Total pages in book: 184
Estimated words: 176002 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 880(@200wpm)___ 704(@250wpm)___ 587(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 176002 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 880(@200wpm)___ 704(@250wpm)___ 587(@300wpm)
Josh’s arm is strong around my shoulder, holding me tight as I finally break and retch and cry, wrecked. I’m probably snotting all over his suit jacket, but he doesn’t care, just soothes me like I’m a young, broken teenager in his arms.
That’s what I feel like, all over again.
“Time to go home,” he says, when I finally manage to start breathing properly. He tears some toilet paper from the roll and hands it over, and the smeared makeup that lands on the tissue only confirms what a wreck I must look.
“You shouldn’t have to see this,” I tell him, embarrassed. “This is my bullshit with Connor, not your pathetic mess to handle. You shouldn’t have to deal with this crap over my stupid ex, because I don’t even love him anymore. I love you. It’s just…”
I struggle for words.
How can I explain it?
I love the man sitting at my side more than I could ever say, and Connor is in the past, like a piece of shit I’ve been trying to scrape off my shoe, but he won’t disappear. He keeps appearing in my path, jumping out like a nightmare.
“Trying to move on from someone doesn’t mean they can’t hurt you,” Josh says. “They are still armed and loaded, with enough ammo to shoot you down.” He kisses my head. “Come on, baby, let’s get out of here. I’ve already made our excuses, don’t worry.”
I cringe again at the thought of them all discussing it at the table. Mack will probably be snort laughing, not that I give a fuck. Or I shouldn’t. It’s another stupid, painful memory that rises up from the depths, though. Being laughed at when I was at school, like I was a stupid, worthless freak, everyone discussing my life like it was a free-for-all.
This crowd aren’t like that, though. Tiff and Eb would slam down anyone who tried to slate me, and I know it, just as I’d do the same for them.
Josh helps me to my feet and flushes the toilet. Luckily it was only wine I sicked up, not a main course and dessert. Small mercies.
I catch sight of myself in the big mirror, and let out a dry laugh. My eyeliner and mascara are all down my cheeks. I could be in The Crow. I try to wipe it away with tissues and it kind of works, at least enough to get out of here without every head in the place turning to stare at me.
“Ready?” Josh asks, and I nod as I take his hand.
A couple of women give horrified back steps on their way in when they see Josh in here with me, but he appeases them with a smile.
“My apologies, ladies. I’m leaving now.”
“I needed him,” I tell them. “I was, um, being ill.”
They give nods as we pass them by, and I hurry as quickly as I can through the restaurant, down the stairs on a mission to get out of here and into a cab. I want to go home. Now. I need to be at home in my PJs, safe on the sofa and out of view.
It’s only when we’re in the cab I get a flare of regret.
Why did I let that prick wreck my time, again?
Why do I give a shit that he’s singing a song about me, shaming me over bullshit that isn’t even true?
Shock, yes. Fear, yes. But pain, really?
WHY?
I should be in the Mulberry, having fun, not wailing over a jackass who screwed me over, again.
“I’m not even going to bother mimicking the lip chew,” Josh says, and I sigh.
“I feel like an idiot.”
“Why?”
I shrug. “I hate the fact he can make me feel like this. He isn’t worth it.”
He brushes some stray hair behind my ear. “If I suddenly saw Amy crooning on a multi-million view video about me, and how I’d destroyed her soul, I wouldn’t be feeling all that great myself, Ella.”
“Especially if she was telling the world you were a hooker.”
“Hmm.” He pauses. “I wouldn’t give too much of a toss about that, actually. She could tell whoever she wanted that I fuck people for a living, but if she was hyper melancholic about how I’d screwed her over, lying like a bitch, that’s another matter.”
“Really?” I look at him. “You wouldn’t give a shit who knew?”
He doesn’t so much as bat an eyelid. “No.” He strokes my hair again. “Are you ashamed of it?”
His question cuts through my pain enough for me to ponder it. Am I? No. Not day to day. Richard Jacobs had me feeling like crap, embarrassing me and trying to use it for his advantage, but did it work? No. The jerks outside my old place, jeering at me on their bikes like assholes – did it work? No. It wouldn’t do anymore. I’d give them a middle finger and laugh it off, maybe even flash them a tit and say it was out of their price range.