When You Loved Me Read online

  When You Loved Me

  Terra Lorin

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  I glanced across the table at my fiancé Peter who stared at my wretched plate of pasta that I hadn’t touched in the last ten minutes. I hoped that the breadsticks were a lot better because it looked like that was all I’d be eating for lunch today. I pulled one out of the vase-like basket in the center of the table and gave it a crunch.

  “Pasta’s not too great, huh?” he asked me, making that sad face he did when I wasn’t happy. I guess my disdain for the overcooked linguini with watery and bland clam sauce was apparent.

  “I’m afraid not. Who told you about this place?” I asked, taking a sip of my Cabernet. Even the wine was more acidic than I cared for.

  “A friend at work. He said he comes here all the time. But then again, he’s cheap, so maybe that’s why he likes it. He’s obviously not a foodie.” Peter let out a single ‘ha’ of a laugh.

  “Yeah, I hate to say it, but either my taste is getting far too picky, or this pasta is just plain crap.” I kept my voice down so the waiter passing by wouldn’t hear me. “If I’m going to intake all these carbs, I’d at least like to enjoy it.”

  “Sorry about that.” I could tell he felt bad for suggesting the place. Well, how the hell could he know it was crap?—so it wasn’t his fault.

  “It’s okay, you never know until you try, as they say. At least these breadsticks are edible and quite good actually.” I nibbled on another one.

  As I crunched on the buttery appetizer and took sips of my wine, Peter gave me a look that was rather sheepish and I thought it a bit odd. He then put his attention to his own plate of pasta that he diligently forked into his mouth, regardless of how terrible it was. Either he must’ve been hungry or his spaghetti with marinara sauce was a hell of a lot better than my dish.

  I could sense Peter wanted to say something yet didn’t know how to start. He looked nervous and it worried me. I had a feeling bad news was coming my way.

  “Is something wrong, Peter?”

  His eyes lifted from his plate and looked at me again. He took the napkin from his lap and wiped his mouth. Whatever remaining chewed up particles of food he was working on, he downed with a few sips of water.

  As Peter’s baby blues stared into my auburn eyes, he said, “Brooke, I don’t know how to put this gently, so I guess I’m going to just come out and say it.”

  Oh, oh. Not good. Did he lose his job? Did he find out he had a terminal illness?

  He paused.

  I held my breath.

  “I’ve met someone else.”

  I’ve met someone else? Is that what he just told me? I stared at him blank-facedly—I was in shock. Not that I would be any less shocked had it been his job or cancer, but this one took me for a huge loop since it hadn’t even occurred to me to put it on my list of bad news choices.

  Why?

  Because Peter and I had been together for five years and we were going to be married next year. We were actually supposed to get married this year but we put off the wedding because he wanted to help pay for it and was expecting some extra income to come in soon—or so he said. Now I wondered if he hadn’t delayed the wedding because of his affair.

  The bastard!

  “Say something,” he said. Peter never liked it when I went silent on him, especially during an argument.

  My mouth was agape and my mind reeled. “What is there to say? Would anything I say change your mind? I think not,” I uttered. I did so rather coldly, I might add.

  I didn’t cry; I wasn’t going to become hysterical or cause a scene—I felt numb.

  “Do I know her?” I asked with a dead, monotone voice.

  “No,” is all he said. I could tell he felt bad. Good, he should!

  “How long?”

  “Since I’ve been seeing her?”

  I gave him a ‘duh’ kind of look and said in a sarcastic tone, “No, her hair length.”

  “I thought you could’ve meant how long I’ve known her,” he said in defense of his stupidity.

  When he paused too long, I asked impatiently, “Well?”

  His eyes lowered to stare at his plate. “It’s been six months.”

  “You’ve been cheating on me for SIX MONTHS?” I didn’t know whether I was upset that six months was quite a long time to have the wool pulled over my eyes, or whether it was too short to make a decision to choose her over me. Me, of FIVE freaking years together—well, guess the wedding’s off, folks.

  “I’m sorry, Brooke. I don’t know what else to say. I’ve fallen in love with her. But I love you, too. That’s why I took so long to tell you. I couldn’t make up my mind because you and she together, have everything I want in a woman. I didn’t want to lose you, but she finally gave me an ultimatum. She’s offered me a lucrative position in her father’s company and it’s too sweet to pass up, but the terms were . . . I had to break it off with you.”

  “So, if she didn’t give you an ultimatum, you’d still be deceiving me?” I was furious. I wanted to throw the plate of pasta on his head and run out of the restaurant—but I kept my composure—I wasn’t going to show him any weakness on my part. Plus, I wasn’t into having a drama attack and making a scene.

  “No. I mean . . . I don’t know.” Peter didn’t know what else to say to me anymore.

  There was a sharp pain in my heart. Of course it could’ve just been indigestion from too many garlic breadsticks or the acidity of the wine, but I wanted so much to blame it on him.

  “So what is it about her that you don’t get from me?” I asked as I put a hand on my ribcage just under my left breast. I needed both an antacid and to know what it was that drove him to seek her attentions.

