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I nod once and feel myself crumpling, tears I didn’t think myself capable of shedding streaming down my face and landing on the countertop.
As soon as she sends the text, my phone rings and Harley sighs. “She doesn’t want to talk to you right now.”
I try to breathe, to shut off the thoughts and feelings, but they crash over me in waves, pulling me under, dragging me down with the undertow. I feel like I’m struggling for air, every inhale a gasp and a sob.
“Do you hear that? This is your fault. You did this, you heartless sonofabitch. Leave her the hell alone.” My phone clatters to the floor.
And then I’m wrapped in a set of arms that aren’t the ones I want. “It’ll be okay. I’m so sorry, London. I’m here. I’m sorry.”
“I never want to fall in love again. It hurts too much.” I wonder if my heart is too broken to fix anyway.
* * *
The hate mail and messages I expect don’t ever come. But in the days that follow me walking out on that charity event, life changes yet stays the same. Selene posts about the auction and my piece is featured prominently. I find out it went for over twenty-five thousand dollars, and the event raised over two million dollars.
It’s bittersweet considering the way my life feels like it’s fallen apart, and I’m standing in the rubble, trying to hold myself together while everyone else moves forward.
In the wake of the event, my Etsy shop orders have more than tripled, and my social media following has skyrocketed. It’s amazing and overwhelming, and a much-needed distraction from the constant ache in my chest.
Like a true masochist, every morning when I open my laptop, I go to the Google Doc I share with Jackson. Trent took over for a while, but I notice he’s been removed and now it’s just shared with Jackson again.
The icon in the top right corner shows me that he’s in the doc. The chat bubble pops up and a message appears.
Every star you see in the night sky is bigger and brighter than the sun.
I don’t respond, but the next morning I check again.
The universe is not made of atoms. It’s made of tiny stories.
Every day there’s a new message. And every day I read it and shut the document before I’m tempted to respond.
In the week that follows the event, the things I left at Jackson’s New York penthouse are delivered to Spark House. And not by a mail carrier. It’s Mitchell who brings them, and Harley and Avery who collect them for me. I send out the dress in return, and despite Mitchell’s insistence that it’s meant to be kept, he gives in and takes the dress, probably because Harley told him it would meet a terrible end if it stayed here, and I didn’t need any additional reasons to cry. My sisters have also intercepted every single email, message, and phone call from Jackson and Holt Media, taking it over entirely for me so I don’t have to deal with anything related to him. I know it can’t go on like this forever, but it will until I can think about him without crying. This is the way it’s going to have to be.
Harley brings my suitcase into the office, her bottom lip between her teeth.
“Thank you for handling that for me.” I can barely get the words out without choking up.
She nods sadly and continues to chew on her bottom lip. “He’s in the car. He wants to know if you’d be willing to speak with him. I said you wouldn’t be, but he wanted me to ask and make sure before he leaves.”
I hold onto the edge of the desk, willing my body to stay where it is and not go running into the mouth of the lion. I breathe through the pain, wondering how long it takes a broken heart to mend itself. Hoping that this horrible ache will eventually subside. I remind myself that I’ve suffered greater losses and survived them. But this feels different. The pain isn’t the same.
“I can’t,” I croak.
“I’ll tell him.” She turns and walks down the hall.
I breathe and count to sixty, no longer fighting the fresh tears of hopelessness. And I try so hard to stay where I am, but my stupid, broken, and masochistic heart wins the fight. I push away from my desk and move on unsteady legs to the window that looks out on the front drive.
I stand behind the curtain and peek through the narrow gap. There’s a black SUV in the driveway. And standing beside it is Jackson. He looks every bit as gorgeous as he did the last time I saw him, but as I drink him in like the idiot I am, I notice the dark circles under his eyes, how it looks as though it’s been a few days since he last shaved. He’s wearing a worn long-sleeve shirt and a pair of tattered jeans with holes in them. Not the purposeful kind either.
