Page 103 of Destined To Fall

What the actual fuck?

It takes longer than I care to admit to pull myself together and exit the room, right as a staff member walks in.

“Hey, whoa. Can’t you read?”

“Sorry, got lost.” I push past him, ignoring whatever he says in response, and move into the dancing crowd. My nerves are shot to shit as I search out Laura.

I need to leave. Now.

I reach her at the same moment she detaches from her handsy friend.

“Hey,” I yell in her ear,“I’m leaving. Stay safe.”

I brush past her, heading for the exit, but I don’t get far as her hand wraps around my arm, pulling me back.

“Hold up a minute,” she hollers over the music.

“I need to leave. I’m tired, and you’ve got company.Plus,I don’t want to cockblock,” I say as I turn, plastering on a smile.

“Yeah, I’m not buying that for a minute,” she yells back at me.“You’re rattled. Why?”

“What? Did I miss you smoking crack?”

“Don’t get defensive; it’s your tell. I saw you with your friend, Vee. What’s going on?”

“I don’t know what you think you saw, but go enjoy your new friend, Laura, and stop living through me.” It’s a low blow, and we both know it.

She drops her hand from my arm like I burned her, and I desperately want to take it back, but I can’t. I can’t have Laura pushing right now. I’m holding on by a thread.

“You may be a first-class whore, Vivienne, but that was the first time you were a first-class bitch. Eat a dick, Vee. Eat a motherfucking dick.” And with that, she storms back into the swarm of bodies.

Emotions bubble up, threatening to burst out of my eyeballs, but I choke them down. My own wordscomebackto haunt me as I exit the club into the frigid night air, feeling like a first-class piece of shit.

Nothing comes for free, everything has a price. Some words cost you more than others. Some actions you can never take back.

A kiss, for example, can cost you everything.

I’m a fucking mess.Sleep eluded me, spending the intervening hours since kissgate and bitchgate tossing and turning. All night I debated if I should call Laura, or at least text her, but what would I say? Sorry won’t cut it, and I can’t tell her about Jeremy. Where would I even start?“So, I somehow met Max’s son, started this weird friendship thing with him sort of by accident, and then by dare, for the last oh, I don’t know, three or four months. Which I’ve kinda been avoiding and lying about, all because he won’t sleep with me. He won’t fuck me because he’s a good boy, and I want to bone him more than I want my next breath. Oh, and he kissed me. Kissed the ever-loving fuck out of me. And now I’m ruined beyond repair.” Nope. Denial, denial, denial!!!

What I didn’t debate was messaging Jeremy. No. Fucking. Way. I can’t even handle my memories right now, let alone the man in the flesh. Flesh…fuck. But that’s all I can think about. His body. In my hand, against me, in me, on me, all the damn things. My body feels like it’s on fire, like it’s burning from the inside out. And not in a good way. In the it-fucking-hurts-I-want-to-rip-my-skin-off-and-scream way.

But it’s Sunday run day, and Jeremy magicallyturns upat the same time I do, almost without fail. I’m ashamed to say I stayed in the shower scrubbing my skin even longer than normal just to stop myself from leaving earlier than I would, refusing to alter my schedule. Given, I shower after my run, not before I’ve already fucked that up. I don’t want to see him. I really don’t think I can handle seeing him. Part of me never wants to see him again, but the bigger part screams in protest at the mere thought of that. Like I said, I’m a fucking mess.

I bypass my warm-up. I feel cagey enough and have too much pent-up energy coursing through me to be still long enough to stretch. So I flat-out sprint to Columbus Park, freaking to the max the whole way there. What if he’s there? What if he kisses me again? What if I jump him the second I lay eyes on him? What if I drop dead right now because Ihonest to godfeel like I’m having a heart attack? I hold my breath in complete panic mode as I clear the archway, but it comes whooshing out so fast my head spins.He’s not here.

I don’t know if I want to rejoice or crumble, but I do neither.Instead,I run, unable to numb my thoughts any other way. I run harder than I’ve ever run before.Sohard I puke, twice.Beyond spent,I collapse on a grassy knoll and fight to breathe. I’m stuck there for far too long beforeI can getup andheadhome with my tail between my legs.

Dejected,I stagger into my apartment, so lost I honestlydon’t knowwhat to do with myself. I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and head to the master bathroom and run a bath. Everything hurts, and I really don’t think I have it in me to stand for much longer.

I put one of my Sunday chill playlists on and step into the scorching water. It takes a good couple of minutes to submerge, the heat almost blistering my skin equal parts bliss and torture. I can feel the aches and stress leaving my body the longer I soak, but the feel of the music changes, and an unfamiliar song starts to play. It’s not long before the melody takes over my stress-free bath, taking me somewhere I don’t want to go, leaving me feeling like I’ve swallowed a bag full of rocks.

The water now cold and unwelcome, I exit tout suite, turning off the music before it creeps in any further andwrapmyself in a big, fluffy towel. I pad through my silent apartment,feeling so listless, so lost, and so completely oblivious to my surroundings that I stub my toe.

The string of profanity that leaves my mouth would make a sailor proud as I hop, clutching my poor toe, and look down to seea brown-paper-wrapped square thing. The shape is clearly a picture, but my mind is blanking on where it came from. Intrigued, my first thought—for a change—goes to Antony, and it being another one of his lavish gifts. I rip off the brown paper, a smile plastered to my face for what feels like the first time in days. But the smile crashes to the ground as the embracing lovers I bought at thecharityauction all those months agopeeksout.

Well, shit.

I’d forgotten all about the painting. Now I’m bombarded with a slew of memories associated with it, but I guess more importantly, with Jeremy. I take the painting, wanting it hidden from view—out of sight, out of mind, and all that. If only Jeremy was that easy to rid myself of.

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