Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
He runs a hand through his hair, sending it into further disarray and bows his head, his back expanding and contracting on what looks like a sigh.
Harley stands there, hands on her hips, head tipped back, and chin jutting out.
His lips form the word please and she shakes her head.
I feel a sob bubbling up, one I’m powerless to keep inside.
“London?” Avery’s soft, worried voice comes from behind me. She laces her fingers with mine.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“You have nothing to be sorry for. I know it’s hard. We’re here for you.” She steps in closer, her chest against my back, her chin resting on my shoulder.
“I didn’t realize it could hurt like this. I don’t know how you managed to go on every day when you and Declan broke up. I’m sorry if I wasn’t there enough for you.”
She wraps her arms around me. “You were there, and you were everything I needed you to be, and Harley and I are going to be everything you need, as much as we can.”
Harley turns and walks away, and Jackson stands there in the driveway, his face a mask of agony that matches mine. He rubs at his eyes with the heels of his hands, and Mitchell gets out of the SUV. He puts a hand on Jackson’s shoulder and says something to which Jackson finally nods. He rounds the hood of the SUV, but as he opens the door he looks up, and his gaze moves across the outside of Spark House, stopping at the window I’m hiding behind.
His eyes are full of the same pain that makes my heart squeeze.
I step back and let the curtain fall into place.
“Why does it hurt so much when I know walking away is the right thing to do?”
“The heart is stupid. It doesn’t like logic. It gravitates to the things that make it feel intensely, even if those things will eventually cause it pain.”
Harley appears a few seconds later, and I’m engulfed in a hug from both sides.
And again, I fall apart.
* * *
When I get home, I do something stupid. I take my suitcase to my bedroom and lock the door. I feel beyond pathetic as I set it on top of my comforter and lay my forehead on the hard plastic while I wrap my arms around it.
I have never felt this level of hurt over the loss of a relationship. It makes me question how closed off I’ve been up until now. I try to convince myself to get Harley and make her look through the suitcase before I do, in case Jackson has left a note in here. I’m even more terrified that he hasn’t. I close my eyes and there he is, standing in the driveway looking as broken as I feel.
Is he going back to Selene?
Did he realize I was a mistake?
Does he want me still? Do I want to be wanted? Why can’t I just let go?
I didn’t ask Harley about the conversation outside of Spark House with Jackson, and she didn’t offer any information. I have no idea what he wanted to say, or why he was there in the first place.
I unzip the case and brace myself as I open it. Everything is folded neatly, mostly the way I left it in New York, but with the few things I’d taken out sitting on the top. One of those small jam jars they give you at restaurants sits between my brush and my makeup bag. It’s not filled with jam, though. It’s a small collection of paper stars. I recognize the paper as mine. With a hand that trembles, I lift it from the case and shake the stars around. A makeshift snow globe without a scene or snow.
I set it on my nightstand and run my hands over the folded clothes. And then I lift the shirt I’d been wearing last week when I arrived at his place and bring it to my nose. As I hoped, it carries the faint scent of his place, and even more faintly, a hint of his cologne, telling me that it was he who packed up my bag and he who put the stars in the jar.
Under the shirt is an envelope with my name on it.
I don’t know how long I stare at it, all the while breathing in his scent on my shirt. But eventually I set the shirt down and pick up the envelope. I run my fingers over my name, written in Jackson’s pretty cursive. I don’t have the restraint necessary not to open it.
It isn’t sealed, so I flip it open and withdraw the single sheet of paper.
London,
I don’t have words to express how much our time together has meant to me. If or when you’re ready, I’m here to talk.