Page 20 of Loving London

“Thank you,” I say again sweetly.

“If he’s out in the yard or something, you’d better not jump out of my moving car, or I will never talk to you again.”

“Yes, you will.”

She shakes her head. “Well, I won’t be able to if you’re dead.”

“I’m not going to jump out of your car.” I grin, feeling suddenly lighter with the prospect of possibly seeing Loïc through his window—or better yet, in his yard, on the horizon. God, I sound like a stalker, but I’m okay with that.

The closer we get to Loïc’s neighborhood, the faster my heart beats. I wipe my sweaty palms on my shorts as Paige turns onto his street.

“Okay, drive by really slow!” I shout.

“I will. Calm down.” Paige chuckles.

My eyes start to search frantically before his house comes into view. I’m dying to get a glimpse of Loïc, and I know it’s juvenile and bordering on crazy, but I just miss him so much.

When his house is visible, I see a person walking up to his front porch. My body shudders with grief because it’s not him. It’sher.

As Paige passes his house, I don’t get a glimpse of the love of my life; instead, I see the pregnant hooker he’s living with. Sarah is walking toward the house, away from the car in the drive that I’m assuming is hers. She’s wearing short jean shorts and a white tank top. The mounds of her front are clearly visible, all three of them—her boobs and giant belly. And I hate her more because she still looks hot, even with the belly.

Worst of all, she’s carrying light-violet plastic bags, ones that I would recognize anywhere because they are the take-out bags from my favorite Thai restaurant. It’s the one that opened up right after Loïc left. I told him all about it in my letters to him while he was in Afghanistan. I told him how much I loved it and how I couldn’t wait to take him there. But, now, she’s bringing it to him. She’s bringingmyThai frommyrestaurant tomyLoïc.

I hate her. So much.

I understand that the source of my anger isn’t really her, but it’s the fact that Loïc no longer wants me.

But, though I’ve considered it, I could never hate Loïc. I love him too damn much, so I’m going to hate her. And, oh, I do.

As the house, the hooker, and the violet take-out bags get smaller behind me in the distance, all I feel is complete and utter despair.

My shoulders begin to shake as the sobs violently work their way out of me. Hot tears stream down my face like rivers because the sadness is simply too much to contain.

London

“Heartbreak is the most painful kind of torture, and the mind is its greatest ally.”

—London Wright

I’ve had the Notes app on my phone open for what seems like hours now, specifically the entry from New Year’s Eve of last year.

“Oh, Brad. Brad, Brad, Brad, Brad, Brad…” I say with a sigh.

I continue to repeat his name.

Why? I’m not so sure. And, the more I say it, the weirder it sounds.

“Brad.” I nod.

“Brad.” My tone is higher.

“Braaad,” I say, drawing out his name.

It’s official. I’ve up and gone crazy.

I’ve been contemplating calling him all day—truthfully, the better part of this past week. Yet I haven’t been able to bring myself to do it.

It’s been one week since Paige and I stalked past Loïc’s house and sawherwalking into the house with the offending bags of Thai food.

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