“I could never say no to you, you know that.” He stands and scrubs a hand over his face, muffling a “fuck.” “You should be the one to go back into the tent. It’ll mean more to your brother if you’re there, anyway.”
“You aren’t going back?”
He shakes his head. “No, I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to both be there right now.”
“Did you want to talk again later?” I ask.
“I can’t, Evie. You’re asking me to give you some time, and that’s fine. But I’m going to need some too. I can’t stand here knowing we both love each other, and that somehow still wasn’t enough for you.”
“It was. It is. Please don’t think that’s the problem.”
“Right, we can disagree on that too, I guess,” he mutters, his stare pinned on the woods folding into the fallen night sky. “We can figure out you grabbing your stuff later, but I’m going to—” He hooks his thumbs towards the slider doors that lead into his parents’ house.
I nod, watching Liam’s sullen figure bow under the doorframe, and for the second time in my life, I wish the woman in the scene would find the courage to chase after the love she wants. But instead, I stay on the glider for a few more minutes, an unsettling feeling sinking into the pit of my stomach. I was so worried this was moving way too fast, worried we were making a mistake. But as I sit on the glider with the damage already done, it feels like I made a huge one anyway.
23
Bittersweet Symphony
“Todayisagoodday to let the light in, dear,” Maria says, opening the curtain on day fifteen of a total wallowing session. It’s a rainy day in Paris, so the impact is thankfully minimal. “At least metaphorically,” she says with a sigh.
I pauseRoman Holiday,playing for the fifth time in the past two weeks. I’ve tried desperately to let myself connect with the ending, to be okay with the perfect memory of running around a city with someone and letting that be that. But I can’t shake the feeling that as much as I beg for a happily ever after in movies, maybe I want one in my life just as badly. Even if just a month ago I had written off such a possibility.
Maria bends down, tidying around me frenetically, and I groan, curling further into my heating pad. I expected the stress of the past month to kick-start a flare, but it really has gone above and beyond here. I haven’t left the couch much as a result, though I did manage to post a sunshine and rainbows post that’s elicited a constant stream of “yas queen” and “your life is so amazing, super jealous” comments.
Amazing life. Hah, right. Social media’s such bullshit sometimes.
Okay, I’m bullshit. I fed the beast, but it’s what people want to hear, right? They don’t want to hear about the uterus from hell or that my life is a hot mess. Or that I’m running dangerously low on ice cream and cheap wine and feel like everything is over.
A loud knock on the door bounces off the tiny walls of our apartment. My heart stutters. Declan would never bother knocking...
“Oh, he got here fast,” Maria mutters to herself.
“Who?” My head jerks up.
“Eli.”
“Eli’s in the States.” I let my head fall back on the pillow, my heart returning to its natural melancholic pattern.
“No, he’s not,” a grumpy voice on the other side of the door yells. “And you’d know that”—Maria swings the door open—“if you answered your damn phone,” he says, marching into the room.
I shoot up, sitting straight and immediately regretting it as dots spot my vision. After a few seconds, I bring my attention to my curly blond-haired best friend holding coffee and a bag of donuts. My brow furrows. He should be in Massachusetts. We said our goodbyes. Twice. “What are you doing here?”
Is Liam here too? Or is this a solo visit?
He sits next to me, tossing the bag of donuts at me. “I got an SOS call.” He motions to Maria.
“I’ll be in my bedroom,” she hollers, blushing.
“You came to Paris forthis?”
“Nah.” He laughs. “I was already here. Had something else I needed to do, and then Maria asked me to come pick the ‘little shit’ up.”
“No way she called me a little shit.”
“It was implied.” Eli shrugs.
I glare at him. I prefer Maria’s coddling.
