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He walks me through the lobby. Opens the door. Helps me through.
Warm air greets me. I've only been in the air-conditioning for a minute, two maybe, but it's still a sharp contrast.
Cam pulls out his cell. Taps the screen a few times. "When I saw them together, I didn't get it. I didn't get it until I saw him with you."
"What?" What the fuck does that mean?
"Ty's been alone for a long time. His father on active duty. Then Ian. When he meet Rory, saw her family, her old money stability—he saw a place he could fit in. He wanted to believe he fit into that world so badly he convinced himself he did. He thought that was love. But it wasn't."
"Aren't you supposed to be some player who doesn't care about feelings?"
"Should I offer to fuck you to distract you from your pain?"
"Maybe."
"You wouldn't say yes."
"You could still offer," I say.
He chuckles. "You only have eyes for him."
"I…"
"I read the room better than that."
"You could offer anyway. To make me feel better."
"Do you want to fuck me?"
"No."
"That hurts."
"Sorry." My thumb rubs my bare ring finger. "I… you're right. I only want him."
"He only wants you." His gaze follows. "He will figure it out. If you give him time."
I don't have the same optimism. Ty isn't going to figure it out.
But I can't bring myself to say it aloud.
He lets me ride home alone.
I crawl into bed. Put on Back to Black. Cry into my cotton sheets.
Around play two, Sienna climbs in with me. "Sorry I took so long. Had to have my way with Cam."
A laugh breaks my sob. "Not funny."
"A little funny."
"Very little," I say.
"But a little?"
I nod into the sheets.
Chapter Fifty-One
Ty
Sleep fails me.
Eventually, I give up. Move to the couch. Try to find distraction in a classic movie marathon.
But it only makes me think of her.
Lying here, completely spent, curled into my body.
Laughing at a screwball comedy.
Crying at the end of Casablanca.
Bent over the couch, begging me to fuck her.
Then at the party.
Pushing the ring into my palm.
Whispering an apology.
Those same awful words, with one important change.
I'm sorry, Ty.
I can't do this.
I love you.
I'm in love with you.
It hurts worse. Knowing I'm the one failing her.
Knowing I'm the one who can't give her what she needs.
Sometime after dawn, I shower, dress, fix coffee and breakfast.
Play her favorite album.
The ode to misery and self-destruction is perfect. Or it should be.
But it fills my head with memories of Indigo.
Her eyes closed as she loses herself in a song.
Her silky voice falling off her lips.
Her body swaying with the music.
I already miss her so fucking badly.
I can't do this without her.
I can't do anything without her.
I listen to Indie's music all day.
A few times an hour, I pick up my phone. Consider calling. Begging her to come here. To be mine. To love me.
To stay, even if I'm not sure I love her.
I consider playing the best card I have—
Sending a dirty picture. Ordering her to bend over. Promising to make her come.
But I can't.
I know how it feels, wanting someone to love you. Wanting it more than anything.
I can't ask her to live with it.
I can't call her unless I love her.
Unless I know what the fuck it means to love her.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Ty
"You look like shit." Ian tosses running shorts onto the bed. "Come on. Get off your arse. I'm not watching this."
"When did I give you a key?"
He chuckles. "You think I need a key?"
"What happened to your reformation?"
"With my girlfriend, not you."
"Fuck off." I roll onto my other side. The one that isn't facing the window. The one facing the side of the bed where she slept.
It's cold without her.
The entire world is cold without her.
"Last time you went to London." He sits at the edge of the bed. "You asked me to water your plants."
"I have plants?"
He chuckles. "On the balcony."
"And you watered them?"
"I did."
"You concocted this story in the last ten seconds."
He shakes his head. "I'll show you the plants."
"No."
"Then get off your arse. We're going on a run."
"I can lap you."
"Talk is cheap." He stands. Taps his running shoes together.
"Where's your girlfriend?"
"Off. Your. Arse." He moves into the hallway. Leaves the door wide open.
Does my brother really expect me to go for a run? Now?
Ridiculous.
But he is right. I'm not doing well here.
I rise. Piss. Wash up. Dress.
Ian's in the kitchen. With his offering of mercy.
A touristy thermos with the Empire State Building in dark blue. Filled with too milky, too sweet English Breakfast.
"Is it that bad?" I ask.
He nods. Sips a mug of fresh tea. The leaves Indigo prefers.
The scent is familiar. It makes me think of her.
Everything makes me think of her.
"Ten minutes." He motions to the thermos. "Then we run."
"Do we really have to run?"
"You run every day."
"And?"
He chuckles. "And? You have more discipline than this."
