Page 92 of Still The One

‘Because it makes me feel better, asshole,’ I snap, only partially kidding.

‘If I’d have known you’d come home as a Swiftie, I’d have found a way to get you here sooner.’

I shake my head. Not once have I ever listened to Taylor, and here I am stewing in it.

‘I still love her, man. I can’t sign the divorce papers.’

I filed as soon as I got home and got the documents in my email this morning.

Matty groans like a disappointed father.

‘My God, you’re a lot of work. If you love her, then why don’t you act like a man and hop your ass on the next flight to PDX and tell her? It’s what she wants, moron. Give her two options.’

‘Two options?’

‘Bring her the original wedding ring – the one she left on your nightstand. I know you still have it because you’ve been fighting this thing for a long time. And bring the divorce papers. Then make her an offer she can’t refuse.’

‘You think I should ask her to stay married to me?’ I’m confused, but it might just work.

‘It’s been five years. So yeah, dumbass, but lace it with romance and spontaneity – the reasons she fell in love with you to begin with – and for the love of God, get on your knees and beg because you’ve now broken that girl’s heart twice. I can’t afford to have your head constantly in the fucking clouds if you’re going back to competing.’

Say no more. By dark, I’m on a plane back to her. Man, I hope I’m not too late.

33

EVE CASSIDY

‘I just wanna sleep!’ I yell into the dark for the second night in a row. But I can’t, because my mind won’t shut down.

You know what, I should call him and yell. Tell him what he’s done to me for the second time. Why the heck shouldn’t I? I hit his contact name on my phone and put it on speaker. But it doesn’t even ring, just goes straight to his voicemail.

‘What’s up, this is Foster. Leave me a message. Or text. I’d rather you text.’

The sound of his voice hurts physically, yet I want to call again just to hear it. I hang up, pulling up our text thread and typing one out.

Why?

I hit ‘send’ but I feel like this needs more than a single word.

Why didn’t you turn back at the airport?

Send. That’s better. But let’s annoy him a little.

Am I just not enough?

Send. Ouch. That one hurts to read and I sort of hope he doesn’t answer it.

At some point I drift off, awaking to a relentless pounding on my door as if the person on the other side is determined to break it down. It feels like a scene from a crime movie, and at this moment – while I’m feeling particularly stabby – the thought of facing the consequences for a crime I didn’t – or have yet to – commit doesn’t scare me.

I let out a groan, rolling over in bed and trying to ignore the persistent knocking at the door. They’ve got to have the wrong apartment. But no, they don’t go away and the sound continues, echoing through my skull. If I don’t answer, whoever is outside will likely wake up the entire building.

‘You’re really brave!’ I yell from the depths of my room, throwing the quilt from my body and storming toward the front door. ‘You should know that I’m in the mood for murder, given the terrible few days I’ve had – or truthfully, the terrible fewyears. So, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll go aw—’ I yank open the door mid-sentence and suddenly find myself frozen in place.

At my feet is Foster, down on one knee, with a stunning bouquet of daisies placed on the ground in front of him. In one hand, he holds my old wedding ring, and in the other, a set of papers.

‘Youareenough,’ he says immediately.

He got my text.

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