“That’s your disguise, but I know the real you. And all the things you’ve told me about Alexander in the past month, he seems to have the same defenses, buta good heart. I’ve had a few hours to think about it,reallythink about it, and… he made you happy, Sage. Don’t walk away from this based on an assumption that might be wrong. You need more information first.”
“I won’t talk with him again,” I snap. “Ever.”
“You’d rather be alone than risk being wrong?”
“I’m not alone, honeybee. You know what lives in my heart? Carbon fiber, steel, engine grease, E10 fuel, asphalt, rubber, andspeed. Not some cotton-candy love bullshit.” There’s a minute of silence as I listen to the sighing and tapping of recorded forest breeze. “Also he’d never forget that when I confronted him, I said, ‘I hate you.’ Men don’t forgive that. It’s too much of an ego punch. I called him a liar and said I hate him.”
“Okay, but—”
“And remember how you told me, when we talked about all this on the flight to Bahrain, ‘Sometimes they don’t give you another chance’? This would definitely be one of those times.”
“Hmm. Did he say it back?”
“No! He just gave me a look like I’d incinerated his soul.” My chest drums out an arrhythmic ache at the memory. His soft, perfect lips, parted in disbelief. His smoke-gray eyes red and devastated. The scar on his eyebrow creasing as his forehead crumpled with pain.
Fuckity fucking fuck.
“Sage,” Priya says, just above a whisper. “Do you really believe in your heart that he could do that to you—betray you? That everything you guys shared was a lie? Because if you do, I won’t push you to have another conversation with him.”
The thing is… Idon’tbelieve it in my heart. But I have to believe itin my head. Plus I’ve already ruined everything and I won’t go crawling back. I’m not meant for relationships; I never was. And Alexander was fucking warned.
Maybe it’s not evenhimI distrust, but… me.
I pull Priya’s hand to my face and kiss her knuckles before tucking her hand under my cheek like a security blanket.
“Thank you for understanding,” I tell her, doing my damnedest to sound both carefree and final. “I do appreciate your feedback. You’re the best.”
She makes a grumbly sound like she’s unconvinced, but lets it drop. As I feign drifting off to sleep, I can’t help thinking of my fake sneeze in the elevator with Alexander in Melbourne, and that Priya is a lot easier to fool than he is.
Unfortunately, there’s no foolingmyselfthat I’m not heartbroken.
But it’s too fucking late.
24
FRANCE
ONE MONTH LATER
ALEXANDER
Of course I love France, though not as much as Americans do (to be fair, I probably don’t even love London as much as Americans do). But I wouldn’t be here right now if it weren’t for Badrick getting married to Laurent.
For four weeks I’ve scarcely left my house. My hair is shaggy, I’ve lost nearly a stone, and I gave up on shaving… leading to the dismaying discovery that my facial hair at this length is alarmingly and undeniably ginger.
Still, when Bad called and said he and Laurent had decided to make a trip (reckless, but no one asked me) up the middle aisle, I packed a few suits and chucked them into the boot of the Austin-Healey and hit the road.
I suppose it’s good for me to get out of the house, rather than mooning around playing piano and day-drinking and rereading books that made me satisfyingly depressed as ateenager. (Thank you, Graham Greene, forBrighton Rock.) On the Dover–Calais ferry, I leaned into my adolescent despair to such a degree that I stood on deck with my face in the wind, listening to Amália Rodrigues’s “Maldição” on repeat and feeling very sorry for myself. The lyrics,What destiny or curse commands us, My Heart?seem written just for me.
For reasons that are probably unfair and a bit territorial, I took Laurent for a gold digger, but it turns out his parents have a small winery in Reims, where the wedding is. After making my way up the winding drive, I park near a picturesque barn that has the doors thrown open. Workers dart in and out, preparing for tomorrow’s festivities.
I drove with the top down from Calais onward, so I’m all kinds of disheveled, and a little sunburned on the back of my neck. As I climb out of the Sprite, Badrick exits the house and trots over to me, arms open.
“You look terrible, mate,” he says, embracing me and pummeling my back.
“And you look like an International Male cover stud, as usual.” I nod sideways at the wedding preparations. “Even if you are such a cliché that you’re having a barn wedding.”
“Fuck off,” he says with a laugh. “And the reception’s in the barn, not the ceremony.” When I pull my garment bag from the boot, Badrick takes it from me and leads the way to the house. “That scruff! My best man couldn’t be arsed to shave?”
