I don’t make my way across the space to be near him. Don’t slide my hands around his waist as I rest my head against his strong back. I don’t saygood morningorhow are youordid you make coffee yetbecause my God-given sixth sense tells me something has changed. Something is very, very wrong with this picture. This moment.
As he turns, his expression confirms every bit of this. He’s so frighteningly handsome, but he also looks like he hasn’t slept of a week.
‘I didn’t want to wake you. Though I thought I might have to.’ This is kind of a running joke between us; like the hours he doesn’t sleep have been passed on to me for use. ‘If sleeping was an Olympic sport... ’ His eyes slide away, his ghost of a smile slipping, a smile closer to a wraith.
‘I’m awake now. Are you going to tell me what this is?’
‘There’s no easy way to say this but I’m leaving.’
‘For how long?’ I wrapping my arms across my chest, fingers clasping my forearms, like I somehow sense my heart needs the extra layer of protection.
‘I haven’t decided yet.’ His jaw sets firm. ‘But my lawyers will be in touch soon to confirm the details of the settlement.’
‘I don’t understand,’ I answer dumbly, because I think I do. Or part of me does, at least. The logical part of me understands he’s leaving for good, even though that makes no rational sense.
‘But I thought last night—you said you weren’t ready for this to be over.’
‘I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready. If I stay, the next few weeks will be unhealthy. For us both. You have to believe that.’
‘But it doesn’t have to stop at six months. We could—’
‘Stop.’ The intensity of the word cuts across the room. ‘This is the way it has to be.’
‘That’s bullshit, Beckett. You can’t just leave me without any fucking explanation.’
‘All that I owe you was written into the contract. Into the prenup. There’s nothing else to say.’
I feel like I’m going to be sick because he can’t mean that. He can’t be so cold. Can he? And now I know why my arms are banded across my chest. It’s because it hurts to breathe.
‘I know what I said. And I said six months. But now I don’t need you anymore.’
More words are said. Something about the house. The lawyers. Being served. I don’t take any of it in, not as he steps closer and the morning light hits him just right. He looks perfect. And he’s perfectly fucked up.
‘Olivia. Did you hear what I said?’
‘You’re a coward,’ I whisper, unable to look at him. He presses his lips to my head as though he agreed, and then he’s gone.
I feel everything in the coming days. The wind is too cold, the sound of the traffic too loud, and the three flights of stairs to get to my front door enough are to make me stay up there. I feign a case of flu and croak down the phone on Monday morning to tell Mir I won’t be in. Turns out crying until you literally have no more tears to secrete is a really good way to make you sound like you’ve been ill.
Is grief a kind of illness?
I hang on to the knowledge that heartbreak turns to anger, not that I’ve ever experienced a breakup like this. In fact, I wonder if anyone else in the world ever has. Because on top of feeling like utter shit I’m also balancing the weight of the knowledge that I only have myself to blame for this. Yes, he’s a total twat for the way he handled things, but the state I’m in is my own fault. I shouldn’t have fallen in love with him—I shouldn’t be feeling anything because it was all supposed to be pretend. I mean, he did kind of force me into the marriage for his own reasons, and yes, the choice was mine to agree or not, but he’d still gotten to me by wicked means.
I should be furious.
Why aren’t I?
Where is my damn angry stage?
Breakups are the pits. Sadness is debilitating. And painful. And the ache in my heart weighs me down, like the muscle has been filled to the brim with concrete.
By Tuesday I’ve stopped crying, though I still look like I’ve been sick.Puffy eyes. Red nose. Pallid skin.When I get to work, the crew avoid me like I’m a plague carrying rat, which means they leave me in peace, and I get to do the stoic thing of throwing myself into my work like a tragic artist. But you can only pretend to be recovering from illness for so long. Or not, as the case may be, because as the weekend rolls around, theEvening Newsis out with the E-Volve speed dating article with images in all its CMYK glory. The pictures of theLust Islandguys along with a candid shot of Beckett hugging me like he’s trying to absorb me.
I don’t spend the weekend in bed, but I do spend it staring at the article and remembering.Remembering everything. The way he’d watch me in the morning as I dressed, his gaze possessive, and how in the darkness his soft words and kisses had slid over my skin.
I also remember how he said he didn’t need me anymore.
That I need to remember more than anything.
