Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81170 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81170 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
But when I spoke to Sloane earlier tonight, she apologized profusely for hurting me, never once throwing Margaux under the bus when it’s crystal clear to me now that Margaux is the one who put her up to switching roles in the first place.
Margaux masterminded the entire thing.
Margaux was the one who stood to benefit from the charade, not Sloane.
And Theodora’s pressure certainly didn’t help things.
There was a comment Margaux made . . . something about how she told Sloane to be “boring.” Thinking back to our initial date, Sloane was definitely holding back. At the time, I chalked it up to first-date nerves. Now I know she was simply following orders.
And I was so convinced the key chain and apartments were signs that I was the one who pushed for a redo.
I was the one who took her to the loft.
I was the one who brought her to the symphony.
I kissed her first.
I’m the one who advanced this entire thing every step of the way, and while Sloane never once protested, I’m beginning to think she never had a choice in the matter because the promotion was still up in the air.
Margaux needed Sloane to carry on—but Sloane wanted to carry on.
Like Sloane said earlier tonight, all of it was real to her.
As much as I want to hate her, as much as I try to scrape every thought of her from my mind and scrub every moment we shared from my memory . . . I can’t.
It was real to me too.
Still is.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
SLOANE
Opening the box of my freshly delivered pizza Friday night, I’m met with a mess of melted cheese, stringy and chunky and sticking to the top of the cardboard. The delivery guy must have dropped this at some point.
Sighing, I grab a fork from the drawer because I’m too hungry to wait another forty-five minutes for a replacement pizza. I salvage what toppings I can, scraping them off the underside of the lid and back onto the naked crust, and then I situate myself at the empty kitchen table.
With a topped-off glass of pinot as my only company and the ticking clock on the wall promising this day—no, this week—will be over in a few hours’ time, I finish my literal hot mess of a dinner and manage to not check my phone a single time. Considering it’s all I’ve done these past two days, it’s an impressive feat.
Ever since things exploded in all of our faces Wednesday, I can’t seem to shake myself out of this. And it isn’t that I’m heartbroken and feeling sorry for myself—I mean, I am. I was falling for this man. Never mind that we’d only been in each other’s lives for a month. We were connecting. We were on the same page. We were an accidentally perfect match.
But my thoughts are more of the guilt-ladened variety.
I hate that he’s hurting, that he’s embarrassed, that he feels like a fool.
He may or may not forgive and forget me, but I’ll never forget my part in this. Hopefully maybe one day I’ll manage to forgive myself too.
Taking my plate and glass to the sink, I shuffle to my room, slip an AirPod into my ear, and zone out with a lo-fi playlist. Lying at the foot of my bed, I fix my gaze on the three Halcyon paintings above my headboard and replay the last few weeks in my head like a movie. Although now it all feels like a dream where some details grow fuzzy and tainted with conflicting emotions.
I’d give anything to close my eyes and relive it just once more.
And I’d have come clean earlier. I’d have stood up to Margaux and saved Roman’s heartbreak. At least, I like to think it would’ve happened that way.
If this week had gone according to plan, Roman would be here right now, and we’d be in the midst of the conversation we were meant to have, the way we were meant to have it.
Margaux sightings have been few and far between since our falling-out. While she hasn’t mentioned it, I assume she was fired. When I got home from work Thursday, she was gone, but there was a cardboard box sitting on her bed filled with plants, picture frames, and random office miscellany.
She didn’t come home last night, and when I texted her to make sure she was still alive today, she replied with a single word: Ethan.
I’m glad that they’re spending so much time together, given the fact that they’re about to become parents in the coming months.
Or she’s simply trying to spend time away from me.
Knowing my sister, she likely blames me for everything. She’s incapable of feeling guilt or admitting to being flawed in any way. While she mourns the loss of the promotion she so desperately felt she deserved, it’ll only be a matter of time before she lands another job and sets her sights on conquering another corporate playing field.