Page 70 of Leave Before I Love You
But what catches my eye the most is another photo farther down the page—of Avery.
She’s heading into Banks & McKenzie, her dad’s marketing firm. She’s smiling and waving at the cameras, her attire looking nothing less than effortless, tanned, and completely, fashionably put together once again. I don’t miss the fact that it’s noted within the short article that she declined any questions or comments, though, and for as insignificant as that may seem, it brings a smile to my lips.
Maybe we’re both feeling covetous over what happened on the island.
Immediately, I find myself switching over to my messages, and I type out a quick one to the one woman I can’t get off my mind.
Me: I see my fellow “Island Survivor” is also declining to answer questions from these fucking journalist hounds.
Avery: My lips are sealed, Henry. They can fuck right off because I’m not telling them anything. It’s none of their business.
Her words settle something deep inside my chest. There’s just something that puts me at complete peace knowing she feels thesame as I do. That she wants to keep everything that happened on the island just between us.
Avery: Though, I don’t mind them taking pictures of me. I mean, it does the bitches in Miami good to see what true fashion looks like.
I laugh. I can’t help it. Only Avery would say shit like this. But then my laughter fades as my brain connects the dots between the island and the information Cara gave me about Mario.
Me: My assistant got in touch with Mario’s family. There’s going to be a memorial service for him on Sunday. It’s only a half hour away from us. You want to go?
Avery: Is that even a question? Of course I do.
Me: Good. We can go together, then.
Avery: Is it just me or…whenever you think of Mario…do you feel guilty in some way?
Me: Because we got to come home and he didn’t?
Avery: Yes.
Me: Yeah, I definitely feel that. The psychologist who came in to check on me at the hospital said it was common. He called it survivor’s guilt.
Avery: Mine said the same thing. When I let myself really think about it, it just feels so fucking sad. I feel like I’m compartmentalizing it all most days.
Before I can even respond, another message comes through.
Avery: Now, hurry up and change the subject. I don’t have waterproof mascara on today.
To an outsider, to someone who didn’t go through what Avery and I did, they might think it’s cold or callous. But I get it.
And I also have a quick trigger when it comes to conversation.
Me: What are you wearing?
It’s clichéd as fuck, but I know it’ll do the trick. Plus, for as much as I could give a fuck about clothes, she loves them. And since I’m not some dusty, fucking crusty pussy, her interests are now my interests.
Avery: Pretty sure you already saw this when you were stalking my paparazzi photos but…Dior Ecru jeans. Gucci white tank. Yves Saint Laurent pumps. Very “old money” take on sophisticated but casual.
I shake my head, a grin pulling at my lips. That’s Avery, all right.
Me: That’s nice, honey. But if I’m not mistaken, you forgot to include your panties… What about those?
Avery: You saw my panties when I left your apartment for work this morning.
My grin widens, my mind flashing back to this morning, waking up with her in my bed, her warm body pressed against mine. We didn’t waste any time before tangling ourselves back up together—twice. I’m convinced there’s not a single better way to start my day.
Me: I think you should take your lunch now and come to my office and show me your panties again.
Avery: I don’t know. I’m very busy today, Henry.
