11. Roland

It seemed like a case of wrong place, wrong time, but what else was new? I was starting to feel like The Scarlet Hotel would always be the wrong place for me.

I'd come in early to cover someone's shift, but there was no way I could stay now. It didn't matter that he didn't love her. All I could see when I closed my eyes was the way she'd touched his arm, like she owned him, leaning into his body and whispering sweet nothings in his ear just loud enough that I could hear them. As soon as the mayor was headed for the door, I'd mumbled something to Emily about feeling sick, then rushed away from the desk. She didn't try to stop me.

I was proud to say I managed to hold the majority of my tears back until I was safely in the staff room. As soon as the door closed behind me, though, all bets were off. The floodgates opened, my grief and frustration spilling down my cheeks in a torrent. Gods, I was such a fucking masochist! Why did I keep holding on to hope? I collapsed onto a bench, a ragged sob tearing out of me.

Even over my sobbing, I heard Emily's voice shouting down the hallway, "Sir? Sir! You shouldn't go in there right now. Please! Haven't you done enough?" I loved my friend for trying to protect me, but she should've known better. There would be no stopping him.

The door swung open immediately after. Emerson stormed in, eyes wild, then he spun around to close the door behind him, flipping the lock.

I buried my face in my arms. "Go away," I blubbered. I couldn't look at him, because if I caught even one glimpse of remorse in his eyes, I would never let go. I would keep giving him chance after chance, and at some point, I had to say enough was enough. I was worth more than that.

I heard him cross the room and crouch in front of me, then he tried to pry my hands away from my face. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean any of what I said."

I scoffed a watery, snotty sound. "Didn't you? If you wanted me to get the hint, I heard you loud and clear. Message received." I tried to blindly push him away, but he kept a firm grip on my wrists, giving me a little shake.

"Roland, will you listen to me?" He was getting frustrated or maybe desperate; was there a difference? Either way, he had me trapped here between his hot body and the bench, and I was trying very desperately not to pay attention to the way I seemed to gravitate toward him, like a satellite, forever orbiting a planet but never meeting. No matter how much I fought him, my body had taken on a mind of its own and was falling into him, totally against my will.

I will not look at him. I cannot forgive him. I refuse to love him.

Emerson reached between us and gripped my jaw, turning my face toward him. "Open your eyes and look at me."

"No, and you can't make me," I huffed in childish stubbornness, by far the most immature words I'd ever said.

He sighed. "You're right. I can't." The moment his lips touched my forehead, I knew I would lose whatever battle I was fighting with my heart. He stroked my cheeks, my neck, my back, until I collapsed against him, my tears soaking into his rumpled suit. My sobs eventually evened out, my tears drying. He didn't tell me everything was going to be fine, make promises he couldn't keep, and he didn't even shush me or tell me to stop crying. He just held me through all my tears, bracing against the force and waiting for the tidal wave to pass.

"I think I loved you from the first moment I saw you," he whispered. "Years, Roland, and I've loved you every day." He moved to sit beside me without breaking contact. I halfway crawled into his lap, and he let me, his fingers smoothing through my hair. "The hardest part in all this is that it doesn't matter if I love you. And it doesn't matter if you love me back."

I pulled back, eyes puffy, and finally looked at him. He looked just as bad as I felt, his own eyes red-rimmed, his unblemished skin splotchy with rosy patches, and it looked like he'd forgotten to shave today. I'd never seen him this disheveled. "I don't understand. Why doesn't it matter? Whatever is going on, why can't we work through it together?" I gripped his lapels, trying to keep him here, even as I could feel him pulling away.

He put his hands over mine and squeezed. "You deserve so much better than me. I'm doing you a favor." Then he pried my fingers off his jacket and worked his way out from under me, setting me aside with the utmost tenderness.

"A favor?" I echoed as my feet dropped back to the floor, the word triggering something deep inside me. "Excuse me? A fucking favor?!" I surged up to my full height and stood toe to toe with him, tilting my chin up to stare him in the eye. "Well, thank you so much, Emerson. That's so thoughtful of you, I really appreciate it," I seethed, injecting as much sarcasm as I could into my words. "The way you kissed me, fucked me, told me you loved me, and now you're marrying someone else. What a fucking prince." He flinched but didn't step back. "Now let me do a favor for you," I snapped. "I quit."

