Crystal bits shattered everywhere. The sound was so loud and jarring, it caused the party in the dining room to fall silent for a minute.
I smirked and walked away.
I used to believe heartbreak pain was ephemeral.
Never had I anticipated it to feel like a residual pulse that expanded through your system. Akin to a plant growing vines and wrapping itself around your heart, squeezing in steady intervals to remind you of its presence. Letting you know that it was here to stay unless you built the courage to rip it out of its roots.
It had been so many weeks that I no longer remembered where my hurt began and where it ended.
My bedroom was on the second story, a slow journey from the dining hall on the ground floor. Before I reached the grand staircase, a piano melody resonated in the foyer.
My parents liked to hire a professional pianist for events like these. I followed the sound until I found an old gentleman playing Céline Dion’s ballad, “The Power of Love”, on a Yamaha.
It felt extremely ironic to be hearing this song when my heart was in shambles, having been wrecked by the very sentiment of love itself.
Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the music.
Or maybe it was the reminder ofhim.
But suddenly, a fresh tear trekked down my face.
I used to love this song. Now I couldn’t hear it without wanting to burst into tears.
Pivoting on my heels, I climbed the grand staircase in my six-inch stilettos, sipping my wine as the train of my gown trailed up the steps.
I needed fresh air, a pint of ice cream, and reruns of old ’90s sitcoms.
The minute I landed on the second floor, a soft breeze drifted into the atmosphere.
I walked towards the open French doors that led to a limestone balcony.
The moonlit night fueled my melancholy.
As did the sight of the orange begonias cascading around thebalustrade in abundance. With a scent I adored, they were my favourites. In the warmer months, a pair of hummingbirds often drank from the nectar whenever Cade and I stood together on the balcony, watching the scenery, whispering sweet nothings, sharing soft kisses.
After downing the remainder of my wine, I rested the glass on the stone banister. Then I closed my eyes, letting the fall wind nip at my skin and rustle the strands of my black hair.
I recently cut it straight and shoulder length, wanting a change from my usual long, wavy mane. That’s what girls were supposed to do after a life-altering event, right? Chop their hair and start all over again? Unfortunately, it hadn’t done anything to make me feel better.
If I could curse Cade Killian Remington to hell, I would.
I’d always been a strong, independent girl. One blow to the heart and I was reduced to a weak, pathetic version of myself. I didn’t want to be the kind of girl who moped over her lost love—especially whenhehadn’t handled my heart with the care he promised.
Perhaps what gutted me the most was I lost more than a boyfriend that one fateful night three months ago. I lost my best friend, my soulmate, and an important piece of me.
My favourite person in the entire world became my biggest lesson.
Time heals all wounds, as the saying went, and I had faith that eventually I too would be fine. I would fully heal, I would move on, and I would find love again.
I firmly believed that the universe threw your way only what it knew you could handle. Every obstacle was meant to strengthen and help you grow into a better version of yourself.
The strongest ones were those who’d sipped the wine of pain and not regurgitated any of it.
I hoped I’d proven my strength to the universe and that itwould finally give me a reprieve.
Lost in my reverie, I startled when my cell phone blared in the quiet, dark night.
It was my best friend, Callie Mackowski, calling. I quickly answered and brought it to my ear. “Hello?”
