Page 49 of It Should Have Been You

“Thank you, but if you’ll excuse me,” I say, making an abrupt exit that leaves them gaping.

Claire squeezes my hand, winks at me, and takes over like a pro.

I dash for the doors at the back of the room, grateful when it leads straight to a large and scarcely occupied balcony.

The city lights don’t bring me comfort like I wish they did. They shine down on me like judgmental glares. I down the champagne and rest my hands on the metal railing. Closing my eyes, I inhale a steadying breath.

I need to get out of this city… for good. I’m suffocating.

My lungs are burning, desperate for some reprieve. I focus on the cool evening air on my skin until my spine straightens.

There’s someone watching me.

I can feel it.

I spin around expecting to see someone there.

Nothing.

A couple mutter a greeting as they pass me and step back inside. A man farther down the balcony is smoking a cigarette and sipping a brown liquid from his tumbler, his eyes focused on his phone, but not on me.

Am I going crazy now, too? Paranoid?

I check the time on my phone. Thirty minutes and I can leave. I can do thirty minutes.

I lift my head as I begin to walk back… and boom.

I’m almost rocked off my feet when my chest comes crashing into a navy shirt.

“I’m so sorry,” I gasp, jerking away to find a pair of apologetic grey eyes.

“It was my fault,” he stutters, grabbing my elbow to steady me.

My fight or flight instinct takes over and I glance around to see we’re alone.

Breathe, Beth. He’s not going to hurt you.

I notice a large camera and a press badge hanging from a lanyard around his neck.

A reporter.

“I don’t want any photos.” I smile, hoping he’ll see me as shy and drop it.

“Oh…” He looks down at the camera and back at me as if he forgot it was even there. “No photos.”

I cross my arms over my chest, trying to gather heat to my bones and hating the unease that's beginning to peek its ugly head in my stomach.

“I need to get back inside.”

When I try to sneak around him, he steps out of my way, but grabs my elbow. It doesn’t hurt. It’s not even threatening, but I flinch.

I don’t like being touched.

I spin to look at him. “Who are you?”

“My name is Benjamin Sullivan. I’m a reporter. I’m currently working on a story for The Times.”

My blood cools, and it takes all my power to stay steady on my feet. I know that name which means he knows exactly who I am.

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