“Yeah, we’re fine, Shaun,” she says. “Thanks for double-checking, but it’s all right if you want to go now. I’m not dancing with him.” She points at me. “But I’m not worried about him, either.”
Shaun doesn’t move. “I don’t think she wants you here.”
His attitude is starting to annoy me. “And I don’t think you get an opinion. Who are you again?”
“Sydney’s cousin.” He folds his arms over his chest. “On her father’s side. We’re in town for the wedding. Who the hell are you?”
Her cousin.Fuck. Not what I expected.
“I’m, uh…” I risk a glance at her and find her glaring. “Her boyfriend.”
They exchange a look, and a tingle runs down my spine. I don’t like the sense I’m getting from Sydney. A hand lands on my arm. It’s Lena.
“I think you should do what she says.”
I want to argue, but I can see that Sydney isn’t in a good frame of mind for a proper conversation, and I deflate. It’ll have to wait until the morning.
“Okay.” I bend to kiss her cheek, but she turns her face away. “I’ll call in the morning,carino.”
Reluctantly, I turn and leave.
Sydney
Ugh. I roll over in bed, my stomach roiling. It’s been so long since I was hungover that my body doesn’t know how to deal with it. Searching my memories, I try to recall what happened last night. I have flashes of the wedding ceremony, and of an uncomfortable dinner with my parents, then it’s just throbbing music until… wait… Did Gabe turn up? I vaguely recall seeing his face. Too handsome. My heart hurting. Me giving him a piece of my mind. Groaning, I curl into a ball. A nerve in the back of my eye twitches, and my head is pounding like nobody’s business.
Then the whole lot rushes back, along with a sense of loneliness that’s overpowering. Gabe chose a fight instead of something he’d agreed to do with me. A fight that doesn’t even mean anything in the grand scheme of things. And then he turned up only to try and jump right in as if it didn’t matter, but it feels like there’s a hole in my chest where my heart used to be.
How could he do that? He knows me better than anyone, which means he was aware of how I’d feel and did it anyway. The hollowness inside me turns into a yawning void, sucking any remaining positivity out of me.
I need ice cream. Even if I can’t keep it down.
Traipsing to the kitchen, I make the mistake of switching on the lights and throw a hand up to shield my eyes until I can get them off again. In the dimly lit room, I rummage in the cupboard for painkillers and down them with a glass of water. The cold water hits my angry stomach the wrong way and I lunge for the sink, relieved when I don’t throw up.
Why did I do this to myself? I haven’t been more than tipsy in years. Resting my forehead on the cool countertop, I have to admit that it’s all because I was stupid enough to believe Gabe could prioritize anything over MMA. He’s been obsessed with living up to everyone’s expectations since his very first fight, which got a lot of attention because he was following in his father’s footsteps.
Since then, it’s only gotten worse. With each win, the public debates whether he will eventually outdo his famous father, or if he’ll fall short. They analyze his technique and his record and compare it to his father’s at a similar age. Tomas is the worst of all. He means well, but he urges Gabe to do more, better, and faster, not seeing the impact it has on him.
I can understand why the pressure gets to Gabe, and why he doesn’t want to disappoint anyone. It must be difficult. But even though I understand, I also know that when I settle down with someone, I want to be his obsession, and with Gabe, I struggle to believe that’s a possibility. His career might always come first.
Do I resent that? Yeah, maybe a little, but I can’t be mad with him either because my career is also important to me. I see where he’s coming from. It just sucks. I straighten and go to the mini freezer, where I withdraw a small tub of Ben & Jerry’s cookie dough ice cream. A minute later, I’m in bed, eating the ice cream straight from the tub. When I’m halfway through, my phone pings. I check the messages. It’s from Gabe.
Gabe:Morning, baby. How are you feeling? Want to do something later?
As if I feel up to anything.
Sydney:No thanks. Holed up in bed with ice cream. Feeling sorry for myself.
Even if I were feeling well, I don’t know that I’d want to see him. The cavalier way he treated his commitment to me this weekend doesn’t bode well. If it were a one-off, I’d let it slide, but he was also late to dancing afterhesuggested it and then he was late to dinner earlier this week. Each incident on its own isn’t a big deal, but combined with the times he’s stood me up in the past? It’s alarming.
The phone rings. I don’t have to check to know it’s him, and much as I might want to ignore him, that would only result in him driving over here. I may as well address this head-on.
“Hi, Gabe.” I sound weary, even to my own ears.
“Syd.” His husky voice wakes up my body in ways I wish it didn’t. “What’s wrong?”
Where to start? I jam the spoon into my ice cream and set it aside.
“You mean except for being hungover?” I groan. “I forgot how shitty this feels.”
