My chest tightens. Lexi deserves to get her happiness. Even now, in our tense reunion, she’s putting others first, worrying about her sister’s well-being.
I hope she finds a man who can give her everything she needs. Everything she deserves.
But that man won’t be me.
FORTY-FOUR
Lexi
I slide into my least sexy sweatpants and collapse onto the couch, balancing my laptop on my knees. Right next to me, there’s a mug of what Grace calls her calming tea, sporting floaties that look a whole lot like backyard soil.
With a sigh, I open the files on our latest PR headache—a woman who became internet-famous for claiming she could see dead people on flights. Now she wants to rebrand as a wellness guru. Because that’s the natural progression, obviously.
Just the mention of planes sends me hurtling back to that trip I’ve worked to repress. Ireland is now on my list of places ruined by association, all courtesy of one monumental jerk.
But you know what? Drowning in Vicky’s work avalanche is a blessing in disguise. Keeps my mind from fixating on . . . everything.
Sometimes I’m deep into work, and BAM—this question just explodes in my brain: what the actual fuck was it all about?
Flying me out to Ireland, all the lovey-dovey acts, and then bam, dumped. He got under my skin, into my life. Mom knew about Ireland, so did Grace . . . Does he think my life is a fucking joke he can mess around with, coming in and out of it on a whim?
I forcefully slam those thoughts back into the mental lockbox labeled DO NOT OPEN.
These past couple of weeks since running into Connor at the intern presentations have been like living in a bubble of . . . calm. That’s the perfect word for it.
The pain of running into him again was intense, and maybe the finality of that moment hit hard. We were both terse and definitive in our interaction. Dismissive of one another.
I broke down crying after seeing him . . . a lot. Ugly crying. The kind of sobs where your breathing is stuttered, you have snot all over your cheeks, your abs hurt like you’ve done a core class and you’re exhausted just from the sheer physical exertion of all the body-shaking sobs. That type of crying.
But now everything’s fine. Totally fine. We’re all fucking fine.
Zero jerks in my life. Zero dating bullshit.
No more getting emotionally suckerpunched by deep blue eyes.
No more of my stomach flipping every time he smiles at me, like I’m the only girl in the world for him.
No more dealing with his moody tantrums or fucked-up mind games.
Single life is easy and drama-free. My time, my heart, my energy are all mine again, not at the mercy of Connor fucking Quinn’s moody ass.
He’s fading into a memory, right where he belongs. A mistake.
And the sleeping pills at least help me sleep through the nightmarish dreams. I know I can’t depend on them forever, but I just need a bit more time because I hate waking up in the middle of the night feeling . . . sad.
Maybe someday, when I’ve settled down with a nice, normal guy, I’ll tell him about my chaotic fling with the temperamental billionaire, and we’ll laugh over what a bullet I dodged.
For now, I’m proud of myself for being strong and doing right by me for once. Connor Quinn is firmly in the rearview where he belongs.
I attack a stubborn pistachio shell, muttering, “C’mon, you little bastard. Open already.”
The thing finally cracks open and goes flying from my hand, hitting the wall with asmack. Like it’s giving me a “fuck you.” A chip of paint flutters down, and I swear to god, I’m close to screaming.
Out of nowhere, an actual scream sounds from the bathroom, making me jump.
“What the hell?” I yell, heart racing as I imagine some horror scene with Grace facing off against Norman Bates. More likely, she’s encountered a stray pube in the drain.
I rush the vast two-step distance to the bathroom. “Gracie, are you okay?”
