Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 134212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 671(@200wpm)___ 537(@250wpm)___ 447(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 671(@200wpm)___ 537(@250wpm)___ 447(@300wpm)
“The cost of his surgery runs into tens of thousands, Luke.”
“There’s more than enough in that account. Use what you need.”
She shakes her head, thrusting the check back into my chest. “I can’t do it.”
“You can and you will.”
Her hand drops, her glassy eyes staring into mine. Her lip wobbles. Shit, please don’t cry. I can’t promise I’ll keep myself together. “Why can’t I have both? Billy better, and my friend too?”
I can only smile at her naivety. “If you were mine, I wouldn’t let you be friends with a man who’s in love with you.” I swallow, fighting to keep my emotions in check, and Lo’s lip goes from wobbling to vibrating. “I can’t do it to your husband,” I whisper. “I can’t do it to you.” I reach up and stroke down her wet cheek, relishing this one last touch. “And I can’t do it to myself, either, Lo.” I inhale, drop my hand, and walk past her quickly, back to the kitchen to find my coffee. Only because it’s too early for alcohol. Standing with my back to the door, I roughly brush at my eyes again, shouting at myself repeatedly. I feel her behind me.
“Luke?”
I don’t turn around. Can’t look at her. I finally understand how Pops felt letting go of his Milly Rose.
“Luke, please look at me.”
But her pleading like that will always win. I turn and find her, unable to hide the tears in my eyes.
She blinks and swallows. “I’ll never forget you,” she says jaggedly, quickly turning and collecting Boris.
Leaving to find her happiness.
While I watch mine walk away from me.
Chapter Thirty
They say life’s a bitch and then you die. I believe them. This past week has been a constant bitch. Work’s been a bitch, Amanda has been a bitch, even Pops has been a bitch. If I was to get mowed down by a car right now, it would be about right. My last thought makes me physically flinch. It’s only been seven days since I watched Lo walk out of my house. It feels like seven years. It doesn’t bode well for my future. I feel like some callous bastard has cut my heart from my chest and is brandishing it before my eyes, taunting me, laughing, telling me I’ll never get it back in one piece.
I’ve been drunk. A lot. It was only eight a.m. when Lo walked out of my house and my life. But I got drunk, nevertheless. The time didn’t matter. Hours and days have melted into nothing. My life feels like it’s melted into nothing. I miss her so terribly, the ache constant. The pain relentless. And when I saw a few days later that the check had been cashed, all that pain twisted into a conflicting mixture of anger and guilt. I should be feeling fulfilled, happy that I’ve done the right thing. Saved him. Instead, I feel like I’ve sacrificed my life for another man. And it sucks to high heaven.
And yet I know I mustn’t think like that. This isn’t about me.
For you, Lo.
Arabella jetted off to New York, but Todd remains an unwelcome house guest. I just want to be alone, but there’s no chance of that happening. He’s using Amanda as a perfect excuse to hover on the periphery of my life. I should be thankful. It would be easy to do something incredibly stupid, like relent to her incessant attempts to get me back in bed. Lord knows, I’ve been drunk often enough to let my control slip. And despite the fact I hate her, hate her for the things she said to Lo, she’s a means of escape. A way to forget. And, actually, she wants me.
But, thankfully, Todd’s made sure I’ve not given in to my unbearable sense of loneliness, confiscating my mobile every time he’s seen me with a tumbler of Scotch in my hand before trying his hardest to distract me with something or other. He knows I’m not thinking straight.
The only constructive thing I’ve done these past few days is research. It’s been a great way to pass the painfully dragging hours and stay off the drink. It’s also taken me on a journey through time. If I can’t have my Milly Rose, then Pops should have his. I feel like I’m clutching at straws again. Milly Rose must be in her late eighties. There’s no guarantee she’ll still be alive, but I have to find out. Hence the reason Pops is being a bitch. I’ve picked his old brain to pieces, spinning him some story about building our family tree. I’m being sly, but if Milly isn’t still alive, I don’t want him to know. I’ll let their story die with her, and let Pops keep his memories fond and blissful.
My research has taken me to the library, the news office, and through an arena of websites and online records. Nothing has cropped up. Not one damn tiny thing. It’s not surprising. She would have married, changed her name, and I have no way of knowing when that happened. I’ve searched through every marriage record over a fifty-year period, from 1945 to 1995, and come up blank. My eyes are crossed and my brain aching. But, like I’ve said, it’s a great distraction.