Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 104081 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104081 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
“Probably true. But what if you didn’t have to lose him at all?” She nudged her shoulder up until I lifted my head and looked at her. “What if he stayed? What if you made it?”
I covered my heart where it fluttered at the thought. “I felt this way once before, you know. I thought I was getting married, I thought we would be together forever.” I shook my head. “I think that part of me is broken now. I don’t know how to access it.”
Livia frowned, and we were both quiet for a long moment before her eyes widened and she lit up. “Oh, my God. I’m a genius.”
She jumped up from the couch before I could ask what the hell she meant, and then she ran back to my bedroom. I heard her rummaging through something, and then a curse before a loud thump rang out.
“Liv?” I called, dragging my ass off the couch to go get her. But she swept through the living room before I had the chance, a familiar box tucked under her arm as she grabbed my wrist and tugged me toward the sliding glass door that led to my back yard.
“Come on.”
“Livia, what are you doing with that?” My chest was even tighter now in the presence of the box.
“I’m not doing anything,” she said, plopping it on my outdoor table. She tore the lid open. “You are.”
“Wha—”
“Here,” she said before I could ask anything, taking out the first item she found and shoving it into my hand.
I froze the moment it touched my skin.
It was a golf ball, neon orange, from one of my first dates with James. We’d gone putt-putting, him showing off and me letting him because I liked that he wanted to show off for me. At the end of the night, he’d drawn a black heart on the ball he’d won with, and I’d kept it in my purse for longer than I’d ever admit.
“Okay…” I said, staring at it.
“Throw it.” Livia said, pointing across my yard toward where my compost bin was. “Or stomp on it or light it on fire or get a sledgehammer and destroy it.”
“A sledgehammer?”
“Listen to me,” she said, grabbing my shoulders in her hands. “You’ve cried over this fucker. You’ve gone to therapy. You’ve picked yourself up and you’ve started building a career and you’ve moved on. But you can’t let go of him, of what he did to you, until he’s no longer taking up any space. Not in your head, your heart, or this stupid box you keep shoved in the top corner of your closet.” She pulled out a picture frame of me and James next, pressing it into my chest. “It’s time to break shit, bitch.”
As soon as the words left her mouth, she pulled out her phone and thumbed through it until Limp Bizkit was playing that exact song she’d just referenced, and she gave me a nod of encouragement, bopping her head to the beat.
“Livia, this is—”
“BREAK SHIT, BITCH.”
I let out a long sigh, because I did not see how this was going to fix anything at all. But I took the frame from her anyway, and when I looked down at it, I paused.
It was a photo of me and James at the beach, my head on his shoulder, his arms wrapped around me, both of us smiling. That was the night he’d asked me my ring size. We’d spent the weekend with friends, and it was one of those perfect kind of weekends when the weather is gorgeous, and the days are long and lazy, and the nights are hot and wild. It felt like a turning point in my life. The man I loved had asked for my ring size, and we were joking about how many kids we wanted.
For so long, I looked at that photo and felt my stomach ache with how happy I’d been in that moment, with how scared I was I’d never be that happy again.
But looking at it now, I only thought one thing.
He’s not Vince.
It felt wrong, to see me in another man’s arms. I thought about the picture Vince took of us on the boat, and I compared my smile in that one with the one I stared at now.
I didn’t even recognize her anymore, the girl on the beach.
But I knew the girl on the boat.
I shivered.
The longer I stared at the photograph in my hands, the more upset I became. I didn’t want his arms around me, because they weren’t Vince’s. It was… gross. It was disturbed. It was not okay. It was wrong in every possible way.
And that made me laugh.
It was a short laugh at first, one that bubbled out of my chest. But then I was cackling, shaking my head as tears from laughing filled my eyes this time.