Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
And then I’m gone, sprinting up to my apartment and calling the one cab in town as I throw clothes in my bag. In ten minutes, I’m hustling back down the stairs with my small suitcase, still in my pajamas, but with a ballcap on over my wild hair and my teeth freshly brushed.
Crossing my fingers that I’ll be kissing Weaver again before the day is over, I meet Pete at the curb, and tell him to push the speed limit on the way to the airport.
chapter 29
WEAVER
I’m not a fan of airports at the best of times, even when I’m safely ensconced in a Platinum Card lounge or a restaurant with private booths suitable for retreating from the turmoil of air travel.
But today, as I sit in the tiny waiting room of Sea Breeze’s microscopic regional airport, sipping a heinous martini as a gaggle of women on their way to Las Vegas screech at the other end of the bar/sandwich shop, and a stressed-out toddler wails on the ground near the bathroom, I vow never to step foot in an airport again.
Even if I’m flying private and only have to wait half an hour for the plane to be prepared for takeoff…
Logically, I know it’s the fact that I’m leaving without saying goodbye to Sully or mailing that letter I burned in the cottage fire last night that has me feeling so low, but I refuse to think about that now. I’ll think about that once I’m back in the city, on my therapist’s couch. I have an appointment tomorrow morning, an emergency Sunday slot she opened for me after receiving my message earlier in the week.
We haven’t had regular appointments for over eight years now, and Dr. Everett knows I’m not the kind to reach out for help unless I truly need it. No, I’m the kind to wait until I’m on the verge of losing my damned mind to make an appointment, and she scheduled our session accordingly.
I am losing my mind.
I can feel it in the prickling in my head, in the buzzing in my ears as I watch myself sip my drink as if from a distance. I look as cool and under control as ever, but inside, I’m spiraling. The pain of losing Sully hasn’t gotten easier in the past week. It’s only gotten worse. It feels like someone infected me with flesh-eating bacteria that’s been gnawing away at my internal organs, hollowing me out. Soon, there won’t be anything left inside. I’ll be an empty shell that will scatter like ash in the next strong wind.
And that will probably be for the best.
I can’t live like this, and I don’t want to learn to live without her. I’ve fallen in love the way I’ve done everything else in my life, with an intensity that’s almost frightening. Now, I’m paying the price for that with my sanity.
Sully was right to be afraid of me.
That’s what I decided last night, as I sat on the porch in the cold wind for the sixth night in a row, thinking about how easy it would be to climb over the railing and take a long walk off the cliff a short distance away. She was right. I’m broken and unworthy of her. I’m not the violent person I was as a young man, but I’m not “normal” either, and I likely never will be. This is what my particular combination of DNA and childhood environment produced. I’ve done the best I could with the material I have to work with, but the end result is far from ideal.
Far from being what’s best for a beautiful young woman with a giant heart and her entire life ahead of her…
She’s better off without any further interference from me. That’s why I burned the letter and why I refuse to text or call her before I board the plane, even if I have to drink myself into a mild stupor to dull the longing gnawing away in my chest.
“I’ll have another,” I say to the bartender, a tired-looking man with a hunched spine and hair sprouting from his ears. “Less olive juice this time, please.”
“And I’ll have a root beer because it’s too early to start drinking,” comes a voice from behind me.
A voice I instantly assume I must be hallucinating…
There’s no reason for Sully to be at the airport, and no reason she’d join me at the bar if she did have one.
But when I glance over my shoulder, there she is, looking like a supermodel trying to fly incognito in a pair of gray sweatpants, an oversized navy puffer jacket, and a ballcap over her wavy hair. She isn’t wearing makeup, either, just something glossy on her lips, but she’s still the most stunning woman in the room.
To me, she will always be the most stunning woman in any room.