Crush Interrupted: A Second Chance Romance Read online

  Crush, Interrupted

  A Second Chance Romance

  by

  Zaida Polanco

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  CRUSH, INTERRUPTED

  First edition. February 10, 2019.

  Copyright © 2019 Zaida Polanco.

  Written by Zaida Polanco.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  One: Rosie

  Two: Alex

  Three: Rosie

  Four: Alex

  Five: Rosie

  Six: Alex

  Seven: Rosie

  Eight: Alex

  Nine: Rosie

  Ten: Alex

  Eleven: Rosie

  Twelve: Alex

  Thirteen: Rosie

  Fourteen: Alex

  Fifteen: Rosie

  Sixteen: Alex

  Seventeen: Rosie

  Eighteen: Alex

  Nineteen: Rosie

  Twenty: Alex

  Twenty-one: Rosie

  Twenty-two: Alex

  Twenty-three: Rosie

  Twenty-four: Alex

  Twenty-five: Rosie

  Twenty-six: Alex

  Twenty-seven: Rosie

  Also By Zaida Polanco

  One: Rosie

  It was the kind of day where everything went only slightly wrong - not wrong enough to be catastrophic, but enough to wear down my already fragile mental state. It was the brain equivalent of death by a thousand paper cuts.

  First, I had decided to push my trip up by two days, placing myself on standby for an earlier flight. I came off the standby list, only to get bumped from the flight at the last minute and spent hours at LAX waiting for the next one. Then, I spilled iced coffee all over myself after I’d already checked my bag, so I was forced to purchase an overpriced ‘Hollywood’ tank top from a kiosk. At least I could have a dry upper half.

  Once I finally did make it on a flight, the only seat they had available for me was a middle seat. For a five-hour flight. Not only that, but I was seated between two bros who were traveling together and talked over me for the entire journey from LAX to JFK. I offered to switch seats, but they looked at me like I was the crazy one.

  Moral of the story? Don’t try to get cute and change your travel plans at the last minute, because that shit never works. Needless to say, once I arrived in the city, all I wanted was to sink into a peaceful bubble bath and drink half a bottle of wine. Fuck it, maybe the whole bottle.

  I slowly climbed up the apartment stairs, panting and cursing whoever invented the fifth floor walk-up. Finally, I reached the door and followed the instructions I’d been given to retrieve the key from the lockbox. I rested for a moment, trying to catch my breath, silently berating myself for not working more cardio into my life.

  I pushed into the heavy door with a grunt, dragging my suitcase in behind me. I immediately noticed a loud Alabama Shakes song playing from a record player in the living room.

  I looked around and observed the telltale signs of life: beer bottles and half-empty glasses of wine, a discarded pizza box and... clothes on the floor?

  Hold up, what?

  My heart started racing as I quickly cycled through various scenarios that would explain this current situation. Scenario one was that maybe Cari came home unexpectedly. But that made no sense, considering Cari had just texted to say she arrived in Barcelona. That would be a weird thing to lie about. Especially since she had specifically offered her place up to me while she went on this European quest to find herself.

  Potential scenario two was that Cari was in such a hurry that she left the place in this current state of disarray. But I would bite my own arm off if that turned out to be the truth, as Cari was the neatest, most put-together person I’d ever known.

  Scenario three was... an intruder? That option should have made me afraid, but instead I just grew more frustrated by my shitty luck. The last thing I wanted to do was fight off some burglar who, by the looks of it, seemed to be enjoying their night. Then I’d have to file a police report and call Cari who would then get worried and potentially cut her trip short which would potentially cut my relaxation time short — none of it seemed worth it, to be honest.

  I toyed with the idea of just leaving the apartment and pretending I’d never been there, but I knew I couldn’t do that to Cari. Plus, I wanted a bubble bath, dammit! One of the perks of having a fancy friend who lived in an amazing condo was the fact that she had a huge spa bathtub that I intended to use every day while I stayed there. I had already planned out the books I’d read while in that tub!

