We take the few steps down onto the sand before Harrison says, “So, tell me what happened.”
“I’m fine. Honestly. We’re just too different. It wouldn’t have worked,” I say, concentrating very hard on keeping my voice strong and steady.
“You sure?”
“Yeah, of course. I feel a little stupid flying all that way when we probably could have figured it out with a quick phone call, but otherwise, I’m great,” I say, nodding confidently at him. “How could I not be?”
“At least you know now, right?” he asks, bumping my shoulder with his. “You won’t have to wonder anymore.”
“Exactly. Knowing isso much betterthan not knowing.”
That, by the way, is the biggest lie people tell themselves right behind ‘I’ll start working out on Monday.’ Hoping Pierce and I would end up together wasso much betterthan knowing it’s over for good. Knowing is the dog’s bollocks because now I have to move on with absolutely no hope whatsoever. And I have to pretend everything’s hunky-dory when it’s really not hunky-dory at all. There’s no hunky or even a little bit of dory. It’s just crap.
Not to mention the fact that I can’t actually talk about the reason I came home with anyone here. There’s no way Harrison and Libby can find out that one of the biggest reasons it didn’t work out is so that I can be here for them. If that happens, they’ll be putting me back on the next flight to Avonia themselves, and to be honest, I’d rather eat spiced kidney than get back on another plane right now.
And even if Ididfly back, rush to Pierce, and tell him I changed my mind, it’s not like we left things in a very nice place. I don’t evenwantto get back with someone who thinks Mother Teresa was in it for the fame. Seriously, what kind of man says things like that? I mean, it’s sort of witty—I’ll give him that. But it’s also exceptionally rude and I’m not going to spend my life with someone rude.
No matter how badly I want to.
34
The Part Where the Guy Goes Out Drinking So He Can Forget…
Pierce
“Another round for everyone!” I shout, my voice barely making it above the sound of the thumping beat. A roar from the crowd of clubbers drowns out the music. I turn to Leo, screaming in his face, “And that’s how it’s done!”
“Yes, I get it. You know how to party,” he yells back. “You’ve more than demonstrated this fact over the past four nights. You’re a total rock star. Now, can we please get out of here?”
Leaning into his ear, I say, “Why on earth would we do that? Have you seen all the women in this place? It’s like a lady buffet and I’m feeling rather peckish at the moment.”
“No, you’re not,” he says, rolling his eyes. “You’ve been using that same creepy line every night now, but when it comes down to it, you don’t want to sample the menu. You’re just going to stand here being utterly picky because none of these women is you-know-who. Then we’re going to go home where you’ll sit at the kitchen table sipping tequila until the sun comes up and force me to listen to you go on about how you’reso gladyou didn’t let yourself get tied down.”
“Thrilled, actually!” I say, tipping back the bottle of champagne I’m holding and guzzling down as much of the bubbly liquid as I can in one go (which is quite a bit, in case you’re wondering). Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I shout, “I’m no chunder bunny!”
The people around us cheer as though I’ve just won the World Cup, and I hold up the bottle and yell, “Now, which of you lovely ladies wants to come home with me?”
* * *
“There you are,” I say, stumbling through the door to my flat and finding Leo on the couch watching Peaky Blinders. “What happened to you, you wanker?”
“I got sick of watching you self-destruct. It’s not as fun whenyoudo it,” he says without looking up at me.
I flop down onto the couch next to him and kick off my shoes.
“So, where’s the woman you were going to bring home?” he asks.
“Meh, no one there I fancied enough to let into the fortress of solitude,” I say, rubbing my chest. Apparently, if I drink to excess several days in a row, I end up with a wicked case of heartburn.
Tom Hardy comes on the screen, and we’re both transfixed by his skill to transform into an insanely entertaining rum runner.
“I wish I’d written this show,” I mutter.
“Instead ofClash of Crowns?” he asks.
“No, along with it. This is the one show I can never predict. Everything else I see, I can tell you what the characters are going to say next, but not this one.” I burp a little, then tell my stomach to keep it all in.Keep it in or you’ll turn me into a liaranda chunder bunny.
“Yes, you’ve always been drawn to the unpredictable, haven’t you?” he asks, staring at me.
