Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 113837 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113837 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
It was sunset when Marco came back by the pool with a fresh bottle of wine. He filled my glass, then disappeared between the palm trees and Hibiscus.
“So, what made you decide to leave the lovely city of Dayton so suddenly?” She lifted her glass to her lips, her gaze set on the sun setting over the turquoise water.
I inhaled a ragged breath. “Bellamy and I broke up.”
Kind of. I didn’t really know. I just got out before he could do it.
I tipped my drink back again, hating how horribly fragile I felt right now. “Go ahead,” I sighed. “Say I told you so.”
“Darling…” She rubbed a hand over my arm. “Being young is difficult.”
And that was a glittering piece of wisdom from Irina Morgan De Arman.
“It is when you’re me.” I hated that I sounded so pathetic and that I was so bitter. Bitter about my dad, my mom, my shitty yet “privileged” upbringing. My being sent to Dayton, and lastly, Bellamy.
It was all seeping into me, like thick, black tar, until each beat of my heart felt sluggish and drawing air was a chore.
“I don’t want to talk about it, okay? I’m here, and I’ll stay until I go to Cornell.”
Just like my dad wanted, just like Bellamy wanted, because what I wanted was never a factor, and it never had been.
On a sigh, she settled back against her lounge chair. “Whatever you want, darling. Whatever makes you happy.” Then she patted my hand.
“Thank you. And thank you for getting me a ticket.”
“Of course, darling.” Then she started talking about random crap, and for once, I appreciated her rambling on and on about herself: The new yacht her husband Pierre had bought, the landscaping she had ordered to be done in the lemon grove, the new purse she’d put on order. It was meaningless, with about as much depth as a puddle, but I needed that because my own shit was so deep I would drown if I thought about it.
My phone dinged. I grabbed it from the table beside me, nearly knocking over an empty wine bottle. Then I steeled myself and opened the new message from Bellamy.
Dickhead: Fuck you, Drewbers.
Then a picture came through of Bellamy, passed out on Hendrix’s couch.
Dickhead: You broke his heart. Congratulations, you Medusa Whore.
Then a picture of Hendrix shooting me a bird popped up.
I pushed up from my chair and crossed the terrace, disappearing into my bedroom. The warm breeze blew through the opened French doors, and I collapsed onto the bed, the first tears breaking free. And they kept coming. Sliding down my temples and staining the pillowcase until it was soaked.
* * *
It had been a week since I’d left the States. A week of non-stop shopping and Champagne and parties, but it wasn’t nearly enough to distract me. I was more miserable than ever because I missed him. Everything hurt.
The cherry wood deck of Pierre’s yacht clicked beneath my heels as I approached the stern, my fingers wrapping around the metal railing as the breeze tousled my hair. The sun had long ago set behind the hills of Monaco, the lights of the city a speckling of stars against the dark silhouette of the night sky. The lap of waves against the hull and the tinkle of Champagne flutes almost drowned out the low hum of music from the party around me.
I tipped my glass back before grabbing another from the tray of a passing waiter.
Over the last week, I’d realized that my own company was torture, and yet, I hated everyone. Short of getting drunk and crying some more, I had no bright ideas. Though truthfully, I’d mastered the art of skipping right over an emotional drunk and going straight to numb with a side of “inability to give a shit”. It was the only way to avoid this hollowed-out feeling in my chest, like something vital had been stolen.
My phone beeped, and my heart stuttered, hoping it was Bellamy. He hadn’t made contact since Hendrix had texted me, and that told me everything I needed to know. I wanted him to be every bit as broken and desperate as I was, to share my pain and validate it. To tell me he wanted me. Missed me. Something.
I’d fought the urge to contact him every single day, and every time that urge rose, the word resentment flashed through my mind like a neon warning sign.
I checked my phone, my heart sinking at the sight of Genevieve’s name.
Genevieve: Hey babe. Just checking in on you
Me: I’m fine
Genevieve: Break ups suck. I know it doesn’t seem like it right now, but it’s probably for the best. You’ll get over it eventually. I promise. xX
I didn’t respond to that.
I held onto the notion that time would heal all wounds, but I wasn’t healing, I was dying. It had only been a week, and it was the worst of my life. I just wanted to be able to stop thinking about him, stop longing for him, for a single minute.