. She walks over to a table and grabs two coffees. "I picked these up on the way. They're still pretty hot."

I take the brown cup with the Old Town Cafe logo on the side. I smile at her, because it seems like what I should do.

"You can take your time, but I figured we could go into town later," she says. "I need to turn in the event permits for the festival, and since I'm here on a weekday, I thought I could do it in person."

"Okay."

She narrows her eyes at me. "Are you sure you're all right?"

The concern in her voice cuts through my haze. "Yeah, I'm sorry Nicole. I haven't been getting enough sleep." I stand and slip a hand around her waist, pulling her close. "I missed you."

"Mm, I missed you too," she says between kisses. "This is more like it."

***

We spend the day in town. Working with her on festival business makes me feel slightly less useless. She chats with a few shop owners, talking about ideas for sprucing up their outdoor decor. She smiles and laughs, and is personable and sweet. It takes a lot of energy for me to engage with people. After an hour, I want nothing more than to go back home and sack out on my couch. But Nicole has enough enthusiasm for both of us, and by the afternoon I simply follow along, hoping she'll be finished soon.

"I'm starving," she says after talking to the owner of the florist shop for what seems like hours. "Want to get some food?"

"I guess." The thought of sitting in a restaurant is strangely abhorrent. "Why don't we just go back to my place? We can get something to eat there."

"I think you might have a half-eaten bag of pretzels and some beer at your place, but that's about it," she says.

A spike of irritation runs through me. "Well, you showed up here a day early. What am I supposed to do? Keep my fridge stocked in case you decide to come by on a whim?"

She looks at me with her mouth open. "Seriously? What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing," I say. I know I’m being short with her and she's done absolutely nothing to deserve it, but that only makes me angrier. "I just don't want to go to a fucking restaurant right now."

"Great. Do I get asshole Ryan this weekend? I'm so glad I decided to come for an extra day."

She stomps back to my car and gets in the passenger side. I get in and start the car, refusing to look her direction. From the corner of my eye, I see her sitting with her arms crossed, her legs angled away from me.

We drive to my house in silence. What the hell is wrong with her, anyway? I didn’t ask her to come today. For all she knew, I have work to do. Does she expect me to just drop everything because she has a day off?

When we pull up the driveway, she flies out of the car almost before I stop. I don’t get out. What is wrong with me? Why am I convincing myself I’m mad at her? I don’t have anything to be mad about.

"Fuck!" I beat my fist against the steering wheel. I’m such an asshole.

Nicole comes charging out of the studio, her bag in hand. She fumbles with her keys, throws open her car door and tosses her bag inside.

I lurch out of my car in a panic. I can’t let her go like this. "Wait, Nicole. Please."

She stops, her back to me, her hand on her car door.

I walk over to stand behind her. I’m close enough to touch her but I don't dare. "I'm sorry. Really, I'm so sorry. That was all me. I don't know what's wrong with me lately. Please don't go."

She slowly turns to face me. "What's going on with you? Every time I drive down, I don't know who I'll see when I get here. Will it be sweet, sensitive Ryan? Will he kiss my fingertips and tell me how much he missed me? Or will it be grumpy, asshole Ryan, the guy who snaps at me for no reason and can't be bothered to get out of bed in the morning."

"I know, you're right," I say. "I get like this sometimes. It's stupid. I'm sorry. It isn't your fault."

"You need to just tell me if you're feeling bad," she says. "I can see it, you know. I'm not blind."

I step closer and brush her hair back from her face. "I know you're not. You're amazing and wonderful and I don't deserve you."
No, I don't. Not today, not tomorrow. Not ever.
I close my eyes and brush my lips against her cheek. "Please don't leave."

She leans her mouth close to my ear. "All right. I'll go inside with you. Then you have five minutes to convince me to stay."

She nibbles on my earlobe, and my dick stirs. I'll have to do my best.

The sound of the keynote speaker fills the room, but I have no idea what he’s saying. He’s some bigwig from Microsoft. Or he was. I’m not quite sure, since I find it more or less impossible to focus on what he’s saying. My mind is in a million other places, rather than in the large hotel conference room.

I’m working, but there isn’t much left for me to do. The charity lunch seems to be going well. Table assignments are done. Programs have been passed out. The hotel caterer set up on time, and the menu was followed. The low buzz of conversation filled the room while well-dressed executives networked, gossiped, and prepared to donate to the cause of the week. For a second, I can’t remember what this lunch is for. I look down at the clipboard in my hands. A youth organization. Good. This is good. Meaningful. It’s a worthy way to spend my time.

I sigh and lean against the check-in table at the back of the room. I’m grateful it’s Friday. The last couple of months have felt like leading a double life, and it’s starting to wear on me. I moved in with my co-worker, Andrea, renting the tiny extra bedroom in her condo. It’s nice of her to let me stay, and the temporary arrangement suits me. She doesn’t need me to sign a lease, just pay her month to month until I find a new place. I looked up a few potential apartments online, but between work during the week and spending my weekends with Ryan, I haven’t made much progress on actually finding somewhere else to live.

I picked up the last of my things at my old apartment. It was so surreal. Jason at least kept his promise to be away. He also made no effort to hide the fact that another woman lives there. The pink bottle of hand lotion next to the kitchen sink, the stylish cream-colored trench coat hanging by the door, the new throw pillows on the couch. Maybe that should bother me, but it doesn't. I feel strangely at peace.

Someone had put my clothes in a large suitcase, and two moving boxes waited near the door, my name scrawled across them in Jason's handwriting. I stood in the center of the apartment, looking around. It still had the same furniture, pieces Jason and I had bought together. I didn't want any of it. I probably could argue to get half, or at least push to split up some of what we amassed over the years. But none of it felt like mine. It was as if it belonged to another girl—a girl who’d lived a pretend life.

After loading up the boxes in the back of my car, and throwing the suitcase in the trunk, I left. I contemplated tossing the boxes unopened, but they probably contained a few mementos I'd like to keep. And just like that, I closed the book on a story I thought I'd written perfectly when I was seventeen: Girl meets boy. They fall in love. They navigate the trials of early adulthood, get college degrees, start successful and lucrative careers, get engaged, throw a grand wedding, buy a house in the suburbs with a picket fence.

It was a nice fantasy. But it wasn’t real.

The speaker apparently makes a good point because the audience claps while he pauses. I flip the papers on my clipboard to the back where I slipped in my to-do list for the Jetty Beach Art Festival. The event is still a few weeks away, and I think I have most of it under control. I have to admit, I’m pleased with myself, and the lack of a real committee has given me a lot of creative freedom. I ordered new banners to replace the old, fraying ones. A graphic designer friend of mine whipped up a great design with a new logo. I have them in the trunk of my car, and I can’t wait to bring them down and show them to some of the business owners. I talked the city into letting me block off traffic to the main plaza downtown so we can set up more tents, and I recruited food trucks to come in for the weekend. Ryan arranged for street performers and a great little local band to come play, and worked with the local shop owners on sprucing up their storefronts with hanging flower baskets and potted plants. All in all, it’s shaping up to be a great weekend.

"I feel like I've heard this speech before."

The man's voice startles me and I inadvertently gasp.

"Sorry," he says, leaning close so he can speak quietly. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"No, it's fine," I say and I nearly gasp again when I see who it is. Jackson Bennett. I've seen him at a few events over the years, but even if I’d never seen him in person, I would know who he is. He’s literally famous. A local executive, he has a reputation for being a rich playboy. Really rich, apparently, the type that begins with a
B
. A few months ago, he was on the cover of Seattle Weekly as the Pacific Northwest's most eligible bachelor.