Page 93 of Love so Hot

"She was the one, Ron," I say, my voice cracking. "I waited for her. I dreamed about her. And she couldn't care less."

Roman's quiet for a moment, which is rare for him. When he speaks, his voice is uncharacteristically gentle. "I don't think she was the one, Larry. I think... she was just the first one."

I frown, confused. "The first one what?"

"The first one who showed you kindness and love," he explains. "But there will be others. Trust me on this."

I shake my head, feeling the darkness creeping back in. "I don't believe you."

Roman shrugs, a small smile playing on his lips. "That's okay. Whether or not you believe it, it's true."

I close my eyes, suddenly exhausted. The emotional rollercoaster and alcohol binge have taken their toll.

"Get some sleep, man," Roman says, patting my shoulder as he stands up. "That temper of yours must really take it out of you."

As I drift off, I can't help but wonder if Roman might be right. But for now, sleep calls, and I'm too tired to argue.

Chapter Forty-Three

Lawrence

Present

The door slams shut with a finality that echoes through the empty house. I watch Willow's green hair disappear behind it, taking all the color in my world with her. Fuck.

"Well, that went splendidly," I mutter to myself, running a hand through my hair. "Bravo, Lawrence. You've outdone yourself this time."

I can almost hear Roman's voice in my head: "I told you, man. Lauren wasn't the one. But did you listen? Noooo."

"Shut up, imaginary Roman," I growl, pacing the living room like a caged animal. The truth stings worse than a jellyfish to the face. Willow is the one. Was the one. Is? God, I don't even know anymore.

My chest feels like it's being crushed by one of those massive cranes down at Norfolk harbor. I want to scream, to let out all this... what? Anger? Frustration?

No. It's grief. Pure, unadulterated grief for what could have been. What should have been.

Instead of dealing with that emotional garbage fire, I do what any mature, sensible adult would do. I lose my shit.

"AAAAARRRRGGGHHH!" The scream rips from my throat, shaking the mansion Willow and I had been calling home.

I eye the sturdy log walls of this backwater Virginia paradise. "Let's see how you handle this."

I rear back and punch the wall with all my might, half-expecting my fist to go right through the drywall like in the movies. Instead, I'm greeted with a sickening thud and a jolt of pain that shoots up my arm.

"Son of a..." I cradle my hand, glaring at the unblemished wall. "Fucking well-built home."

But I'm not done. Oh no, I've got a whole lot of misplaced anger to work through. I launch a barrage of punches at the unyielding surface, each impact sending shockwaves of pain through my body.

"Take that!" Thud. "And that!" Thwack. "How do you like me now, you smug piece of lumber?"

By the time I'm done, my knuckles are a mess of bruises and blood. The wall, however, stands tall and proud, not even a scratch to show for my tantrum.

I slump against it, sliding down to the floor, my battered hands cradled in my lap. "Well played, house," I whisper. "Well played."

I don't know how long I sit there for. Eventually, I push myself up, swaying slightly as I stumble towards the kitchen. The fridge beckons like a beacon of hope in my alcohol-deprived state. I yank the door open, squinting at the bright light that spills out.

"Come on, baby. Daddy needs his medicine," I mutter, pawing through the shelves.

My hand closes around a cold bottle and I pull it out, triumphant. Then I see the label.

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