But I’ve been alone before.
The morning after my parents died, I woke up on Gram’s couch, and I understood what it meant to be alone despite her being in the next room. When I went to school the following week, I was still alone, even though I was surrounded by people. It’s a spiritual loneliness rather than a physical one. It’s standing among humanity without connecting to a single soul.
I lie in bed, a hand pressed to my chest as my heart shatters beneath my sternum. But I can rot here all morning, and when I slowly sit up and push the riot of tangled curls away from myface, I meet the new day angry. Resentful. I sneer at the sunlight spilling in through the open curtains. How dare the dawn arrive cheerful as fuck? Howdareit not be gray and miserable outside when everything inside me is…dead?
I reach out to touch the mattress, sliding my hands across the empty place where Rhys lay only hours ago. I claw at the sheets where he slept. Gathering the blanket to hold it to my nose and inhale his lingering scent. Then I curse Cupid for taking him from me.
For stealing him like the cruelest of thieves.
God of Love, my ass.
“Fuck you,” I snarl, punching the mattress. “Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you,” I scream. “Bring him back, you fucking jerkoff,” I demand, but then I rethink my strategy. Probably not the best idea to insult the deity who holds the key to Rhys’s freedom. “No, wait, I’m sorry. Bring him back,please.”
Nothing.
There’s not even a ripple in the air or a whisper of Rhys’s tantalizing baritone to break the silence. It’s me here, alone, ruined, in this god-awful quiet. In this bed, in this house. While he’s…
There.
Trapped in the void.
It’s not fair. It’s not right, and when I kick off the blanket, I want to rip my heart out and put it in the fucking blender. Anything would be better than living with it beating heavy but hollow, aching for something—someone—I can’t have.
Needing to get as far away from my house as possible, away from where Rhys and I spent our last moments together, I swingmy legs off the bed and snatch my phone off the nightstand. Torturing myself, I open The Book Boyfriends app, expecting…
I’m not sure what.
Maybe nothing. Or everything. Rhys to pop out, to knock on my door again. Or Cupid waiting for me, ready to chastise me for failing big-time. But…nothing. It’s exactly as it was when I initially downloaded it.
“You made your point. Okay?” I swipe around, with every area now available to me as if I never matched with Rhys. When I go to the Contact page, I stare at it for a long, pregnant moment, wondering if I should…
If it will do a damn thing.
If anyone will even…
Screw it. Why not? What harm will it do at this point?
I type Cupid a message.
I messed up. Please don’t make Rhys pay for my bullshit.
Simple, sure, but hopefully effective.
See, the thing is, I held instalove—or whatever we had—in the palm of my hands. Rather than see it for the gift Cupid gave me, I crushed it in my fist. Pulverized it and let it blow away. Rhys would be here if I hadn’t been so goddamn afraid of getting hurt again. If I hadn’t been so fucking stubborn. I’d have taken that leap of faith.
Look at what I cost us.
Rhys is gone—unmade and lost in that fucking void—and after I trudge to the bathroom with my guilt burdening each step I take, I hate the woman who stares back at me from the mirror as I brush my teeth. This miserable stranger with her curls in ariot and her sunken and haunted green eyes. I press my trembling fingertips to my lips, the ghost of Rhys’s kiss lingering.
But for how long?
How long until I forget his lips pressed against mine or the slide of his hands along my body? When will his voice fade from my memory? Or will his striking face fade into a lost dream—same as my parents? Pushed somewhere to the back of my mind, too far for me to reach?
Oh, God…
My knees buckle, and I bury my face in my hands, with the blackness behind my eyes nothing compared to Rhys’s prison. His unending nightmare. Although I push to my feet and strip off my clothes, I’m numb to the actions, moving by rote. A quick shower hides my tears, and after, I dress in a stupor, pulling on the only black dress I own—the one I bought in case of a funeral. I slip on my Doc Martens and grab my wallet, keys, and cell phone, but one step outside, into the fresh air, suffocates me. Somehow, I muster the fortitude to make the drive to The Scorched Page, glad for Brooklyn’s company. My friend is a pleasant distraction, allowing me to pretend—for a little while, at least—that Rhys Ravenstone didn’t dig himself deep into my heart.
That it took me exactly one week to fall wildly, madly, and impossibly in love with him.