  The thought of giving up that bath luxury angered me once again. Not today, Satan.

  As I surveyed the mess in front of me, the record reached its end and silence filled the air. Until that silence was punctured by a low moan coming from the bedroom. Oh shit, maybe I was scared after all. Was someone getting tortured in there?

  I quickly looked around for a weapon to grab onto before settling on a rather small butcher knife. Seriously, Cari? You have no bigger knives? I inched my way toward the noises, wondering for the millionth time what shitty thing I had done in a previous life to have everything go wrong at the same time.

  In addition to my possible impending death and dismemberment by a burglar, the rest of my life was a bit of a hot mess. The production company I’d been working with had just unceremoniously terminated my contract citing ‘creative differences’ (aka they hated everything I turned in).

  At the start of the year, I was just finding a minuscule level of success in my writing career, which had taken me years to achieve, and I was riding high. This was gonna be my year, baby! With the new project and some other small gigs I had secured, I finally had the balls to leave my full-time day job (and the amazing benefits that job provided) and focus on being a full-time screenwriter.

  Everything was great for a while - I was finally getting paid real American currency to write words for people to read (which had basically been my goal since I realized I wanted to write professionally). The aforementioned ‘real American currency’ was paid as part of the commencement fee for my contracted television pilot, which is when they PAY YOU TO WRITE THE THING YOU WANT TO WRITE. Whew, sorry, but can’t you feel the excitement? Isn’t that great? It WAS great.

  So, instead of sneaking pockets of time to write before and after my long days at my boring ‘real’ job and constantly being too exhausted to do so, I was now given a chunk of money (not a lot, but more than I had ever seen in my bank account at one time) to just... write. The idea was so freeing that I almost didn’t know what to do with myself.

  With that freedom came intense, soul-crushing pressure. All of a sudden, I couldn’t write. Whereas I felt like I had a million ideas and no time to write them when I was working full-time, I suddenly had nothing but time and just. Couldn’t. Do. It.

  At first, I was pretty calm about my writer’s block (which is what I assumed this was). I let myself have some time to just catch up on sleep and pamper myself and get brunch with long-lost friends. But the longer it went on, the more terrible it felt. I had deadlines looming but my creative well still felt empty. My anxiety over not writing something good was then compounded by a depressive episode, and things got even worse.

  Still, I was nothing if not a people pleaser at my core, so I cobbled together some words on a page and submitted a first draft of my pilot not too long after my first deadline. The fact that I even missed the deadline in the first place should have been a clue that all was not well in my brain. I NEVER missed deadlines!

  The p
roducers hated it.

  Which did not surprise me obviously. We had long talks about what I could do to fix it. But, the whole time, what I couldn’t say to them was “I can no longer write and am crippled by anxiety, and the shitty words I’m turning in are a result of me knowing that I have a deadline but still being unable to make my brain cooperate with me.”

  After a few more rounds of me continually failing to deliver the quality of work they’d wanted, they had decided that I wasn’t upholding my end of the contract (see previous statement re: missing deadlines). So, they ended it.

  Look, I wasn’t so in denial that I couldn’t acknowledge my own role in this. I knew it was my fault. I knew it. Or rather, it was my pesky brain’s fault. Unfortunately, by the time I was able to clear the fog enough to visit a psychiatrist and start a regular therapy practice, the damage had been done.

  Just because I had an idea that it was coming, didn’t mean that the process didn’t hurt. Because, let me tell you, it hurt a crapload.

  Rationally, I knew it wasn’t the end of the world. My agent had a few other production companies she wanted me to pitch to, though we had both decided that I should take some time to really get myself together before jumping back into the fray again.

  I still had a little money saved from the canceled project, so I wasn’t yet at the ‘freak out’ level of unemployment. Besides, I was resilient - I had been broke before and I could manage again if I needed to (though I really hoped it didn’t come to that).

  So, finding myself suddenly out of a job or any real commitments, I figured I should pay a visit to my best friend Cari who lived in New York. Except, that fancy bitch had already booked an impulse trip to Europe to do some ‘spiritual journey’ or whatever.

