She kept talking about leaving. About how her mom had mentioned France.
She was in my lap, back against my chest, my arms wrapped around her. I remember feeling so many things I didn’t quite understand. Fear. Sadness. An ache so deep it hurt just thinking about her being gone. I’d never loved anyone. Don’t even think I really knew what the word meant. But this feeling I had—it felt like love.
I went still, arms tightening, pulling her closer. I took a shaky breath, muttered, “Christ,” then cupped her cheek and turned her face toward me.
“I love you, Jordan,” I said. “I love you so much. I’d do anything for you. I always will. Please… don’t go to France.”
She turned fully, eyes locked on mine. “I love you, too. I’m not going anywhere.”
Three weeks later, she left for France.
For eighteen fucking months.
And I was just young and stupid enough to think love could survive anything.
I couldn’t even tell you why we broke up the second time. Early twenties. College. Figuring life out. Partying.
She said she needed space, and I talked myself into that being the best idea ever.
That’s when I really started sleeping around. Taking advantage of the Grayson name, of who I was. Girls went in and out like a revolving door, Jordan included.
That was the first time we started sleeping together without actually being together. She acted like it was the greatest thing in the world. Like it didn’t matter who else I fucked, as long as she got her turn.
Looking back, I think that’s what messed with my head the most. The fact that she didn’t care.
By the third time, we were older. Smarter. Or at least we should’ve been. I was deep in work by then. Focused on getting out from under my father’s shadow. On building something of my own. On being better than him in every possible way.
I worked too much.
“I just need space,” she said again.
Same words. Different year. Only this time, I knew that wasn’t really it. Her dad had just gotten out of prison, and everything got heavy all over again. It was like something flipped overnight. One day she was ready to move in.
The next? Gone.
I cross the street, barely missing a stroller, my mind stuck years behind my body.
The fourth time hurt worse than the first two combined. Not because it was new—but because it wasn’t. You’d think I’d have gotten used to the sting of losing her. But nothing could have prepared me for that one.
Not after Switzerland.
Not after I bought a ring.
Not after I’d worked myself up to tell her I loved her again.
And then my father did what he did.
The tabloids followed, painting an ugly picture of both of us.
She stood by the elevator of my penthouse, crying. Shaken. Broken.
“I’m sorry, Matt. I love you… but I can’t do this anymore.”
“Babe—”
She pushed the button.
“Babe, don’t. Don’t do this. Please.”
