I take my time getting to the elevator. I don’t look back, but I hope, I desperately hope he’ll come after me.
That hope stays with me as I leave the building. It follows me as I walk through the terminal, standing in line to check in, and even as I hand over my boarding pass at the gate.
I keep hoping, even as I settle into my seat, even as the cabin lights dim and the engines roar.
And the moment the plane’s wheels leave the runway, in that split second of weightlessness, I realize that Tom McKenna isn’t coming after me and everything will return to how it was before he walked in and turned my life upside down.
Chapter fifty-eight
Tom
New Year’s Eve. The shittiest one of my life.
Exactly one year ago, I was on the rooftop of The Golden Seahorse in Barcelona, screaming over the blaring music that this was going to be my best year ever. My nose was full of white, cava spilling down my neck, and I was having this amazing shag, watching the Sagrada Familia as she’d lain her legs on my shoulders.
It was loud, chaotic, euphoric. I didn’t know whatbest year evereven meant. But oh, I found out.
The hard way.
Turns out, I wasn’t entirely wrong, just a bit naïve about the fine print. Because it was my year.
I’d died. I lived. I loved. And now? Now I’ve died all over again. Just not in the dramatic, paramedic, paddles-on-my-chest kind of way like the first time.
No, this time it’s slower. Crueler. It’s a death that doesn’t stop your heart but leaves it teared wide open for you to bleed. Endlessly.
I went to bed early.
Like a pathetic cliché, I stared at myself through the ceiling mirrors.
Flash.Yosh tipping his head backwards.
Flash. Me on my own again.
Flash.The serpent coiling with each thrust.
Flash. My face in tears.
Flash.Legs wrapped around his hips.
Flash. Me. But in a thousand shredded pieces because I’d launched my alarm clock into it.
Fucking confronting mirrors.
I waited for New Year’s eve to pass. And I actually fell asleep with the shards of glass around me until the fireworks started.
When the first explosion rattled the window, I woke up in a daze. I crawled out of bed, searching for earplugs like some boring Grinch who hates joy.
The noise was everything I wasn’t: celebration, happiness, people laughing with friends and lovers, the promise of a fresh start.
I found my earplugs eventually, shoved them in, cleaned up the broken glass, and went back to bed. Half an hour later, I was staring at his name on my phone. Because of course, I'm a pathetic cliché.
“Happy New Year,” I typed. “I love you.” A string of kisses and hearts. Apparently, I’m that person now.
And then I hit send.
For a second I held my breath, thinking maybe this time would be different from the last couple of days. The seconds stretched, the reply didn’t come.
Happy New Year to me.
