“I know this is one of your complaints with him, dear, but Liam seemed like a very kind man,” she hums, flashing a smile. Whatever she’s trying to hint at, she’s wrong.
“Give it time,” I murmur back. I’ve let myself believe he had a soul on far too many occasions, and I don’t have the energy to repair another broken heart.
My palm rubs a circle over my heart, now thrumming wildly against my chest. I would say, who am I kidding? How can someone break something that’s already been shattered and buried? But I can’t shake the nagging feeling that Liam’s presence just jumpstarted something I thought I’d let die long ago.
Something that was always unwilfullyhis.
3
Sweet Caroline
Ineedtocoolit on the Cheez Whiz.
If the swelling pressure in my abdomen is any indication, I’ve already downed one shot too many. Slinking toward the edge of my shabby moss-colored couch, I force a stretch well beyond my arm’s natural length. My fingertips brush against the cool metal of the American oddity resting just out of reach on the floor.Come to Mama. The bristles of the shag rug below tickle the deep heart line on my palm, inching ever closer to my final hit.
Almost. There.
My out-of-whack hormones screamyes, yes, yes,while my actual body pleadsno, no, no.
Finally, my fingers curl around the cylindrical tube of faux cheesy goodness, securing it in their grasp.
Victory is mine.
I tilt my head, lifting it from its thoroughly smooshed-into-the-couch position, and bring the nozzle to my lips.
A disheartening hiss follows, and I shake the can. Dammit. Empty.
With a huff, I let it fall to the floor.
Huh, maybe that’s why it was there in the first place.
I’m. So. Bored.
I can’t watch TV. I can’t blog.
All I can do is think.
And eat.
Well, I could eat. But I apparently already did that so successfully there’s no more bread.
Or cheese.
Or croissants.
There is an apple.
But I’m notthatbored.
Maria’s out running errands, buying bread, and hopefully cheese, though not the kind my lonely heart desires. I’m stuck on day four of doctor-ordered concussion protocol, curled up with my heating pad, a.k.a. Channing Tatum, which is giving me a lap dance hotter thanMagic Mike XXL.
I’m in my PJs, which doesn’t sound wicked exciting. But it is. Because Maria believes people shouldn’t wear pajamas between six in the morning and ten at night. And she’s very vocal about it. She thinks her presence is occasion enough to wear proper clothing, and well, I love her, but boo. Even sweatpants will elicit a stare and a pursed-lip look. Like,Oh, I didn’t know we were giving up today.
Since I’m injured, I get a pass, which is why I’m currently in an “All I do is wine, wine, wine. No matter what” shirt. And a pair of old booty shorts with pizzas all over them—the butt says “pizza.” It’s the pièce de résistance of my old, ratty clothes. The shorts are clinging on for dear life. But again, the butt says “pizza,” so never letting go, Jack.
Unlike Rose, I mean it. No banishing them to a cold, watery grave for me.
My eyes scan the tiny main room of our apartment as I search for a distraction.
