So I walk toward that door, trying so desperately to hold myself together until I can break down in private, well aware that losing him was never about losing access to his world despite what he thinks or insinuates. I never needed expensive dresses or invites to balls or events at The Met, or to attend weddings at the Plaza, for that matter. I was content with hot dogs on the street, Sunday dinners with my family, and falling asleep in his arms like I was his and he was mine, in spite of knowing it would only last a short time.
While he lets his heart disappear, I walk away from him, knowing mine will no longer be intact either. How could it be when the beats I felt were his all along?
“You gave up on me when I was still holding out hope. All I wanted was the person I was given a glimpse of the night at dinner with your family. That was the real you that the lies couldn’t disguise. Where did she go?”
With my toes facing the final door of this obstacle, I look back over my shoulder. “You never really let me in. So you win, Warner. You have this penthouse all to yourself again.”
He opens the door for me, though I’m certain it’s not from chivalry. As soon as I step into the hall, he slams it closed. The latching of the bolts is the final blow. I’m no longer welcome here.
I no longer have Warner.
He’s right because he lost me, but I also lost myself along the way.
Cutting through the lobby, Keith stands when he sees me. His eyes dart to the bags I’m carrying, and then he asks, “Going on a trip, Mrs. Landers?”
“Going home.” He holds the door open for me, and when I walk out into the June night air, I say, “Keith, it’s Bayetti. My name is Delaney Bayetti.”
The empathy in his smile makes my heart clench, like he saw through me the whole time. “That’s a pretty name, Ms. Bayetti.” I’d tell him to call me Delaney, but we know we won’t be seeing each other again.
“Thank you. Take care, okay?”
He tips his hat before I turn and head for the nearest train station. Despite the fight I had upstairs, I can still appreciate how nice this neighborhood is. It has a charm about it, but maybe it’s too pristine for someone like me, someone who needs to feel the pulse of the city. Two blocks down, I can just make out his building, but the penthouse is too far above me to see.
This is it.
The tension in my body begins to alleviate, breathing coming easier as if I’d been holding it since the moment we met. But as soon as I hop on the train, those tears I held back at his apartment fall carelessly from the corners of my eyes. The emotion of the day is finally hitting a tipping point that I can no longer balance. I need to finally admit the truth. It’s not the emotion. It’s the loss of Warner that hits hardest.
Trying my best to swipe the running mascara from under my eyes, I stop outside the restaurant, catching sight of my mom through the window. She’s bustling through tables with plates in her hands and a big smile on her face while my dad laughs with a group of men seated in the corner booth. He glides to the next, sharing his joy, like he always did with us kids, ensuring everyone who dines at the restaurant feels at home.
I carry on, tugging open the door and going upstairs to enter the apartment.As soon as I enter the room, I kick the door closed and drop the bags in the middle of the floor before falling onto the bed and crying some more.
CHAPTER 29
Warner
The darknessof night lifts from the Eiffel Tower she left on my console. What little light morning dares to bring allows my eyes to focus on the trinket when I wish she had taken it, like she removed herself from my life.
Did I tell her to go?I had no other choice when she wouldn’t even fight for the little that was real in our relationship. I would have. I can handle yelling. It’s the silence that killed the possibility. We could have fought through it to get to the truth and built a new foundation from there. But she packed her bags so fast that we weren’t given the option.
My phone lights up with another message. I always check just in case it’s Delaney. It’s not this time, just like the past four weren’t. All are from Jimmy. I finally reach for it on the coffee table and flip it open, only reading the last one:You better reply or I’m going to assume you were in another accident.
To be fair, itwasa hit-and-run. Describing the driver to the police would be easy: Shorter, about chest high, long brown hair that’s probably twisted up on her head, most likely wearing a stolen Harvard T-shirt, these incredible blue eyes that look at me like I hung the stars and moon when she’s not mad at me, which is quite a bit of the time, and considers cookies in bed an aphrodisiac.
I text:I’m alive.I don’t mention barely, though I feel my life slipping away from me again.Stop making your bride jealous by bugging me and enjoy the honeymoon.
When the screen brightens with another text, I feel my heart kick in again. But it’s not from her. Jimmy replies:Glad you’re alive. Beers when I get back from Aruba.
I stare at the screen for so long that I only see spots when I look away. I toss my phone to the other side of the couch and drop my head into my hand. I know I shouldn’t, but I already miss Delaney so fucking much.
She’s a habit. That’s all. A bad one at that. I’ve broken bad habits before. Twenty-one days. That’s all it will take to get her out of my system.Focus on that, Landers.
Lying down, I rest my head on the couch cushion with my broken arm anchored by my bicep. Seeing how the black ink bled into the fibers of the cast makes me realize nothing, no matter the intention, is only perfect for a short time. The lowercase “i” with a heart dotted was a distinctly Delaney choice when she could have chosen capitalization. I not only lost her and her spirit filling the vacancies in this place, but now I’m stuck staring at a blobby heart until this cast comes off.
Getting upset after the fact won’t do me any good. I close my eyes, wishing the amnesia I had also involved the time I spent with her. The short time we were together caused more damage than the accident, but being trapped in these memories hurts more than any injuries I sustained.
My eyes grow heavy in the early morning hours . . .
A long-overdue contract finally hits my inbox first thing on Monday. I openit and start reading through the details. My supposed “closer,” Carl, failed the company on this deal. We should have been signing papers, not sending them through both legal teams for a fourth round of negotiations. It’s time for me to step in. If he can’t get this deal closed, I will.
