Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 147051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 735(@200wpm)___ 588(@250wpm)___ 490(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 735(@200wpm)___ 588(@250wpm)___ 490(@300wpm)
“I’m not. I mean yes, we played in Toronto last night. And yes, I’m flying back from Vancouver.” I say this through a mouthful of candy I can’t stand. My tongue is already itching. I want to spit it out, but the flight attendant already took my glass. Bea is standing in the aisle, looking beautiful, and tired, and really perplexed. Now’s my chance to tell her how I feel, but she looks the opposite of happy to see me. I remind myself that this makes sense because I was such a dick to her when I broke things off. What if she’s only coming home to get her stuff and move to Vancouver permanently?
“Why are you eating Fuzzy Peaches? You hate them,” she asks.
“No, I don’t.” I shove more in my mouth. I don’t know why I’m lying. Other than I’m panicking and didn’t expect to see her for at least another twenty-four hours.
“What are you doing here?” Bea’s eyes narrow. “Why would you fly to Vancouver?”
“Because.” I chew furiously, but my mouth is dry, and swallowing is the worst. “I wanted to talk to you.” If I had something I could spit them into, I might be able to think a little more clearly. I should tell her the truth. All the lying is what got us into this mess in the first place. “But I changed my mind when I landed. I couldn’t even make myself leave the airport or text you. So I got back on a flight home.”
“You changed your mind?” Bea’s confusion shifts to disbelief.
“Yeah.” I swallow the mouthful of horrible candy. “And now we’re on the same flight.” I need to stop stating facts and start saying something that actually matters. But she looks so damn angry. And I don’t want to do this in front of a plane full of people. Especially if she confirms what I already believe to be true: she doesn’t want me anymore.
“You are an asshole of the highest order,” Bea snaps.
“I think we came to that conclusion a long time ago,” I concur. Bea has known I’m an asshole for a long time.
“Miss? Please, I need you to return to your seat.” The flight attendant is standing behind her with her arms crossed.
“I know. I’m going.” She pins me with a hateful glare. “Fuck you, Tristan. Fuck you for being a thoughtless, overwhelming dick.” She looks around, maybe realizing we have the attention of all of first class. “I’m so sorry. Drinks are on him. And snacks.” She points to me.
“Drinks and snacks are free in first class,” says the guy I hit with the Fuzzy Peach.
“Right. Thank you.” She flips me the bird and disappears back into economy.
Well, that went the opposite of how I’d hoped.
“You’re Tristan Stiles, number forty-four, right wing for Toronto Terror,” Fuzzy Peach Guy says.
“Yeah.” My mouth is so itchy, and I think I totally blew any chance I had of getting Bea back.
“Think I could get your autograph for my son? He idolizes you.”
“Sure. Yeah.” I sign his baseball cap and his laptop. “You wouldn’t have an antihistamine, would you?”
“I don’t. Sorry.”
“No worries.”
My mouth is already starting to peel. The next three and a half hours are going to be long.
CHAPTER 29
RIX
Iam fuming. Absolutely fuming. I cannot believe Tristan flew to freaking Vancouver to talk to me, changed his mind, and ended up on the same damn flight home. Having my heart tossed into a meat grinder once is bad enough, but to have him do it all over again less than a week later is more than I can handle. For a second I was excited to see him. Until he went and opened his word hole.
I fucking hate him. HATE him. Selfish, arrogant fuckboy.
As soon as we land, I disappear into the first available bathroom and unleash a nightmare made of refried beans and heartbreak. I spend a good forty-five minutes in there. Ten of them actually using the bathroom, another ten waiting out whoever is in the bathroom with me out of sheer embarrassment, and then another twenty-five after Tristan texts me to tell me he’s at baggage claim. Maybe as a warning? Who the fuck knows?
I send him a series of middle fingers:
Rix
╭∩╮(-_-)╭∩╮╭∩╮(-_-)╭∩╮
╭∩╮(-_-)╭∩╮╭∩╮(-_-)╭∩╮
╭∩╮(-_-)╭∩╮╭∩╮(-_-)╭∩╮
╭∩╮(-_-)╭∩╮╭∩╮(-_-)╭∩╮
╭∩╮(-_-)╭∩╮╭∩╮(-_-)╭∩╮
╭∩╮(-_-)╭∩╮╭∩╮(-_-)╭∩╮
╭∩╮(-_-)╭∩╮╭∩╮(-_-)╭∩╮
╭∩╮(-_-)╭∩╮╭∩╮(-_-)╭∩╮
Eventually, he messages back with a thumbs-up.
The tears start again. It takes twenty minutes to calm down enough to leave the bathroom.
Normally I would take the train home. It’s infinitely cheaper than an Uber or a cab, but my emotional state is unstable, so I opt to spend the extra money. Crying in front of one person is preferable to crying in front of potential hundreds.
I have messages from Essie asking if I made it home okay. And my brother has called twice but hasn’t left a voicemail. I wonder if Tristan is home already. Probably. His place is a short trip from the airport.