I hug her again. Partly because I need it but mainly because she’s been a true friend to me while I’ve been here. “Thank you for being so wonderful. And please thank Louisa for me, too. I was hoping to stop by today, but I have too much to get done before I go.”
“I’ll let her know,” Mira says. Afraid that I’ll tell her everything if I stay a second longer, I give her one final embrace before walking away, out into the offices. With every step I take, I tell myself that I just have to get back to the apartment, and then I can crumble. Get back to the apartment and maybe I can figure out a way to salvage this.
A half hour later, when I finally get to my room, I’m a complete maelstrom of emotions. Disappointment, guilt, sadness, self-loathing—they’re all here and they stick their claws deep inside me until they draw blood.
I did this. I should have tried harder. I should have done better. I took this opportunity and I squandered it. That’s what I do. That’s the kind of person I am.
I walk to the window and look out at the view before me, but the city that once looked so magical and full of promise now seems unforgiving and cold.
And it’s my fault. I made it this way.
All the tears that wanted to fall in Lorenzo’s office spring to my eyes, and I’m finally in a place where I can let them fall. I feel sick and I need to let this out, and one second later there’s a quiet but insistent knocking at my door.
This can’t be happening.Please just let me have some time.
“Hey,” I hear Matt call. “Can I come in for a second?”
I quietly groan as I face the still-closed door. All I want is to be left alone.
“Now isn’t really a good time,” I call back, swiping my hands across my face. “Can you give me a few minutes?”
“I’ll be really quick, I promise.”
I should tell him no. I know I should, but instead I find myself moving to the door. I take a thin breath in as I open it, but as soon as I catch a glimpse of Matt, my protective walls threaten to topple and I’m about to burst into tears all over again. Probably because some part of me innately knows that I’m safe with him. He would take my hand and lead me through this. But I don’t want that. I need to experience every ounce of pain. No reprieves. No comfort.
Turning on my heels, I busy myself by grabbing my suitcase from under my bed and dropping it onto the mattress. I fling it open and look around as I try to decide where to start. “What’s up?” I ask him over my shoulder.
“Nothing much,” he says. “Sorry to bother you, but I have something for you.”
“Oh yeah?” I open my drawers and start transferring my clothes into the suitcase.
“It’s something of mine. Something I was hoping you would read.”
I spin around at his words and he’s holding out a stack of papers. Maybe fifty or so.
“What’s this?” I ask, stepping forward and taking the pages.
“It’s my book,” he says a little apprehensively. “The first few chapters. You’re the only person who’s seen it.”
I look down at the pages in my hands and I’m so happy for him. This is huge. It’s his work and he trusts me to read it. Trusts me before anyone else.
“It doesn’t make sense to keep it to myself,” he adds. “If I’m going to get better, I need to let other people read it, and I never would have been able to do that without you. Not to mention, you’re quite inspiring. I’ve worked on my book more since I’ve known you than I have in the past year.”
His words should fill me with delight, but instead they fill me with layer upon layer of shame. Our relationship helped him. It inspired him. He took his feelings for me, and he channeled them into something productive. I did the opposite. I slowed down. I eased up. I let my feelings for him distract me. Let them sweep me away. Because that’s what I do in relationships. That’s what I always do. Why focus on me when I can focus on them? I did that before, and I just did it again, and now I’m paying the price.
I take his pages and pack them away in my suitcase. “That’s awesome, Matt. I’ll read them as soon as the competition is over.”
He watches as I continue feverishly packing, and I see his expression begin to dim.
“Sure, no rush,” he says. I nod and he cautiously goes on, “Speaking of the competition, how was your presentation?”
I inhale a shallow breath. “It wasn’t great. I sounded completely inexperienced and Lorenzo hated my designs.”
“What?” he asks, his voice shocked. “Why? You’ve been working so hard on everything.”
I drop my toiletry bag into the suitcase and turn around to face him. “No, I haven’t. I should have been, but I haven’t. Instead of focusing on my collection and experimenting and working, what have I really been doing? I’ve been running around Italy with you, having a great time and accomplishing nothing.”
Matt looks wounded but tries to keep his face neutral. “You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself. I’m sure you can fix whatever you’re not happy with.”
