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I've already tried to explain. But explanations don't change facts. And the facts are pretty fucking simple.

I lied by omission.

I brought her close because I wanted control.

Somewhere along the way, everything changed and I didn't have the courage to tell her how it started because I was afraid I'd lose her.

Then I lost her anyway.

Apparently, I'm a fucking genius like that.

Chapter 27

Layla

Drowning my sorrows in Häagen-Dazs strawberry ice cream is apparently not that unique.

But when you add said ice cream to a blender with a significant amount of Puerto Rican rum? You get something very special.

Something creamy.

Something delicious.

Something that makes your broken heart significantly less annoying for approximately twenty-seven minutes.

After two of those boozy milkshakes, I find myself singing along loudly and badly with the soundtrack while watching Pretty Woman at midnight.

I know. I know.

But this does not seem important in my current emotional state. I have apparently decided to make this my own soundtrack.

And right now, it's fucking spectacular.

“Don't you judge me, Julia Roberts,” I tell the television.

Julia does not respond. Probably because she's busy falling in love with Richard Gere.

Asshole.

Not Julia.

Richard.

No.

Wait.

Mitchell.

Mitchell is the real asshole.

Richard Gere seems perfectly nice.

Probably.

I take another drink of my milkshake. My blender concoction is less milkshake now and more rum with aspirations of dairy.

I don't care.