  To be quite honest, I was a little worried about her. Cari was the smartest person I had ever known, and the hardest worker to boot. She knew early on that she wanted to be a doctor, but did she go to med school like a normal person? Of course not! She went to Harvard for a combination MD / PhD program - an 8-year program! - essentially making her the smartest, most-badass person alive. Anybody who says otherwise can fight me.

  Cari had been in New York doing her residency for the past two years and then suddenly decided to take an extended vacation to head to Europe. Obviously, any normal person would have needed a vacation long before this after working so damn hard for so long, and I was thrilled that she was finally doing this for herself. Still, she was a little cagey when I tried to get more info on why she was doing it now. I got the sense she was hiding something from me.

  Unfortunately, I had been stuck in my own depressive funk for a while, so I know I had not been the best kind of friend. I vowed to do better.

  She urged me to make the trip to NYC even though she wouldn’t be there, and offered me her glorious condo so I could take some time and have a change of scenery for a bit. Cari knew all about my struggles over the past year, and she encouraged me to use this time as a period of reflection and rejuvenation.

  I immediately said yes. I was so excited to have some dedicated “me time” (hashtag self-care and all). I mean, who was I to disobey a doctor’s orders?

  My plan was to take advantage of this new space and try to focus on replenishing my creative well away from LA. This plan included some activities meant to work on my mind, body, and spirit as well. I was armed with a ton of skincare products, some basic yoga exercises and stretches, and Michelle Obama’s new book. If anyone could motivate my ass, my forever first lady just might be the one to do it.

  I also had big plans to work on some new writing projects and was actually looking forward to just letting my ideas flow without the input of a producer or pressure of a deadline.

  By the end of my time in the city, I figured I’d finally have dewy skin from all the Korean sheet masks I’d planned on doing, plus I’d be Zen as a motherfucker from the reflection and meditation (oh yeah, I also planned on finally developing a meditation practice, once I figured out what that meant). Things were looking up for old Rosie Gonzalez.

  Except, there was the small issue of the interloper / potential murderer in Cari’s apartment to deal with.

  Right.

  I reached the closed door of one of the bedrooms — Cari’s guest room — and slowly turned the knob, terrified of what I would find. The low groan continued, and it very much sounded like someone was in pain.

  Unable to prolong this any longer, I swung the door open and nearly dropped the knife in shock. I yelled and quickly averted my gaze, somehow feeling embarrassed for interrupting the strange man masturbating in my friend’s apartment.

  Wait a minute. There was a strange man masturbating in my friend’s apartment! I shouldn’t be the embarrassed one! Who was this motherfucker?

  I spun back around to confront him and possibly stab him. Once I was able to look away from his massive and admittedly beautiful penis (which, by the way, he had not stopped stroking), I ran my eyes up the man’s tattooed torso, all taut and muscular. As if in slow motion, I finally reached his face and this time actually did drop the butcher knife, which thankfully missed my foot.

  I met his gaze, those hazel eyes so familiar to me, but so foreign at the same time. I couldn’t help the thrill of lust that coursed through my body. This man was... oof, he was smoldering.

  Wait.

  A.

  Minute.

  Nononononono, this couldn’t be happening. So many feelings raced through me in that moment, namely arousal, shame (due to said arousal), embarrassment, horror, frustration, exhaustion, and slight nausea.

  Because this wasn’t just some random, hot, naked guy with a magnificent penis in my friend’s apartment.

  No, this was a hot, naked guy with incredible abs and a magnificent penis who happened to be Cari’s twin brother and my one-time close friend.

  Okay so now you know who it is, why are you still focused on his magnificent penis, you creep?

  I quickly exited the room and muttered, “So sorry, so sorry. I’ll let you finish,” before grabbing my purse and bolting from the apartment.

  Two: Alex

  “Rosie?” I called after her, quickly pulling my jeans on, trying not to wince as I tucked my very unsatisfied cock away.

