That’s what Leo calls me. Does he call other people that?
I’m losing it. If I spend any longer stewing over this, I might develop a nicotine addiction again.
My eyes burn as I trudge down the street, texting Sabrina my ETA. I throw up a little in my mouth seeing a message from Thomas pop up on my phone.
Thomas: I hope you have a good day today.
I’m not replying; it’s a problem for future me. He’s lovely, but he’s not Leo.
Maybe I should give him a chance, though, since Leo is... potentially in a relationship with someone.
My stomach cramps—whether from my endo or from the anxiety of seeing Leo’s message thread at the very top of my inbox, unopened so he doesn’t have a read receipt. It’s been four hours since he sent me a good morning text, then a couple follow-ups of unrelated things, and I can’t bring myself to respond.
Or answer his call. Any of them. Not yesterday’s, and most definitely not today’s. I can’t even bring myself to listen to his voicemail.
I haven’t been able to act normal around him because every time I see his name, the only thing I can think about is the fact that he’s flirting with me while he’s with someone else.
What if I did that to him? I’m sure that fuck face wouldn’t appreciate it.
God, the anxiety this is giving me will probably send me to a grave before I manage to kill him for all the emotional damage.
Blowing out a breath, I scrub a hand over my face, trying to focus on the blaring from my headphones to tune out the sea ofpeople filling the sidewalk for the brunch rush—or whatever the hell they’re doing.
I canceled meeting up with Sabrina last week out of my sheer inability to deal with human interaction, and I doubt she’d be forgiving if I pull out at the eleventh hour when I’m already fifteen minutes late because I “couldn’t find a parking spot”—I was having a mini breakdown.
Because what if this was all for nothing?
What if Leo is actually in a relationship and I’ve been obsessing over a lying, cheating asshole? That’s months of my life wasted. My gut tells me that he wouldn’t do something like this, but what if I’m wrong and just creating excuses to make myself feel better?
Blowing out a terse breath, I shuffle up to the café, lower my headphones around my neck, and say a silent prayer that Sabrina is in the type of mood to take control of the conversation and do all the talking, so I can try to gain some sense of composure over all my emotions.
“Tala,” a shrill voice calls from behind me.
I turn toward Sabrina and internally cringe at the fake name. I truly am an awful person—an idiot too. How do I explain to her that Tala isn’t my name if Leo and I miraculously end up together?
The way Sabrina beams at me makes the guilt curdle in my stomach. Whatever gene is in the Duval bloodline that makes them all look like godly beings needs to be studied. Her green eyes shine brighter than the glitter swept over her lids, and gloss glistens on her immaculately lined lips. Her cheeks are perfectly rosy, jaw utterly symmetrical, contour the textbook definition of flawless.
The thick, cream-colored Miu Miu dress that cuts off mid-thigh complements her pale skin that’s a couple shades lighter than her brother’s. Her long lashes flutter as she studies me withconcern etched into her silky smooth, freshly Botoxed forehead—if the tiny, raised bruise is any indication.
Her blown-out hair bounces as she runs up to me and uses all five foot seven of her body to pull me into a spine-realigning hug. Then she holds me back by the shoulders to study me like she senses I’m losing my mind. “Are you okay?”
For all intents and purposes, fuck no, but it’s not like I can tell Sabrina about it.
“You look exhausted.”
Oh good. So my attempt at using a concealer must be trash. Just what I want to hear.
I force a reassuring smile to my face. “Insomnia is a nasty bitch.”
“Here, here.” She snorts, falling back into the cushioned booth right beside the front window.
I shuck my puffer jacket off and hang it on the back of the wooden chair before taking my seat, trying to ignore the anxiety clawing up my throat. The pastries and the two cups of coffee sitting on the table between us make for an immediate distraction.
“It’s my turn to pay.” I glare at her.
Because her world-renowned hugs aren’t bad enough, this is another thing she always does: pays for both of our meals.
It’s like rubbing salt into the wound.
