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The door closes behind them, and the kitchen is its usual, excruciating silence again. Billy looks up at me, forcing a smile. “Thank you.”
And what do I do? I burst into tears.
I’m so fucking stupid.
“Hey.” He fights his way up from the table and hobbles his way over to me, and I feel nothing short of awful for forcing him into comforting me. His arms engulf me, and I hide in his scrawny chest.
“I’m sorry,” I blubber.
He sighs, holding me as tightly as he can. Which isn’t very tight at all. When Billy used to hold me, I’d struggle for air. Struggle to move. “I can’t bear to see you like this, Lo. I can’t bear seeing you so fraught and hopeless.”
How can he say that? “I’m okay.”
“You’re not okay.” Pulling back, he looks down at my tear-stained face. On a soft smile, he wipes my tears away. I close my eyes, unable to stare at his gray, ashen face. “I want more than anything for you to be happy.”
Happy? In this moment, I can’t imagine ever being happy again. Unless by some miracle Billy is cured. “The only thing in this world that can make me happy is you.”
“I’m dying, Lo.” He kisses the corner of my mouth. “I refuse to allow your spirit to die with me.”
It’s too late.
I’m a skeletal version of myself now too.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The distance between Billy and me is growing by the day. After I cleared up the kitchen, I went to bed and sobbed myself to sleep, cuddling up to Boris so tightly I probably restricted his breathing. I left my phone downstairs to limit my temptation to do something stupid. Like call Luke. Like succumb to my desperation to see him and have him make me forget.
I made it through the night and walked Boris at the crack of dawn. Then I showered and absentmindedly readied myself for work, applying foundation on top of foundation to mask my puffy eyes.
I left the house without checking on Billy, determined not to let him see the state of my face. I’m going to work today, and I text Magda on my way to let her know. I need to find the strength to be strong again. I need to leave the fucking pity party.
I pull my gloves off as I enter the glass door of Sharman House, stuffing them in my bag and retrieving my heels at the same time. When I notice the crowds of people at the elevators, I take a seat on one of the couches in the foyer to change out of my trainers and wait for the crowds to die down. Slipping my feet into my heels, I look up as I take my bag from the floor, freezing halfway between sitting and standing.
Our eyes meet. I fight to rip them away and instinctively hurry over to the elevators before he even thinks to approach me. I can’t let Luke see me like this either. I concentrate on getting to my office before I give in to the overwhelming need to run into his arms. I just need a hug. Someone familiar to hold me and comfort me. I need my friend. But it’s wrong. I shouldn’t want that. What is he doing here?
I rush into the lift as soon as it opens and hit the button for the second floor, pushing myself to the back of the cart and watching as the doors slowly close until they meet in the middle. I use the time it takes for the lift to climb to my floor to check myself in the mirror. My eyes are glassy, brimming with tears. I roughly brush at my cheeks to rid my face of my emotional state.
“Hello, Lo.” Scarlett is standing at my desk when I make it there, rootling through one of my trays. Her greeting isn’t happy. It isn’t friendly. It’s drenched in that fucking sympathy. I smile—forced—and drop my bag by my desk, ignoring Scarlett’s forehead that fails to wrinkle when she tries to frown. “You didn’t need to come in today.”
“I need to, Scarlett,” I reply, and her lips press together as she thinks of what to say next. So I quickly change the subject. “You looking for something?”
She stands reluctantly, her eyes never leaving me, and points at my out-tray. “The month-end figures. I’m sure I put them back in here after you gave me them a few weeks ago, and obviously because you’ve been off work, and that’s totally fine, you haven’t updated the spreadsheet online. I just need to check something.”
I bend and pull out the pile of papers from my in-tray, thumbing through them. “Here,” I say, pulling out a spreadsheet.
“Oh, you saint.” She takes the sheet and clicks away on her Manolo Blahniks but stops just shy of her office. She inhales and turns. “I understand you need distraction. Just know, if you want to talk, I’m here.”
