Page 94 of Wish You Would

“I haven’t seen Parker since your last show, is what I mean.” She mirrored my stance, only hers looked more confrontational, less self-preservational. “It’s weird.”

Everything inside me throbbed like a fresh bruise, but I shrugged. Oh-so-casual. “We’re both busy.”

“Uh huh.” Her eyes narrowed on my face. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with your meltdown, would it?”

At that, my facade broke. “I didn’t have a meltdown,” I said, arms dropping to my sides.

“You kinda did, though.” She said it with softness and I looked away so she couldn’t see the sheen of tears threatening to fall. “And that’s all right. You’ve been through some shit, Gi. It’s okay to not be okay sometimes.”

“I’m fine, though.” I straightened, shoulders back. “I’m great.”

There was a pause, a beat of loaded silence, before Halle spoke again. I braced myself for another lecture. Another soul-tearing talk about why I deserve good things, or another stark look in the mirror. I braced myself to keep it together while yet another one of the important people in my life told me to get my shit together. If conversations were Pokémon, I’d have damn sure caught them all by now.

But, instead of launching into a lecture, Halle nodded. “M’kay,” she said. “Well, then you better fucking kill it tonight.”

My lungs deflated with the breath I’d been holding. I shot her my best grin to hide the relief that threatened to buckle my knees. “You know I will.”

And I did.

I killed it the following night, too. I killed at every show for the next two weeks. By day, I was buried in invoices and schedules and spreadsheets while I kept up on the behind-the-scenes shit at Heathcliff’s. By night, I spilled my guts out onstage for all to see. Well, hear. And the moments in between? Well, I tried to fill them with as much as I could. So I wouldn’t have a spare minute to think. A quiet second to feel.

I did not want to feel.

By the end of each night, I was so exhausted that I hit my pillow already half-asleep.

Unfortunately, I hadn’t figured out how to control my subconscious yet. Each night, I was haunted. I awoke from dream after dream after dream, heart racing as I reached for the empty space beside me.

She wasn’t there. She never would be again.

Fuck, I missed her so fucking much.

I flopped onto my back and breathed in, slow and deep. When I let it out, I closed my eyes against the too-familiar burn of tears. It had to get better, right? This ache inside me? It had to dull with time, didn’t it? Eventually, I’d forget the sound of her laugh, the feel of her skin beneath my fingertips. Someday, I could pull on my flannel shirt and not think about it wrapped around her instead.

One of these days, the smell of strawberries wouldn’t break my heart.

Today, however, was not that day. Pulling the pillow she always used tight against me, I inhaled the almost-gone scent of her shampoo. And I cried.

38

38 PARKER

ALL BY MYSELF

The upside of break-ups? A sudden abundance of free time to do whatever you wanted, now that it wasn’t allotted to your beloved. The downside?

I could only bake so many cookies before everyone around me became cookies. Even Anya, who had a sweet tooth the size of Manhattan, had turned down my last offering.

Which was how I found myself sitting cross-legged on my bed, a plate of Taylor Swift’s chai cookies next to me while I stared at my open laptop. I was supposed to be working on my dissertation, but instead of a word doc, my screen was filled with beautiful people in regency gowns, exchanging longing looks and loaded conversations.

In the weeks since we ended things, I’d barreled through the entirety of Gigi’s favorite series. There were only two episodes left, and I’d been savoring them. Finishing the series felt like cutting a tie, the only tie to Gigi I had left. Which was silly. We hadn’t spoken in weeks. It wasn’t like she knew I’d been watching her favorite show.

But, still…

Hitting pause, I sank back against my pillows and bit into a cookie. Onscreen, the main couple stood, inches apart, eyes locked. The heroine had confessed that, throughout their fake relationship turned marriage of convenience, she’d fallen for the hero. It was supposed to be simply business, you see. An arrangement that was beneficial to both of them. Separate beds and separate hearts.

Except, it didn’t quite work out that way.

I scoffed, glaring at the lovestruck woman. “You’re lucky you’re not real,” I grumbled as I reached for another cookie. “No happy ending guarantees over here.”

---