Total pages in book: 45
Estimated words: 42561 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 213(@200wpm)___ 170(@250wpm)___ 142(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 42561 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 213(@200wpm)___ 170(@250wpm)___ 142(@300wpm)
No, if Devan wants me, I need him to chase me. Just a little.
I switch over to my social media and scroll for a bit. Beautiful images of beautiful people, most of them as carefully curated as my social media feed. I see that a friend tagged her location, and that makes me think of Devan and his insistence that I stop doing exactly that. I sigh and keep scrolling. Everything makes me think of him these days. It’s something I’m going to have to make my peace with, apparently. Having a broken heart might make for some amazing creative projects for artists, but it’s highly overrated for normal people.
I sit up abruptly. Wait a damn minute. What if I…
It feels like such a long shot, but I don’t care. Anything is better than sitting here and wondering if I fucked things up. At least this way, I’ll know for sure if he’s not interested in seeing me again. It will provide some much-needed closure. Then I can truly move on.
Hopefully.
It takes too much to go back to my hotel room and make myself photo ready, but I have a brand to consider and I don’t want any part of this to be in half-measures. When I’m ready, my hair in waves, some lip gloss on my lips and dressed in a tiny white bikini that sets off my newly tanned skin, I go back down to the beach. It takes another thirty minutes to get a shot I like—something that would have been easier if I had one of my preferred photographers around. But I’ve been taking plenty of selfies over the years, and I finally manage to get an image I’m happy with.
Me, looking out over the ocean, the setting sun in the background. It’s not really a happy photo, but that’s okay. I’m not particularly happy at the moment. After a silent debate with myself, I type out the caption, Wish you were here. Then I turn on the location, tagging the resort.
My heart is beating too fast, my breath coming in harsh inhales as if I’ve been running. This might all be for nothing. There’s no way to tell. Maybe Devan really isn’t interested and won’t even notice what I’ve done.
Five minutes later, my phone chirps.
I stare at it a long moment, wondering if I’ve spent so much time thinking about him, I’m not hallucinating his name coming through as a text. Except, no, I’m not, and yes, Devan has actually texted me.
Devan: I told you it’s not safe to tag your location.
I don’t pause to consider my response.
Me: Oh no. Do you think someone might show up?
Devan: We talked about this.
Come on. Understand what I’m trying to do. Maybe he just needs a little push? It’s got to be a good sign that he’s obviously got my account tagged or something, right?
Me: And yet, here I am, tagging my location.
Devan: Are you trying to provoke a response?
Me: Maybe.
Me: Is it working?
I hold my breath, waiting as three dots appear, and then disappear, and appear again. I haven’t misread things. I know that now. We wouldn’t be having this conversation if I had. All that said, I need Devan to take a step further. I need him to give me a sign that this is more than just him being over-protective.
A sign that he actually wants me.
Devan: You’re the one who left without saying a word.
Devan: You have something to say, say it.
Me: I’d rather talk in person.
Devan: Hazel.
Me: You know where I’m at. Come get me.
He doesn’t respond. Not in the next few minutes. Not later that night when I’m tossing and turning and failing to fall asleep because every rustle convinces me that I’m missing a phone notification.
By the next morning, the truth settles in. It’s really over. He’s probably aggravated as hell that I can’t take a hint, and now I’ve thrown myself at him yet again. God, I really can’t take a hint, can I?
I pull on an oversized button-down T-shirt dress and wander down to the restaurant. Ordering myself a pitcher of mimosas might be a tad bit self-destructive because I don’t think I’ll ever drink them again without thinking of him, but the heart wants what the heart wants.
Right now, my heart wants to get messy drunk until I forget all about Devan McGuire.
I get seated in a cute little corner booth. Since drinking without some kind of breakfast is crass, I order pancakes. Out of pure spite, I take a picture of the meal and mimosas and post it on social media, tagging the location again.
After this, I’ll stop. I swear I will.
Ultimately, Devan is right about it not being particularly safe, especially since I’m alone right now, but I hope he sees this picture, thinks about what he described to me, and gets a legendary case of blue balls.