  “Are you okay?” he asked when he could see I was in pain.

  “Yeah, yeah, just a little heartburn. Don’t worry about it,” I said. I scrunched my eyebrows in annoyance. “Go on, I want to know.”

  I could see he was hesitant to tell me but he knew better than to avoid my question. Besides, he owed me an explanation—that’s the least he could do for breaking my heart.

  “Well, for one, she makes me feel needed. You do everything yourself, you don’t ask for my help, I feel like if I weren’t around, you wouldn’t care.”

  “What the hell kind of crap is that?! Of course I’d care. I love you!” I felt the tears welling up.

  A few people within earshot turned their heads to stare at us. Peter glanced to the side for he could sense them, too. He lowered his head as if shamed.

  I wiped the tears from my cheeks with two quick swipes of my hands, lowered my voice, and said, “I’m not helpless. I won’t ask for your help if I can do it myself. Would you want me to call on y
ou for every little thing I do?”

  “No, of course not.” His eyes moved around as if finding the right words to convey his feelings. “I don’t know how to explain it, but you make me feel . . . worthless.”

  OMG, I wanted to slap him in the face.

  “I make you feel worthless? What a victim statement if ever I heard one.” He wasn’t laying that garbage on me. “I’ve been nothing but supportive of you all these years. When you wanted to quit your other job to work for this upstart company, I knew it was going to be a risk and a huge cut in pay, but I stood by you and encouraged you to go after what you wanted. I have never once gotten in the way of what you wanted to do.”

  I was livid.

  “I know you have, and I appreciate that about you. But that’s not what I mean.” He seemed frustrated.

  “So, what do you mean, then? Feeling worthless is a strong statement.”

  “I mean . . . I can’t be the man who takes care of you, who you depend on. I’m not your knight in shining armor, I guess. You even make more money than I do. A man wants to wear the pants in the house, but I always feel like I’m the one wearing the skirt. All those things make me feel worthless.”

  “So you are begrudging me for my independence? You’d rather I play a helpless female who needs to be rescued?”

  “I’m not saying that. You’re not hearing me.”

  “It sure sounded like that to me.”

  “Well, this is why I can’t talk to you. You don’t hear what I’m saying.”

  “I think I hear you loud and clear.” At this point, I was seething, but I managed to yield out a little empathy. “Okay, maybe I haven’t made you feel needed, but I didn’t know this was that important to you. Why didn’t you tell me this before?” I asked.

  “I’ve mentioned it from time to time.”

  “If you did, it was always in jest. Saying stuff like ‘Hey, Muscle Lady, let me carry that for you’ isn’t exactly letting me know how you really feel. I never realized that it was affecting our relationship.”

  “It’s more than just carrying things for you. I want to feel that a woman needs me around or else I feel like I’m nothing to her. This is how I felt with you. Can you understand?”

  Peter’s eyes lowered to his plate, but he had lost his appetite. Hopefully, with both our uneaten meals, the restaurant will take a hint that they seriously needed a new cook—notice I said ‘cook’ and not ‘chef’—this was NOT the work of an experienced chef. But I digress.

  Peter once again looked up at me. “I realize it’s my ego, but I can’t help the way I feel. Darla doesn’t make me feel that way. She makes me feel needed and wanted.”

  Hmm, Darla. Cute name. I wondered if she looked as cute.

  “As for your making less money than me, that’s not my fault. I’m not going to make less income to save your masculinity. That’s just ridiculous.”

  “I know it sounds ridiculous, and of course I don’t expect you to make less money to help me feel better, but it’s the way it is and I can’t help how I feel.”

  “Yes, you can help it, but you’re not willing to,” I said. How many times had I encouraged him to see a counselor or psychologist about his self-worth issues. His parents screwed that up for him and he needed to work out his past to overcome it. But, again, his ego got in the way. He said he wasn’t about to spill his guts to no stranger.

  I let the issue drop and got back to the subject of his cheating.

  “So, how did you meet this woman? I assume you turned to her for a sympathetic ear?” I was feeling somewhat bitter now, knowing he must’ve talked about me to her. Did he tell her about our sex life, too?

  “Does it matter how I met her?” he asked in a soft voice that cracked just a little at the end of his question. I knew it hurt him to hurt me. I didn’t doubt that he still loved me. We had shared some awesome times together and you can’t just throw away five years in a relationship without having some angst about it. Well, unless I was a bitch that drove him crazy—which I wasn’t, just for the record.

  “Yeah, I guess it doesn’t matter. Why torture myself with too much detail, eh?” I said with sarcasm.

  I gazed at his face and studied it one last time, since I figured I might never see this man again after today. Peter wasn’t what I’d call a handsome man; he was average looking, but had a cuteness about him. His nose was slightly crooked from a fistfight he’d gotten into in high school, but aside from that, nothing else on his face stood out in either direction—good or bad. He had blue eyes and blonde lashes that matched the color of his eyebrows and hair. No, you couldn’t say that he immediately turned women’s heads—he had the kind of face that grew on you—but what hooked you in was his charm. I was sure it’s what snagged Darla; it sure snagged me.

