The screen flashed as my alarm blared, a reminder of my therapy appointment in an hour. Didn’t need the alarm. A pitiful laugh clawed my throat. I glanced around the peaceful, nature-themed waiting room. Light green walls. A stone facade with water trickling down. I’d arrived over an hour early.
But the ambiance didn’t touch the grief scraping in my chest. Not the green walls. Not the gentle bubbling of the water feature. Not the scent of lemongrass and eucalyptus pulsing from the corner diffuser.
Grief didn’t care how peaceful the room appeared. Sorrow wrapped around my ribcage like a wire, digging deeper with every breath. My limbs were heavy. My face, hot. I drowned in my own body while Beverly Hills moved on outside this stupid room with its fake river and throw pillows.
I blinked. A tear escaped.
Then another.
Some life moments caused a heart to crack.
This wasn’t that.
Someone reached into my chest with a fist, ripping out my heart, and showing it to me still beating—before throwing it onto the dirt and stepping on it.
I clutched the phone without meaning to. Like I needed answers from the man I loved. He was everywhere. In my hands. My memories. My blood.
A name I couldn’t say.
A face I couldn’t forget.
A man I couldn’t stop loving.
Another text buzzed.
I flinched, the sound an insult.
Lachlan.
He was still reaching for me. He’d left voicemails and texted even before the news broke. He knew the destruction of us was just about to go viral.
And somehow I wanted to answer him.
God help me.
I yearned to hear his voice.
To beg him to tell me it wasn’t what it looked like. To explain. To lie to me. That was how deep this went.
Forcing myself to avert my gaze from the screen, I caught my reflection in the shiny, glass tabletop. Mascara smudged. Eyes red. Just another stupid girl crying over a … cheater?
Footsteps approached, then the therapist’s secretary tilted her head. “We have you down for 11 a.m.?”
My bottom lip quivered. “Yep.”
She nodded, knowingly. “Dr. Vashone’s 10 a.m. usually arrives a hair after the grace period. If they’re late, I’ll send them away. Squeeze you in early. Okay?”
“Thanks,” I murmured.
Two more text ribbons popped up on my phone. Jordyn’s was first.
Was she trying to vouch for him or?—
Nope.
JORJOR: Are you free tonight? Let’s go to dinner, Cutie Pie. My treat. Or let’s double with Jamie and you know who.
Ugh.I didn’t need her in my ear about Lorenzo. She’d endured frequent abuse. Any sign of disloyalty, and she’d jump ship. Made sense.
