My eyes fucking sting as I approach the point of no return, every square inch of my skin prickling. I suck in a deep breath because I’m coming, and coming hard, grasping her shoulders as I fuck the life out of us both.
Like the first bump of coke, the vibrancy of this moment is fucking crystalline.
No—being inside Ivy is the ultimate high.
And it has been since the very first time.
Then I’m... breathing hard and fast. Staring at the ceiling with one hand under my head. The rest of my limbs? Fuck knows. Draw ‘round me in chalk, and I’m a crime scene photograph. Emotionally, physically, I’m dead.
‘Dylan,’ she whispers. I can feel her trembling, and without looking, I know she’s curled the other way. ‘I d-did love you. You have to know.’
With a sigh, I draw what appears to be my hand through the wetness on my face.
‘Ivy,’ I reply quietly—I haven’t the energy for more. ‘Stay the fuck out of my head.’
Chapter Seventeen
Ivy
Iknowbefore I lift my head from the pillow that I’m alone.
Not that Ihavea pillow; I’m pretty much still in the middle of the bed, just curled to the left of where Dylan and I...
We fucked. We didn’t make love.
So I’m alone, uncovered, and lying on top of the bed. And let me be honest for possibly the first time since I arrived in LA, I’m disgusted with myself. Not because I slept with Dylan; though, surely, I’m kidding myself there because it’s not like I fell asleep in his arms.
We fucked. We didn’t make love in any way, shape, or form.
Disgusted. And I’m not even thinking of the lies I’ve told; lies to my family, my friends—to him. No. I’m thoroughly disgusted that I’ve stooped so low. Was I really going to let another man inside me just to prove a point?
To prove to Dylan that he was no longer the centre of my universe?
To be victorious in thewho gives less fuckswar?
He didn’t hold you. He fucked.
I’ve told lies—lots of lies—but the most hurtful of them all might’ve been to myself. Last night wasn’t about gaining a divorce. It was more about punishing myself.
He treated you like you deserved.
The air conditioner whirs to life as my tears begin to seep into the sheets. I don’t remember the last time I cried; melodrama isn’t my forte. I’m more your typically stoic, Scottish type. Remaining dry-eyed for so very long, I didn’t even cry the day I left home, or the day I left whatwasmy home to return to Scotland, I should say.
The night Dylan came home with lipstick on his zipper, I knew I deserved that, too. It was my fault he let some skank blow him.And whatever else...I try not to think about the specifics.My fault for being such a coward—I should’ve told him what had happened. Come clean about Ric and the things he said about our marriage. About my being a limitation to his career—a career he’d worked so hard to achieve. But I couldn’t. I let fear rule me. Fear that Ric was right. Fear that I’d never be enough for him. Because I didn’t marry Dylan Duffy, the movie star, I married Dylan, the hot guy who worked in gardens. The guy who was safe, not the guy who didn’t need me. The one who’d eventually see me for what I am—see me as ordinary. The person he’d eventually leave for someone famous and stunning and... not me.
It was only a matter of time before some starlet turned his head, just like Ric said. I’d already seen the looks those industry girls—Jesus, any girl—dished out when looking at him.
So I did what I had to protect me. I left him, breaking both of our hearts. And no matter how much I tell myself it was for the best, that I hate him, it still fucking hurts.
He no longer wants me, and he never really needed me. And I surely don’t deserve him after what I’ve done. But there’s one thing left to do for both our benefits. It’s the thing I’ve been trying to do since I left. Stop being this lying psycho fuck-up and move on; only this time, do it honestly.
I pull myself to sit and rub my eyes with the heels of my palms. I feel wiped out. Empty. Like I’ve cried for days.
This is why I don’t do tears, per se.
The room is bright, the curtains open, and it’s not helping my tear-weary eyes. Birds sing from the trees outside as I shuffle to the side of the bed, my stomach suddenly rumbling. I can’t remember the last time I ingested anything other than alcohol. I swing my legs over the side of the mattress, ignoring the tattered remains of my knickers clinging to the covers like some kind of... fucking flotsam.
Kind of appropriate, I think. Appropriate to how I feel; like the tiniest of current could carry me away. Insubstantial. Wrecked.
