Page 13 of Craving Oblivion

But then, instead of the delight her violet gaze had once exuded, she shut down. I watched any interest fade from her already-neutral face as she turned away.

No. That wasn’t my Aya. She wouldn’t…

“I don’t want you.”

“You stupid bitch.”

The words I’d said years ago came back to me—the ones she’d thought were directed toward her—and my world shifted. The hurt behind the tears in her eyes replayed in my mind. Hugh had been right: she still thought I’d said those things to her.

I straightened my spine as I slid my hand into my pocket and fingered the malas beads I carried there. This was my chance.

Her shoulders stiffened as I left the line and came closer. I could see the tension work its way up into her jaw. As she placed her order, her soft voice requesting a large London fog, I hovered nearby, which was beginning to cause a stir, thanks to my entourage. Aya ignored me, though the rest of the customers craned their necks and pulled out their phones.

Heat rushed to my face as I realized how stupid I’d been, thinking I could simply walk up to her—as if everyone staring in the coffee shop and those terrible words wouldn’t sit between us. Before she could offer her card, I laid a fifty-pound note on the counter.

“Is there a place I might speak to her, privately?” I asked the barista, keeping my voice low. “And could you bring her drink to her there once it’s ready?”

I felt Aya stiffen next to me, and some banker-looking type in a bespoke suit behind me chuffed in displeasure. The thirty-something barista eyed me with adoration, even as she pocketed the note and nodded. “This way.”

I touched Aya’s elbow, but she jerked from my grasp, shooting me an angry glare, though she did walk with a regal sedateness toward a small side door the barista had opened. It was a well-lit storage closet, not much bigger than one of those red phone booths that still dotted London’s central city.

Aya stepped in, arms crossed now as if to protect herself from me—or to hold her emotions in. I decided it was the latter when she whirled to face me, her face a mask of anger and defiance. The door clicked shut behind me, and she drew herself upward.

“I saw you last night,” she said. “Congratulations on achieving your goal.”

I’d wanted to write the perfect song. I’d gotten close, and it had changed my life. I shoved my hands in my pockets. “I don’t want to talk about the concert.”

“What do you want?” she asked. Her chin tipped upward in defiance, and her eyes shot sparks.

So, she wasn’t as cool—as unaffected—as she pretended to be, and she didn’t like my response.

“I’m sorry—”

“I don’t care to hear an apology,” she replied. Her accent was stronger, almost sharp.

Sadness drifted through me. I’d done this to her, to us. “Well, I’m still terribly sorry for—”

“I have an interview, and I don’t wish to be late.”

I swallowed hard. I’d known I’d hurt her, but I’d never seen Aya like this. So brittle. Impossible to reach.

“You promised you’d always be there for me,” I said.

She whipped around, eyes blazing, lip pulled back in a sneer. “Do not ever—ever—talk to me about promises.” She seemed to fade into herself a little. Her lower lip trembled. “You broke every one you made to me. Now, I need to go.”

“Aya…” Her name was a plea.

“What? What, Nash?”

“I’ve missed you.”

She turned to face me, a hard smile on her lips. “Yes, the fucking was quite good between us.”

I winced.

“Is that what you want? A little replay? For…old time’s sake?”

She threaded her arms around my neck and molded her body to mine. My hands fell to her waist, and I groaned at how good she felt against me.

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