Page 109 of True Blue

And a chilled bottle of champagne was waiting for me when I walked in, while my bags were carried up for me by helpful hotel staff.

Luxurious and ridiculous and, honestly, necessary.

So is prime Bruce Springsteen crooning from my phone on the counter as I relax in this tub.

The ache in my chest is still there.

For the last two weeks, I woke up in that hotel in New Jersey, and for a moment, completely forgot. Forgot why there was an exhaustion behind my eyes that I couldn’t shake. Forgot the reason for the hole in my chest. Forgot that I put my trust, my love, my safety in the wrong person’s hands.

Then I would realize where I was, and that I broke up with Teddy. And that I missed him so much it hurt.

And then I think of everything he let slide, and I got angry.

Then I put on some comfortable clothes and walked on the boardwalk, listened to the waves, felt the sun on my face, stepped on the beach and felt the sand under my feet, watching the tide come in and out.

Now, I breathe a little easier every day.

Originally, the plan was that I would fly out of Chicago to London. I begged and pleaded on the phone, using any excuse I could, to get a refund on mine and Teddy’s plane tickets.

Eventually, I had to surrender and take the loss, but I took it as a lesson too.

Don’t fucking spend any money on a partner who’s only half-in and listen to the brain that made you a fucking MD.

So, I flew out of Atlantic City and landed this morning, with my two suitcases, carry-on, and my purse.

Now I’m here—London.

It’s happening.

Today, though, is for rest and relaxation.

Tomorrow, London awaits.

The National Gallery is just as wonderful as I imagined. The absence of the man I wanted to bring to this place full of art feels like an aching echo dulled by the sheer beauty around me.

I’ve been here for about an hour, taking my time to really look at each piece of artwork, letting the feelings they invoke wash over me, when I hear an accented voice next to me.

“American?”

It’s not entirely British; it has a sharper, more precise inflection. Turkish, or maybe Greek.

Turning, my eyes widen a little when I see a gorgeous—very tiny—woman standing there. She’s petite, maybe a little older than me, with dark eyes, matching thick curls, and stunning deep tan skin.

A professional camera hangs from a strap around her neck, and she’s smiling at me with a teasing little smirk that matches her playful energy.

“I’m sorry?” I ask, glancing around to make sure she’s speaking to me.

She smiles, bounces on her toes. “Oh, I asked if you were American.”

My cheeks heat, and I glance around the gallery, suddenly wondering if everyone is looking at the big dumb tourist who committed some unknown cultural faux pas.

“Is it that obvious?” I whisper, conspiratorially.

“No, I’m just good at sniffing you lot out,” she laughs. “I’m Petra Katsaros.”

“Indie Miller,” I say, shaking her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“I’ve never heard that before. That’s a beautiful name,” she gasps. “Is it short for anything?”