Page 75 of The Pakhan's Kidnapped Bride
“Sweetie, I have to go to class soon. But you know you are staying with me as long as you need to, right? Forever, for all I care. I love having you around.”
“Thanks, Georgie. I can’t explain how happy I am that you’re in my life.”
“Always.” She pushes my legs off her lap and shifts over the sofa to hug me, flattening me with her body. She squeezes me tight until we’re both giggling.
“Okay. I’m going now. I’ll message you later so we can decide what to do for dinner. Maybe we should have a cookout. It’ll take your mind off stuff, and we can drink wine and talk about how annoying boys are.”
I giggle again. “That sounds perfect.”
Georgie leaves for class, and I pace around her apartment alone with my thoughts. At lunch time, I rearrange her bookshelf, color-coding the spines of each book, instead of the complete chaos she has them in.
You’d think a psychology student would be more meticulous about her space, but Georgie is so carefree and spontaneous that I don’t think she even notices these things.
Her apartment is a perfect reflection of her. Colorful, cheerful, feminine, and bright. It’s neat without being neat, which is odd. It’s one of those places where you can put your feet on the sofa and know she won’t mind. Where you can put your coffee cup on the table without her freaking out about not using a coaster, although she has coasters—arty ones with different layers of the brain printed on each round Perspex disc, like an MRI from one of her textbooks.
All afternoon, I move about her apartment cleaning, sorting, putting things in order, rearranging her stationery on her study desk, looking through her neat, highlighted study notes, and smiling at her scribbled drawings that help her remember difficult things.
But all the while I’m thinking about Emmanuil.
Our dinner at the old movie theater.
The Ferris wheel.
When he found me drunk at the beach bar.
Our quiet dinners at home.
Making breakfast in the morning.
I miss him like crazy, and I don’t know how to let it go.
I have to let it go—but where do I start?
Eventually, the apartment becomes claustrophobic with thoughts of him, and I’ve distracted myself with every bit of sorting that I possibly can—and now I have to get out.
Fresh air and a walk on the beach will do me good.
Maybe I should take my bikini and jump into the cold water.
I grab a beach bag and shove some things into it, stealing Georgie’s bikini because I don’t feel like unpacking my bag.
Outside her building, I turn my face up to the sky and let the bright midday sun pierce into my eyes. It feels good.
I can get past this.
My heart can heal.
A snort of laughter echoes in my thoughts.You mean you can get past it like you got over him in the past? Because you know you never really got over him. Don’t fool yourself, Anya.
I scold myself and shake the thought from my head as I turn to walk towards the beach.
There are people everywhere, walking the same path, walking in opposite directions, with friends, alone, with their kids—and for a while, I am blissfully distracted.
I find a spot on the beach, settle on the sand with my toes wiggling into the softness, and I watch the surfers for a long time.
It’ll be okay. No matter how long it takes, it will be ok eventually.
When my skin starts turning red, sun-kissed and glowing, and my thirst gets too much, I pack my beach bag and dust the sand off my body to go back to Georgie’s place.