His eyes widened. "No, Roland, you can't—"

"Oh, I can, and I did." I spun on my heel and stalked over to my locker, grabbing my few possessions out of my locker and shoving it all into my bag.

Emerson went on and on behind me, begging me to stay, to reconsider, but I did everything I could to tune him out. Disbelief had me reeling. Did I really just quit? Pride made me strong, though. I would not take it back.

I forced myself to look him in the eye, to imprint this memory onto my soul. "Goodbye, Monsieur Holland," I said with finality and a calmness that didn't at all match how I felt on the inside. "I wish you and your wife the most happy of endings."

"Roland, please," he choked out, his fa?ade cracking.

"No. You were right. It's better this way. Now I can finally move on with my life."

For so long, I'd been asleep. I'd had this dream of being with Emerson, and even when I was awake, I was living inside that dream. Now, though, it was like the bubble had popped. My feelings for him felt sharp and jagged, tearing at my insides, but through it all, my eyes were finally open.

Emerson was not mine, and he never would be.

Oh, and also, I no longer had a job, so that was bad. Fuck.

The whole way home, my emotions played a tug-of-war inside my chest, waffling between regret, anger, and cool, crisp relief. I had no idea where I would be tomorrow—likely applying for jobs—but one thing I knew for certain was that at least I wouldn't be mooning over my stupid sexy boss.

As distracted as I was, I forgot that I'd been avoiding my neighbor, so instead of tiptoeing past her door on the way to my apartment, I was stomping. Just as I passed her door, it creaked open, light spilling into the hallway.

I panicked and bolted for my door. "Not so fast," she called after me in her no-nonsense tone. "Get your ass in here."

I deflated even further, turning to look over my shoulder at her. "Can we not do this today? I just quit my job."

Her eyebrows hiked halfway up her forehead, doubling the creases in her skin. "But you love your job."

I sighed, my eyes burning with the threat of tears. Great, as if I hadn't cried enough already. "It wasn't the job I loved," I whispered raggedly. It was my boss.

She nodded once then stepped back. I thought that meant she was going to just let me get on with my wallowing, but she waved a hand to usher me inside. "Come on. Drinks are on me."

"Do you mean tea?" I asked, stepping into her apartment, as familiar to me as my own home. I hated to admit, it made me feel just a tiny bit better.

She scoffed, closing the apartment door behind me. "Tea is for losers. Scotch will put hair on your chest." She pulled open her cabinet and pointed up to the bottle on the top shelf. "Be a dear and grab that for me, would you?"

I did as she asked and brought the bottle down, then poured a tiny amount in the glasses she set out. She speared me with a look and tipped the bottle further until the glass in front of me was far too full.

"Cheers," she said, tapping her glass to mine. "To new beginnings."

"Right. To new…" I couldn't even say it. I didn't want a new beginning when I didn't see anything wrong with the old one. I brought the glass to my lips, the fumes burning my eyes. Forcing myself to take a small sip, I grimaced at the burn and set the scotch aside. "I'm not really much of a drinker," I explained.

"Neither am I, but sometimes, a situation calls for it, and I get the impression this is one of those times."

She nudged the drink back my way, but I shook my head. "I don't think alcohol is going to fix this."

I hated the look of pity she gave me. "Honey, why did you quit your job?"

"I'm in love with my boss, and he loves me, but he's getting married to someone else anyway." Even as I choked on a laugh, the tears pooled again; I promised myself they would be the last tears I shed over him. Before she could give me some kind of advice about how I should let him go, good riddance, I added, "And I'm pretty sure the bride-to-be is blackmailing him into it."

Blinking, she tipped her glass back, draining it in one go. "Well… that certainly is a bit of a pickle." Then she reached across the counter and took my untouched glass, throwing that one back as well. She didn't even wince. "It's no wonder you weren't interested in my grandson."

"I'm sorry, Collette. Alan is very nice. He just isn't Emerson."

She waved away my apology. "The heart wants what the heart wants. No apology necessary." She pursed her lips in thought, then reached for the bottle and poured herself one more shot. "So… what are we going to do about this bitch? You're not going to just let her take your man, are you?"

"I—I mean… what other choice do I have?"

Her grin was full of wicked intent. "Why, honey, you fight fire with fire, of course."