  What was Rosie doing here? I thought she wasn’t due until tomorrow. Was she okay? She’d looked sad. Maybe I was misreading her face. It all happened so quickly.

  I initially thought she was just a fantasy, as I’d definitely fantasized about her nearly every time I jerked off, so I just assumed this was another continuation of my recurring dreams. Maybe I was more buzzed from the wine than I’d initially thought? The only thing stopping me from blowing my load at the most inappropriate time was the fact that I finally realized she actually was standing in front of me. Though, to be honest, my dick had definitely gotten harder when I first spotted her in the doorway, so it had taken me a bit longer to stop stroking myself.

  My arousal was quickly replaced by complete shock. She shouldn’t have seen me like this. The first time she sees me as a sexual being is when I’m masturbating like a teen in my sister’s guest bedroom? Just my luck.

  Rosie Gonzalez was my dream girl, pretty much since 7th grade, when her family relocated to Memphis for her dad’s job and settled just down the street from our house. My twin sister, Cari, quickly befriended her, and soon I was surrounded by her in my house nearly every day.

  The three of us became a bit inseparable, mainly because Cari and I already were inseparable and did most activities together. We just folded Rosie into our day-to-day lives and the rest was history.

  I was infatuated with her, much in the way boys sometimes have crushes on their sister’s friends, I suppose. The issue here was that Rosie wasn’t some unattainable older crush - she was my age. She was my peer, my friend. We took classes together, went to football games together, and talked about any and everything under the sun. Like I said, inseparable. But this went well beyond a crush for me.

  Despite the f
act that we were kids, by the time we started high school, I knew without a doubt that I was in love with Rosie Gonzalez. The problem was getting her to love me back.

  When she and Cari went off to the same college together - Tulane University in New Orleans - I decided to go somewhere else entirely. The three of us had been talking about Tulane for ages. My sudden change of heart was more than a little surprising, I assume. But after the prom debacle, I needed to put space between Rosie and me. I had to stop pining for her. I had to.

  Now, we were 30 and I was tired of fooling around. I wanted her more than ever. And this felt like my last shot to make a move.

  Or, at the very least, to tell her how I’d felt all those years ago.

  I heard keys fumbling at the door and quickly opened it, coming face-to-face with Rosie, who had definitely been crying. She moved past me and stood in the foyer, her arms crossed, her stunning brown eyes locked on mine. Even after all this time, it was hard for me to not notice how beautiful she was. She looked pissed and grumpy and stressed out, but she was gorgeous anyway.

  “Hi RoRo, long time no see,” I smiled at her, unable to stop myself from calling her by one of her old nicknames. She exhaled deeply, her breath causing one of the loose curls around her face to puff up comically.

  With her perfect little nose all scrunched up, she looked like an adorable, frustrated cartoon bunny (in fact, her abuela used to call her ‘conejita’ when she was a kid, which means ‘little bunny,’ and this is one of maybe a trillion Rosie facts I’ve stored up over the years).

  I chuckled, knowing I was tempting fate by not taking her anger seriously. She was just so damn breathtaking and cute and perfect all at once.

  Rosie was a little pipsqueak of a woman, no taller than 5’3 (she always claimed 5’4 but I wasn’t buying it). I’d been nearly a foot taller than her pretty much since puberty, and she used to hate when I’d make jokes about her needing a kid’s menu or a booster seat.

  Still, despite her short stature, there was no way anyone would have ever mistaken her for a child. Nope. She was allllll woman, and had been for a very long time. Too long, in fact. I mean, come on. How unfair was it that I had to endure puberty while constantly around my knockout of a friend, a girl who had developed incredible boobs pretty much overnight. Ugh, I’ll still never forget it. It was the summer after 7th grade, and we spent it the way most kids spent their summers back then – outdoors - playing, swimming, and riding bikes. One of our neighbors had a pool, so we took advantage of that constantly. And I swear, it seemed like one day everything was normal, we were all chill. Then the next day, BAM! she had boobs.