I knew—no,hoped—the words were just for show. But there was a part of me that wondered…wondered if it was true. I shook my head. The possibility that this woman really was John’s future wife. That he’d fooled me all along, knowing full well this would end with the competition… but he’d texted me. When his dad was in the hospital,hetextedme.
And her.
Maybe he didn’t think I would show. Maybe a hurt man just wantedsomeoneto be there.
I forced my eyes not to drop to her bare legs. Forced myself not to imagine where and how and if he had touched her. Suddenly, I felt stupid. Making my way here to give him theCity of AngelsVHSI had found on eBay and immediately bought. Not thinking twice. I had only wanted to make him smile.
I was disgusted with myself.
A guy had charmed my pants off and distracted me from my future. It was exactly what I’d sworn would never happen.
Maybe the death of his father had reminded John of his own stakes.
I pressed the bag into Vivian’s hand.
“My condolences,” I managed. Then I turned and fled.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Wine is a totally acceptable meal.
Yes, the day can get worse.
The game is rigged.
I felt it growing the farther the bus went. A searing pain that spread through my gut. I crossed my arms tighter, wound my legs around one another as if I could keep the hurt from spreading. I tried to convince myself of all the reasons it was better this way. But deep down, I knew I’d already gone too far.
Next to me, a woman flipped through a newspaper. A mom sat across the aisle with a baby on her lap. The child chewed on a fabric book. What a ridiculous thing, I thought.
My phone buzzed. And I hated myself because I immediately wished it was him.
It wasn’t. It was Jeremy.
Did you see?
I assumed he meant the email. So I typed numbly.
Yes. Weird.
A lot more than weird. More like PLOT TWIST. See you tonight?
Just as I was about to text him that I wouldn’t miss the premiere for anything, the woman next to me turned the page in her newspaper. A familiar face stared back at me. A man in his late 70s. Still handsome, clean-shaven, smart glasses. A man I always thought looked a little like my dad. I read the headline.
Everything around me became still.
She was about to flip the page again when I grabbed the newspaper out of her hands.
“Hey, what the...” she yelled, trying to pull it back. But even if I wanted to, I was pretty sure I couldn’t. “Damn millennials, get your own fucking news.”
She started hitting me with her handbag, but I couldn’t have cared less if she’d set the world on fire.
Because what I was reading couldn’t possibly be true.
“Beloved Sci-Fi Author Lew Elliot Dies at Age 74”.
I don’t think I felt my legs.
If I’d had breakfast, it would’ve made a comeback. Lew Elliot was... dead. The meaning of the headline sank in like a stone thrown into a quiet lake. Dead.
