Page 133 of Restore Me

Now

Sloane: I need to see you.

The words of Sloane’s latest message swim around the screen, and I blink slowly to try and get them to stand still. When my phone buzzed an hour ago the last name I expected to see was hers, but there it was. My brain refused to believe I wasn’t imagining it, so I stared at the first message, and the ones that followed, and took a swig of the vodka my father gave me every time one came through.

Deciding to take that first drink was easier than I thought it would be, but then again, it’s easy to give in to the monster inside of you when life has already snatched away every reason to keep it locked away. When I got back from Sloane’s place last night, my resolve was already waning, but when I woke up this morning without her in my arms, it broke completely.

And the bottle I left sitting on my coffee table yesterday called to me, promising the gift of numbness and the ability to forget how incredibly wrong I was about everything.

I thought I could rewrite history. I thought I could claim Sloane’s heart with lies and keep it without dealing with the consequences of telling them, but I was wrong. And now we’re both bleeding out, gutted by the truth I waited too long to tell.

Hurting Sloane was never my intention, but there’s no amount of alcohol that can make me forget the horror on her face when I finally told her the truth or the way her eyes flashed with steely determination when she told me to leave. As if everything we shared over the past month meant nothing to her at all.

And maybe it didn’t.

At our first lunch together, I heard her say she took a vow to never fall in love again, and despite the brief moment I spent thinking her jealousy over the tattoo meant something more, it seems she’s determined to keep that promise. Eric will be the last man she loves in this life, and it doesn’t matter that her heart knew mine first.

I’ve done everything I can to change her mind, and now I’m back to a life of craving her and knowing I’ll never have her again. And unlike last time, when I’d only had a sip of her skin, trying to recover from the weeks I’ve spent surrounded by her in every sense of the word is going to be impossible.

There won’t be a single moment I’m around her where I won’t be utterly devastated by her presence, paralyzed by the curve of her neck, and envious of every breeze that gets to thread itself through the curls I love so much.

Which is why I had to call Seb this morning and agree to oversee the Cerros Resort build.

Hopefully two years out of New Haven will be enough time to learn to live without her. Sadly, that’s the best I can hope for because there is no getting over Sloane for me. I knew it the moment she walked back into my life, connected to my best friend by heart and hand, and the only thing I wanted to do, besides punch a fucking wall, was kiss her.

So this is my punishment for coveting an angel, for daring to want an ounce of her goodness for myself: being exiled to my own private hell where I’ll try, and fail, to forget what it was like to watch my dream slip through my fingers.

I toss back the last of the vodka and promise myself never to drink again. Admitting to being reckless and selfish like my father is one thing, but developing an alcohol addiction is something completely different. The bottle makes a hollow clinking sound when I set it back on the coffee table, and the strongest wave of shame ripples through me as my doorbell rings.

Pushing out a breath through my nose, I drag myself out of my seat and head towards the door. The last thing I want right now is company, but I’m thankful for a reason to get out of the seat I’ve been in slumped in for hours. Once I get rid of whatever uninvited guest is at my door, I’ll throw that damn bottle away, take a long shower and start preparing for California and a life without….

“Sloane?”

“Where have you been?” She pushes past me, barging into my place with a determined look on her face. “I’ve been calling and texting you, and you never answered.”

“I’ve been busy.”

Both of her hands are on her hips as she makes her way into my living room. I follow her, watching as she catalogs the changes I’ve made over the last six years, noting every single difference from when Eric lived here.

Of all the things I expect to feel when I look at her standing in my home for the first time in years—golden skin scrubbed clean of any makeup she might have worn today, black curls pulled into a messy bun on the top of her head, hazel eyes swimming with anxious concern—bitter is not one of them.

But that’s exactly what I am.

Bitter because seeing her here reminds me of the conversation we had at Cerros when she said this place would always make her think of Eric. I hate myself for allowing my mind to linger, for even a second, on how the specter of his ghost robbed me of nights with her in my bed. For resenting her loyalty to him in death. For being angry with her for deciding that today of all days was the right time to prioritize me over his memory.

My chest tightens as jealousy, fueled by the sparkle of Eric’s ring on her finger and the memory of her asking me to leave last night, courses through my veins.

Jealous. Over her dead husband who, let’s not forget, was also your best friend? That’s low, Dom. It is low, even for me, but it’s also a reminder of how completely wrong I am for her no matter how hard I tried to convince myself otherwise.

“Is that a bottle of vodka?”

She looks mildly terrified at the presence of alcohol in my home, and I hold back a laugh as I sit down. I wonder what she would think if I told her where I got it from. If it would help her realize sending me away last night was the right choice because I have too much of my father in me to be any good for her. Too much of his bitterness, too much of his chaos, too much of his selfishness.

“It was.”

Even as resentment pounds in my veins, I can’t get over how good it is to see her. To watch her move around my space, leaving her scent in the air as she walks over to the couch and takes the seat closest to the armchair I’m sitting in.

“But you don’t drink, Dominic.”

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