All I keep thinking about is how Poppy should be here with me. About how she looked curled up on the couch,drinking her coffee in the morning, or snoring softly next to me at night.
I’ve just been wandering aimlessly around the house for the last few days, unsure of what to do with myself.
I roam from room to room, the air stale since I’ve been staying at Poppy’s apartment in Heartwood. The cold hardwood and clean lines of my place seem sterile compared to hers that has Halloween décor everywhere, and hand-knit blankets covering every soft surface.
But it wasn’t her apartment that had started to feel like home, it washer.
And now the only way I get to love her is by protecting her from the fallout of my stupid fucking mess.
The comments on that stupid fucking article were horrible.
Poppy said she was half responsible, that she knew what she was getting into when she agreed to this. But the fact is, she never could have truly known. I did, though. And I pulled her into a life that she should never have been a part of. I subjected her to scrutiny, put her in a spotlight that she isn’t prepared for, and worse—opened her livelihood up to scandal.
I knew better. I fucking knew better. I’ve lived it, and the only person I have to blame for all of this is myself.
As predicted, Jason called last night and confirmed that Nuclear is out as my sponsor. Chase Montgomery finally put his foot down. Actually, the word Jason used was ‘vetoed’ so, that’s that. He doesn’t want me ruining the company’s reputation, which at this point, I get. I do.
Sure, the marriage was helping. It was slowly changing the public’s perception of me. But getting caught in this kindof lie? Falsifying a marriage and making a mockery of the institution of it? There’s no coming back from it.
Nuclear was my last shot to get to the Big Air World Cup, and I can kiss any chance of future sponsorships goodbye.
Maybe I’m just numb, still in a state of shock, but thinking about what I’ve lost, I don’t feel anything at all.
I find myself in the guest room now, sitting on the end of the bed where she used to sleep when she stayed here, rubbing my sternum with the heel of my hand to relieve the aching pressure behind it.
There’s a small patch of fur in one spot on the comforter, making it obvious that’s where Cordelia slept. Until she started sleeping in my room and left a similar one on my bed, too.
My heart squeezes at the sight of it. So much it hurts.
Suddenly, the thought of staying in this guest room, the space she occupied, is too much for me to handle, the weight of it all crushing, suffocating. I stand up from the bed and leave, shutting the door behind me, never wanting to look at it again.
Yet, despite my wanting to ignore the feeling in my chest, I go out to the kitchen, flick on the kettle to make a cup of hot chocolate and settle on the couch in Poppy’s spot to watch her favourite movie.
House on the Bloodstained Hill. I’ll watch it, even though I don’t like it, because something about it feels like a small way that I can connect with her, and it eases the pain.
Poppy has been and always will be in my life to some degree. She’s a fixture of Heartwood, she’s integrated into my friend group, my family. She’s not going anywhere, and thatmight be the worst part of it all. I can’t just move on from the relationship like with other women I’ve been with.
I finish my hot chocolate and am just about to doze off on the couch when a knock on the door wakes me. When I stand up to go and answer it, I’m suddenly very aware of how dishevelled I look. I look—and feel—like a man depressed. I’m wallowing. Sulking.
I straighten out my wrinkled sweats, and when I open the door, Dan is standing there assessing the sorry state I’m in.
“What the fuck happened to you?” He asks in his gruff tone as he pushes past me and heads into my kitchen.
“Come on in, why don’t you?” I mutter to myself as I close the door and follow on his heels.
“Wow, we really are having a pity party today,” Dan points out, looking around at the chocolate powder covering my counter, dirty dishes piled in the sink, and the indent I’ve made in the couch because I haven’t moved for hours.
“Can you blame me?” I ask. My tone is tired. I’m run ragged from my own thoughts.
Dan scrubs his hand down his face and goes over to sit on the couch, leaning back, exasperated. I sit down beside him, resting my elbows on my knees.
“The whole situation is fucked. I don’t know how I’m going to get over this,” I admit. I’m normally one to let things go, water off a duck’s back and all that.
But it’s too fucking late. I opened myself up to it, and here I am.
“You’re such a scrappy little shit, I didn’t think something like this would get you down, much less make you give up.”
Dan’s right, but there’s nothing more left to do. Thewhole debacle with the media is only going to get worse in the coming days, once the news spreads and all of Poppy’s friends and family find out about our lie.
