Page 12 of There's No Us Without You
It’s bad enough I’ve had to share a last name with my mother my entire life, but Eden Lowenstein? No, thank you. I definitely dodged a bullet with that one.
I push myself into a sitting position, ignoring the churning in my stomach, and lean against the grey cushioned headboard. It’s soft, the thick foam beneath the fabric almost like a pillow for my aching body.
What am I supposed to do now? I had my whole life planned out, and now I’m not only fiancé-less, I’m also homeless.
I’m left with nothing but a suitcase full of clothes meant for our honeymoon to Alaska, and a pounding headache. However, I have no-one else to blame for the latter, my ability to stop drinking when my vision blurred last night failing me.
Half an hour later, my breakfast arrives, sending another wave of nausea washing over me at the sight and smell. But I’m determined to stuff as much bacon, eggs, and pancakes into my stomach as I can. Everything is being charged to Kent’s credit card, so he can foot the bill for my emotional eating, seeing as it was his dick that put me in this situation.
I make myself comfortable on the bed, crossing my legs underneath me, while snatching a pillow for my lap so I can pick at each dish.
The room isn’t as big—or as nice—as I remember when I stumbled in here at two this morning. Sure, it’s beautiful, with neutral shades of beige covering the walls, and sheer curtains lining one whole side of floor-to-ceiling windows.
It’s romantic in every way that counts. And I hate it.
To be honest, how I arrived here in the first place is a bit of a blur.
What I do remember clearly, though, is a pair of hazel eyes. Ones I’m not likely to forget.
Ever.
One kiss. I should have at least taken that, seeing as we’ll never see each other again. Is it so wrong of me to want another man when I was getting married only yesterday? It makes me question everything I know—or thought I knew—about love and relationships.
I shove another piece of pancake covered in butter and maple syrup into my mouth, and grab my phone from my handbag on the floor beside the bed.
My plan for today is to find somewhere to live before I do anything else. However, I’m not sure how easy that’s going to be considering I’ve never really had to fend for myself until now. I lived with my mum for nineteen years, and once I met Kent, we moved in together after only three months.
While I wait for my phone to load—I must have switched it off last night—I fall back onto the white quilt and rub my swollen stomach.
I’m not sure what would be worse: having hundreds of messages from Kent and my mother, or having none.
After a few seconds, several text messages from Kent pop up one after the other. I swallow down the large lump in my throat and open the message thread.
Kent: Eden, I’m sorry. Please call me.
Kent: Eden? Are you there?
Kent: Where are you? Answer me.
Kent: Answer the fucking phone, Eden.
Kent: Fuck you then. I don’t care where you are.
Kent: Eden? I’m sorry, okay? Please, just call me. I love you x
As I stare at the messages, I let out a long breath. I’m not as torn up over them as I thought I would be.
Not sad, or disappointed. Just . . . numb.
It should hurt more, right? Losing Kent should feel like a piece of my heart has been ripped from my chest, and I’m now bleeding out slowly and painfully.
But I feel none of that. How can I when he obviously feels nothing for me? No matter what he says, his actions speak louder than his words—he doesn’t love me.
And I doubt he ever did.
Rolling onto my stomach, my cheek squished against the mattress, I drop my phone down next to me and close my eyes.
If I can find somewhere to live today, maybe everything else will work out. I still have the restaurant to focus on, so that’s a bonus.
