Grounds for Romance (The Coffee Loft Series: Fall Collection)

16. Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Sixteen

Zara

M y life is like a bad scene in a movie.

I fling the balled-up tank top of the Magic volleyball player’s uniform at the wall of my apartment. It unfurrows midflight, losing its momentum, and descends to the floor like the last autumn leaf on a backyard tree. A signal of what’s to come, my least favorite season, winter. Dark mornings, bone-chilling days, and dangerous roads that keep everyone home. I hate winter.

I have a new moniker for Devon; he’s no longer Mister Chaos. From now on, I’ll call him Mister Winter.

Only a person with a soul as cold as ice could do what he’s done. Stare me in my face a thousand times a day and lie through his perfect teeth.

An actor? A freaking act. This entire week, nothing more than a game to him. Which makes me a mere prop. A useless piece of cardboard placed on his stage for him to react to, elicit a laugh from an unseen audience, and proceed on with his charade.

I resist the urge to take a third shower, knowing the only thing that will remove the ick I feel are time and distance. Lots and lots of both.

I tumble off the couch and crawl over to the volleyball top, lacking the strength to stand. I fist the top in my hand and do something I should have done a week ago when Michael bailed on me. I slip it over my head and rise, standing on my knees.

This is all I have left in my collection. The one I’ve poured every bit of energy and hope into over the last few months. Devon has the rest of the collection. He collected it this morning prior to starting his shift. It was my suggestion to have him meet me at the Magic offices in costume. This way, I could concentrate on my presentation. Why did I trust him with something so valuable?

All I have left are discarded versions of prior designs and this one extra player’s tank top. My pride won’t let me pick up the phone to ask him to bring me back what’s rightfully mine. I sink back onto my backside when the realization hits me. I have no idea where Devon lives.

He’s an actor. For all I know, he lives in Hollywood two hours away. For all I know, Devon could be his stage name, and his real name is Seymour or worse, Simon.

The realization crashes over me like a tidal wave, leaving me gasping for air—I know nothing about the man. I ignored every red flag, every doubt. I made excuses for him when I asked questions and all he gave me was silence.

How could I be so na?ve? So blind?

I thought what we had was real. I believed him when he said he liked me. Part of me still does, and that’s what hurts the most.

Knees to chest, I wrap my arms tightly against them, pressing my cheek to them, and close my eyes, praying this is nothing more than a nightmare One, two, three breaths do little to make my new reality disappear.

I search my reservoir and dig deep for the strength to continue. Standing, I smooth down the Magic jersey top and approach the full-length mirror by the door. Stacy renamed this spot the hype spot.

The place where I take a final glance at myself prior to stepping out into the world. The place where I inspect how I look, check my makeup, my hair, and my outfit. It’s where I give myself a daily pep talk, paint on a smile, and enter a world that I pray will finally see me for me.

I stare at myself and realize what I’m doing. What I’ve been doing. Every day, I’ve been putting on a costume. Auditioning for a part, hoping my company, playing the role of a casting director, would choose me. Six times, I’ve stepped onto their stage, recited their lines, and tried to get them to see a version of me that’s different from the script they hold in their hands.

The role they hold calls for a rule follower, someone who designs by committee, someone comfortable with nine-month-long production schedules, and someone who’s willing to compromise every element of a design all in the name of reducing production costs and raising profits.

No wonder they never selected me.

I see it all now. And the only reason I do is because of Devon.

I hate… hate how much just the thought of his name doesn’t make me want to curse but rather cry. I hate that even though I know he was playing a part and kept his true identity from me, I still want to rest the palm of my hand on his chest and get lost in his eyes.

I hate that I know the next time I’m in the Coffee Loft, my eyes will search for him. And disappointment, not hurt, will flood my chest when I don’t find him.

I hate how much I miss him already.

I fist the bottom of the jersey top, ready to rip it over my head. But I don’t. I smooth it back down and twist, looking over my shoulder at the mirror. It’s a beautiful design from every angle.

My chest warms with pride. I did this. By myself. I created a design worthy of a professional sports team. I plant my feet, shoulder-width apart, hands on my hips, a pose Devon taught me. A superhero pose.

Despite the obstacles, the naysayers, and my own doubts, I’ve crafted something extraordinary. And the world deserves to bear witness.

This jersey isn’t just a piece of fabric. It represents my journey. My transformation. It embodies everything I am. Everything I am capable of. Everything I’ve become.

This jersey is me.

This jersey is magic. And it deserves a stage.

Thoughts of skipping out on the pitch evaporate. I won’t let his deceit turn me into a recluse like Xenia, hiding away like cicadas only to emerge every few years. I’m better than that. I’ve worked too hard for too long to give up now.

I don’t need him. My pitch will go on. The world will finally get to see the true me.