Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 93583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
“Good, you’re awake.” I hear and open my eyes. Jeff’s standing there with a coffee in his hand, sitting on the table facing me. He puts his coffee down and picks up a glass of water and two pills. “Take this.”
I sit up and have to stop moving because my stomach feels like it’s going to explode, but nothing can describe the pain in my chest. “Thank you,” I say, taking the pills and drinking no more than three sips of water. I hand him the glass, then put my head back on the couch, and close my eyes.
“I ordered you some greasy shit to help with the hangover,” he tells me. “I have a cleanup crew coming in two hours. You can stay here, or you can come to my house.” I open one eye and look at him.
“Cleanup crew?” I ask, confused, and he shakes his head.
“Look around.” I turn slowly and take in the sight of my house. The vases on the floor are in pieces, the stools from the kitchen on the floor. The vase of roses that we got two days ago are scattered all through the house like it was dragged there. The side table by the stairs is knocked over, I think from the mattress. “Is any of it coming back to you?”
I rub my hands over my face. “I need a new bed,” I tell him, and he nods his head. “I need to shower.”
“Yeah, you do. You’re covered in sand.” I look down, seeing my shoes are still on, and the caked in wet sand is still on there. My clothes have little pieces of sand everywhere. “You going to tell me what happened?”
I take a deep breath, knowing that if I can tell anyone, it’s Jeff. “I fell in love with her.” I bring my hand to my chest when it starts to pound hard. “And then I found out she lied to me. She was going to take what I gave her, the notoriety of my career, and leave for New York. She was just using me, just like everyone else,” I say the last sentence softly. “I’m going to shower.” He doesn’t stop me from walking to the stairs, the sound of the glass crunching under my running shoes. “I thought she was the one.” I shake my head, and I could swear I hear her call my name. But I know it’s my mind playing tricks on me.
Walking into the bedroom, I stand in the same spot where Erin stood when she came up the stairs yesterday. The pain across her face, her hand trembling, it’s too much. The memories are too much, so I turn and walk to the guest bedroom. I walk to the bathroom, and there on the top of the sink is one of her shirts. I pick it up and bring it to my nose and smell her. I close my eyes and picture her in it when she hugs me. I’m numb, empty, broken, and I have no one to blame but myself.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Erin
“Honey, you need to eat something,” my father says to me when he comes into the bedroom and sits on the bed. I’m lying here with my legs to my chest and staring out the window at the sunny day. “It’s been two days.”
I look at him. It’s been two days since my life shattered, two days since I walked into that scene that plays over and over in my head on a loop. “I’m not hungry,” I tell him the truth. Just the thought of eating makes my stomach feel queasy.
“If you don’t eat something soon, your mother is getting on a fucking plane,” he says, trying to make a joke, but I know she’s one step away from it. When my father carried me to his car and then took me to his house, the first person he called was my mother. I heard his voice faintly through the closed door. He didn’t leave my side, and when he did, it was for ten minutes, max fifteen. I finally sent him away yesterday, knowing he needed sleep.
“My stomach feels sick,” I tell him.
“Why don’t you come to the kitchen, and at least try having some soup?” he says, and I sit up. He gets up and holds out his hand to me. I grab it and walk down the grand staircase to his huge kitchen, sitting on the stool. “What type of soup do you want?”
“How many types are there?” I ask him and look over at the counter that must have about twenty takeout containers. “Is that all soup?”
“Yes,” he tells me. “I didn’t know which one you would want, so I ordered from five different restaurants.”
“Just chicken is fine,” I say, and I look out the window. “Is it hot outside?” I ask him, and he nods his head.