"...saw it in the tabloids this morning..." Drew's voice. "Photos of that angel-faced demon..."
My heart stops.
I walk in, finding them huddled at the kitchen table. "Jordan's in the tabloids?"
Drew and Mom exchange a look.
"Bree—" Mom starts.
"Can I see?"
Drew hesitates, then pushes a copy of Raze toward me.
I snatch it and flip through with shaking hands.
And there he is on page three.
Jordan in a tailored shirt, with his top buttons undone, lounging on a chaise in what looks like an exclusive nightclub in Manhattan. He's reclined, nursing a highball glass of liquid, his other arm around a friend I don't recognize. He looks... fine.
Devastatingly gorgeous. Healthy. Not grieving. Not destroyed. Not anything like the person who, six days ago, called me twenty-seven times in desperation.
He looks like a man who's already moved on.
"Not a woman, at least," I mutter, trying to find some comfort in that.
"That doesn't mean there wasn't one earlier. Or later." Drew mutters.
My mom sends Drew a death glare and he stops talking.
Jordan is alive. He's well.
The relief lasts exactly two seconds.
Then comes the rage—white-hot and blinding.
I've been lying in bed for five days thinking he's dead. Sobbing into my pillow. Terrified I'd never get to apologize or hear him out. Meanwhile he's been partying it up at nightclubs.
While I've been drowning, he's been living.
"Wait, where are you going, Bree?" My mom calls, and I realize I've started walking out.
"Out for a walk," I retort.
I walk to the gas station at the end of the street, the magazine crumpled in my fist. It's one of those stations that still has a payphone.
I throw the tabloid in the trash outside, then feed quarters into the payphone and dial his number with shaking hands.
In less than three rings, a woman picks up, her voice professional and detached. "You've reached Jordan, can I help you?"
My breath catches.
I hang up without speaking, pull out my cell and dial the same number.
"The number you are calling is not available. Please try again later or send a text."
I call the payphone again. The woman answers.
I call from my cell. "The number you are calling is not available. Please try again later or send a text."
