Page 139 of Wild Eyes
A shot in the chest.
Knowing she planned this kills me, but I refuse to crumble until I’m alone. “Let me get dressed. I’ll help you with your bags.”
I feel her eyes on me as I step into my most comfortable pair of jeans and toss on a dark gray tee, then I scoop up her bags and head downstairs. She follows me silently. Being mature and gentlemanly has never felt so fucking awful. Young West is raging inside me, telling me to do something crazy, but that’s an impulse I’ve learned to ignore.
I don’t bother putting on shoes. I carry her bags, one in each hand, out to the driveway where Cherry’s blanket-covered cage is already waiting. I’m even going to miss that fucking bird.
My throat constricts as I stare out at my land, at what I’ve built here. It feels a lot less special knowing she won’t be here, and for a guy who mostly keeps his feelings locked up tight, I’m sure drowning in them right now.
The sound of the screen door closing behind me signals that Skylar is headed my way, but I’m too wounded to look. Too mad at the world and afraid of what I might say.
She doesn’t hesitate to plant herself right in front of me, though. Her eyes are glassy, and her fingers are fiddling with a manilla envelope. “You’ll need these papers. Those diamond earrings? I sold them when I was back in Los Angeles. I put the money from each one into an education savings account for Ollie and Emmy. Ollie is so smart?—”
Her voice cracks, and she reaches for her throat. “I just know he’s going to do amazing things with that big brain and soft heart. And Emmy is so passionate. I’m pretty sure she’s going to take over the world. I’ll always be cheering them on.”
She presses the envelope to my chest. “There’s also the credit for the song that Ollie helped me write. There were only a few lines, but I wouldn’t have written my first song if it wasn’t for him. It hasn’t been released yet, but when it is, he’ll get royalties for the rest of his life.”
“Skylar, this is…” I look down at the envelope. Too much.
“Please take it. And please, no matter how angry you are with me, promise you’ll only tell them good things about my time here.”
The kids. Fuck. They’re going to be as gutted as I am. Not that we ever told them about our relationship, but they’re used to her being here with us. This is what I never wanted for them. Coming and going. Instability. And here I am, putting them through it.
Guilt hits hard and tangles itself up with the shock and dread already coursing through my system.
The manilla envelope falls to the ground as Skylar steps in close, one hand on my chest, one hand on my rib cage. “Can you please remember only the good things too? I don’t know if I can stand the idea of you hating me.”
“Sky…” I shake my head slowly, staring down into her glossy hazel irises. My voice is thick with emotion, so I take a break from trying to talk. I pinch a piece of her hair and watch the bronze strands slip across the pads of my fingers. Memories of that same hair falling like a curtain around me when she climbed on top pummel me in flashes. That same hair on my pillow. That same hair looped through the back of a turquoise hat. “Don’t you get it? I could never hate you. Only miss you terribly.”
Then I kiss her. In the soft morning light, we cling to each other and share the most agonizing kiss. It’s soft and desperate and fucking tragic. She whimpers and splays her hands against me.
The sound of wheels crunching on the driveway makes my heart free-fall into my stomach. I pull her closer as though I can kiss her hard enough to make her change her mind or will that town car out of existence.
Maybe I could be enough to keep her here.
But none of it works.
She leaves.
And I crawl into a bed that still smells like her and fall apart.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
SKYLAR
I’ma mannequin propped on a stage. I’m sitting delicately on a stool talking to the two hosts of the talk show, facing the studio audience and a legion of cameras, a reminder that this interview is live. My legs beneath the hem of my miniskirt shimmer unnaturally with the amount of product that’s been slathered on, and as much as I love doing my makeup, the amount that is caked onto my face right now makes it feel heavy. It kills my ability to make any facial expressions.
Or maybe that’s just because I feel empty inside. For days, I have felt empty inside.
I haven’t cried since I left Rose Hill. Instead, it’s like I plucked my soul right out of my body and replaced her with a robot just to make it through.
I feel nothing.
“You look amazing,” one of the hosts says, and I can’t help but wonder if she’s blind or just willfully oblivious.
I checked myself over in the mirror before I waltzed out here and thought to myself that West would take one look at me and know that I’m a bone-deep level of miserable.
Does no one else see me at all?
