Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 133224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
“Because she’s suffering, and I feel sorry for her . . . but I did warn you.”
“When did you warn me?” I scoff.
“All along I told you that she wasn’t ready. Remember, hurt people hurt people.”
“What was that bullshit, anyway?” I roll my eyes. “Why didn’t you just speak English and spell it out for me? It would have saved me a whole lot of heartbreak. It goes like this: Listen, Blake, Rebecca is still in love with her ex, so you should steer fucking clear of her at all costs.”
“Believe me, I tried,” Henley fires back.
“She is not in love with John,” Antony snaps, disgusted. “Are you crazy?”
“All I know is that she’s not in love with me.”
“You know that’s not true,” Henley says. “She’s just sorting through some shit.”
“I don’t care, anyway.” I shrug. “I’m getting back on the dating scene. Rebecca who?”
Henley winks and clinks his beer with mine. “Attaboy.”
Rebecca
I lie on the couch and scroll through my phone. My finger hovers over the name.
Blake.
It’s been seventeen weeks since I spoke to my best friend. And I want to tell him all about the things I’m doing to try and get better.
All the silent tears that fall.
Can he feel my love from here?
I go to yoga and meditation and therapy, and I’m keeping a journal, and Daisy and I walk twice a day . . . and . . .
I miss him.
More than I’ve ever missed anything.
I have this deep ache in my heart that won’t go away, and I fear that I’ve ruined my life forever. For how can I ever feel whole again if I don’t have him by my side?
But then the coin flips, and I feel insecurity creep in, and I know that I can’t go back to that place.
Not now, not ever.
So I’ll stay in my lonely bubble for one.
It’s safe here.
My finger hovers over his name . . . What if I messaged him just to say hi?
Would he answer?
I throw my phone onto the floor to rid myself of temptation and let out a deep, deflated breath as I hold up the remote to the television.
Netflix, my constant companion.
Blake
The light shines through the window, and I squint as I try to get my bearings.
Hazy images of last night dance through my mind, and I look over at the bedside table to see two wineglasses, one with the red lipstick still on it.
Fuck.
My stomach turns, and I pick up my phone and scroll through my numbers. My finger lingers over the name Rebecca.
I have to hear her voice . . .
Just once.
I can’t stand it one day longer.
If I can just hear her voice . . . then . . .
I stare at her name, and I desperately want to press it.
Could I . . .
No.
I get up in a rush and tear the sheets off the bed in disgust. I march to the laundry room and throw everything in the washer and fill it with disinfectant.
Every time is the same.
I get into the shower, and I soap up and scrub my skin with vigor until it’s red and raw. I scrub and scrub and scrub.
I feel dirty, so fucking dirty.
The necessary evil is about to fucking kill me.
Why does everything feel so wrong now?
Trapped in purgatory with no way out, I slide down the tiles and sit on the floor.
The hot water falls over me like a dark blanket.
Physically in New York, emotionally back on Kingston Lane.
Mentally fucked wherever I go.
Seven months later
“Yeah, and then at halftime, they got the goal.” I push through the door of the bar; it’s Friday night, and I’m having drinks with some colleagues from work.
New York has grown on me; work is amazing, and I’ve made some great friends.
Things are better . . . I am better.
“So what, the ref was at fault?” Andrew asks.
“Absolutely.” I roll my eyes. “And then to top it all off, he missed the shot.” We wait at the concierge area. “Hello, table for four, please,” I tell the waiter.
“That will be a few minutes. You can take a seat at the bar while you wait, if you like.”
“Sure thing.” We make our way through as we keep discussing the game in great detail and take a seat at the huge, horseshoe-shaped bar.
“Four Heinekens, please,” Stuart tells the bartender.
We keep chatting and get our beers, and eventually the waiter comes over. “Your table is ready, sir.”
“Thanks.” I stand, and as I go to turn, I see a familiar face at the opposite side of the room. Wearing a tight red dress with her hair down and curled, she’s sitting at the bar.
Rebecca.
She smiles softly, and before I can stop myself, I’m walking over to her.
“Hi, Blake.” She smiles up at me.
“Hi.” I frown.
“You look good.” She smiles as her eyes drop down to my toes and back up to my face.