Page 122 of Angel Eyes

My throat tightened. “Thanks.”

As soon as Simone left, I peeled off my soiled clothes and dragged myself into the bathroom to take a shower. Although, take a shower was a bit of an overstatement—it was more like me sitting numbly on the tub floor for thirty minutes while hot water pelted down on me from above. But at least I was somewhat cleaner than I had been when I’d gotten in, so I was counting it as a win.

I wrapped my bathrobe around me and crawled back into bed, tucking the blankets beneath my chin. The apartment was too quiet, which only made my thoughts louder. I turned on my side and grabbed the remote from the bedside table, flipping on the small television that sat on top of the dresser.

I regretted it immediately.

Everything reminded me of Gabriel—the documentary on Pierre-Auguste Renoir and the rise of Impressionism, the pop remix of “Can’t Take My Eyes Off of You” that played in the background of a commercial. Even the horror slasher film I tried watching for all of ten minutes dragged up memories of him. Because of course the male lead had blue eyes. I turned it off, tossing the remote on the floor and burying my head under a pillow.

I thought I knew what heartbreak was before this. When my high school boyfriend Chase Anderson broke up with me weeks before junior prom so he could ask some bubblegum cheerleader who always wore a push-up bra, I could have sworn I had reached the pinnacle of devastation. But that wasn’t devastation—it wasn’t even close.

Real heartbreak is when the simple act of existing becomes difficult, when drawing in a full breath feels like too much effort. It was like being in a constant state of pain, and everything ached—my heart, my chest, my soul. And the worst part was, it felt like the only person who could fix it was the same person who had broken me.

Rolling over, I closed my eyes and did the only thing that ever seemed to give me an ounce of reprieve.

I slept.

Forty-Two

Cristian

Irapped my fist on the door of Juliet’s apartment, scraping my palm over the day-old stubble lining my cheeks. It was late on Sunday night, but I had to see her. The past three days had been absolute shit. I’d barely slept, and when I had, I was consumed with so much guilt that I only managed a few hours at a time. Raking a shaky hand through my hair, I paced in front of her door, listening for footsteps that likely weren’t coming.

Fuck. What had I done?

You know what you did, my subconscious whispered.

That’s right—I selfishly screwed over the only true friend I’d ever had, the only person who chose me as I was, flaws and all. What if she wouldn’t forgive me? What if she shut me out of her life completely? No, I couldn’t think like that. I just needed to talk to her. Juliet was the best person I knew—she would accept my apology once I explained everything.

She had to.

The door swung open so suddenly, I flinched. Standing on the threshold in a sweatshirt that ironically read All Good Days was Juliet. Except, she looked nothing like herself. Her usually vibrant hair was dull, hanging listlessly around her ashen face, and her eyes were swollen. They sharpened when they landed on me, some of the familiar spark returning.

“No.” She placed a hand on the door, already pushing it closed. “Leave, Cristian. I don’t want you here.”

I flattened a palm against it, holding it open. “Please, Juliet. I just want to talk to you.”

She stormed away, not bothering to force me out, and I followed her inside, supposing that was as much of an invitation as I was likely to get.

“Would you please wait?” I wrapped my fingers around her wrist and wasn’t the least bit surprised when she twisted out of my hold. We’d done this dance before, after all.

She whirled on me. “What could you possibly have to say that would make any of this better?”

“Probably nothing, but at least give me a chance to explain. After that, you can throw me out if you want to.” I had no intention of letting her do any such thing, but we could cross that bridge when we came to it.

“What is there to explain? How you lied to me?” Her eyes raked over me. “How long had you been planning this?”

My instincts, honed over years of spinning falsehoods, screamed for me to hedge the truth with something more palatable, something that would garner her sympathy. But I pushed those feelings aside. I refused to lie to her again, no matter the consequences.

Blowing out a tired breath, I ran a hand across my mouth. “Since the day I first saw you at Gabriel’s gallery. I went there to talk to him and I found you there with him.”

Her mouth opened in disbelief. “So, all this time, you were just … using me?”

“No, I mean, at first I was, but—” She took a step away from me, and I clenched my teeth. “Listen, Marcel wanted to make amends with Gabriel, but Gabriel wouldn’t accept his phone calls. And when I tried talking to him directly, he all but sucker punched me. He didn’t leave me with many options.”

She huffed a weak laugh. “I see, so I was just the pawn in all of this.”

“Only in the beginning. I needed to get Gabriel to the restaurant, and using someone he cared about seemed like the easiest way.” She hugged her elbows, her eyes brightening with tears, and I balled my hands into fists. “I know it was wrong, Juliet, and I am so fucking sorry I did that to you.” I rubbed my forehead, letting my eyes drift shut.

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