  “I guess it’s a good thing we waited on buying a house,” I said after he hadn’t responded to my sarcastic comment.

  A little over a year ago, a few months after Peter proposed, we had gone house hunting. Even though there was more than enough room for the three of us in the house my parents left my older brother Landon and me, it would be hell living with the two of them under the same roof. They just didn’t get along. Mostly on my brother’s part—he didn’t like Peter from the get-go.

  As far as Peter’s place, well, his studio condo was far too small for me and my stuff. At the very least, I needed a spare room the size of a living room for my musical equipment—mainly my baby grand piano.

  So, at my instigation, Peter and I figured that if we found our dream house, we’d buy it together even if we weren’t married yet. At the time, both of us thought we’d be spending the rest of our lives together—sigh—the optimism of a happy couple.

  A few months later, in the midst of our house hunting, Peter had gotten an offer from a friend of a friend to get in on a startup. He’d get a small wage that was enough to live on, but the rest he’d get in shares. The expectations of this innovative company were high, so Peter felt it was a risk worth taking to join them. Unfortunately, as with most things, it never works out exactly as planned, so there had been delays in some of the fruits of their labor.

  “I’m so sorry, Brooke. The last thing I ever wanted to do was to hurt you,” Peter said. I believed he was sincere.

  “Well, unfortunately, these things don’t leave the parties unscathed, do they? I’m certainly hurt,” I said.

  Knowing that if I stayed any longer, the tears would flow, I decided I’d had enough of this conversation and said to him, “I’m going to leave now. I hope she can make you happy. I really do wish you well.”

  And I meant it. I didn’t say it with any sarcasm this time.

  “Even after you’ve dropped this bomb on me, I can’t hate you. I’ve loved you too long for that.” I threw a twenty dollar bill on the table, “Goodbye, Peter.” I left the restaurant.

  Why give me the bad news in a restaurant? Why not ask me to come over to his condo?

  Well, the answer was simple. He figured I wouldn’t get all theatrical on him. Peter could never handle it when I cried. He knew I had a thing about appearances, so I was more likely to contain myself in a public place. Well, he knew me well and played his cards right.

  Overwhelming emotion flooded over me as I got to the parking lot. I sat in my Mini Cooper, stared at the windshield of the BMW parked in front of me, and wept.

  Chapter 2

  I first met Peter Blanchard when he took a seat next to me one day in my Art 101 class towards the end of my freshman year. The art professor brought in two nude models for the class to sketch.

  “Hmm, I would’ve thought they’d bring in some better looking models,” he said without looking at me, and instead, continued his sketch.

  I glanced over at him and then at his drawing. Not bad—referring to his sketch.

  “Well, I’m sure they aren’t getting paid all that much, so we’re not likely to get photo shoot models,” I replied.

  “The girl’s not bad, but the guy’s dick is a
little scrawny, don’t you think? They could’ve at least gotten someone a little more substantial. It’s not like we’ve gotta conserve our pencil lead.”

  I nearly let out a laugh. Who was this guy? He sure was bold with the context of his opening convo with me.

  With his eyes still transfixed straight ahead, he added, “I wonder how he’s suppressing his boner. He’s gotta be aroused, seeing her like that.” The two models faced each other; their bodies juxtaposed.

  If I had been drinking something, I’d have splattered it all over my sketchpad and the seat in front of me.

  Okay, I’d humor him. “Excuse me? And are you getting a boner?” I asked.

  “What do you think?” He now looked at me point-blank.

  My eyes widened with surprise. “Um, I’m not sure I wanna go there.”

  I glanced at the guy next to me on the other side to see if he had heard our conversation—if he had, he didn’t let on. I was sure the students in the seats directly in back and in front heard it. I chuckled under my breath. I had to admit—the brazen young man intrigued me.

  “We see a naked woman, we get aroused. That’s the nature of our gender. I bet you, all of the guys in this lecture hall have got boners right now.” He looked around the room.

  “You might lose that bet. What about the gay guys?”

  “Nope, I’d still win. They’d be getting their boner from the naked guy.”

  Oh, that’s just great. Now I was going to be checking out all the guys’ crotches when they got up to leave the lecture hall. I’d better clear that thought out of my head and quick. I could hardly concentrate on my sketch during this little dialog.

  “You have a class after this?” he asked me, keeping his eyes on the models as he sketched.

  “Nope, I’m finished for the day.”

  “Me, too. You wanna grab a cup of coffee or something?” He still kept his eyes straight ahead.

  “Wow, you’re a fast worker. I don’t even know your name.”

  “I’m Peter. What’s yours?” He finally looked at me.

  I hesitated. I wasn’t used to such boldness.

  “C’mon, I’m a nice guy.”

  “That’s what you say. You’re a jury of your own peer.” I immediately wondered if that made sense.