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What’s the sense?
I turn without replying and trudge to the car.
How?
The driver already has the back door open for me. I slide in and open the minibar—this is Ryder’s limo, so of course there’s liquor—and pull out a bottle of whiskey. Forget the Coke and glass. I unscrew the top and tip it up. Let the burn tickle my throat.
“Where to, sir?” the driver asks.
“Back to Ryder’s, I guess.”
He puts the car in gear, and we move off. I was going to drop to my knees and beg her to come home. Tell her whatever I’d done, I’ll never do again. How weak am I?
It was stupid of me to think we had something special. That there was such a thing as true love.
Lesson learned. Never again.
