Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 128430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 514(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 514(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
And that seals our fate.
31
Story
Night had fallen before I got home.
The minutes matched the miles, every one of them feeling longer than the last and stretching between the heart I left back in Haywood and the home I was driving toward.
But wasn’t Cooper one and the same—my heart and home. I couldn’t distinguish between the two any longer. Each waking hour of this separation that passes brings a fresh surge of pain and leaves more questions unanswered.
Did he stay?
Party on like we’d never met?
Choose them over me?
Choose the money?
My mind’s going wild, and he hasn’t answered his phone. Did something happen to him? Was he in an accident? How was he even getting back to me when I have his car?
Curled up on top of my desk, I’ve wedged myself into the frame of the window, not wanting to miss Cooper’s arrival. I check my watch, convinced he would be right behind me, but now I’m not so sure. It’s been hours since I arrived home.
I can’t eat, and nothing can quench the loss of missing him. Except Cooper.
“Please, Cooper. Please choose me,” I whisper like a prayer to the universe.
Ten o’clock passes.
Eleven forty-seven.
Twelve fifteen AM . . . I finally decide to give up hope and go to bed. But then I see headlights turn onto my street and sit upright. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please.
The car passes without so much as slowing down.
Deflated, I hop off the desk, my butt aching from being pressed to the hard wood, and climb into bed. My stomach growls, and I try to remember the last thing I ate. I know what it wasn’t—a plate full of cheese, fruit, and macarons at the party. Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve eaten since breakfast yesterday.
Knowing I’m not going to be able to fall asleep with my hunger keeping me awake, I flip off the covers and pad into the kitchen. The bag of chips on the counter isn’t appealing, and I always have the option to make popcorn in the microwave. Eh. I open the fridge and grab a yogurt, too tired to debate what will satisfy these pangs.
With no energy, I lean against the counter and start eating, but I only take a few bites before my stomach gets upset again. Maybe it’s gone bad? I scoop another spoonful into my mouth, and with the utensil still there, I tilt the container sideways to look at the expiration date.
Fortunately, it’s still good for two more weeks. I eat more, but then a cramp shoots across my belly, causing me to squeeze the spoon in one hand and the container in the other until it passes. Exhaling through pursed lips, I slow down, closing my eyes, and try to breathe through the pain.
A roll of my stomach surges again, and I throw the stuff into the sink and dash into the bathroom to throw up. I grip the seat, and wave after wave rips through me until I’m exhausted and sweat dots my forehead.
Food poisoning?
Resting against the side of the tub, I drop my head into my hands and start crying. I’m alone. I could die, and no one would even know.
Cooper left me with his car when I would have preferred a love note instead. I’m not surprised that my body’s rejecting everything that would make it feel better right now. How could it when my heart and my head know the truth? It’s not going to be better until Cooper comes home.
I clean up and brush my teeth before getting a cold glass of water to drink. Careful of my shaky stomach, I sip slowly. As the heat recedes from my cheeks, I sit on the edge of the bed, ready for sleep.
But I know that can’t happen, not until I hear from him. I pick up my phone and text him once more before setting it on the nightstand and willing him to reply.
I’m left disappointed again . . .
I hate how dependent I’ve become, how desperate I feel, and how I’ve constructed my world to hinge on one man. This is how Calliope used to act when she met a new man—so worried he wouldn’t love her she’d stay up and pace into the wee hours if she didn’t hear from him. Eventually, I’d get her to lie down on the couch and fall asleep.
That was who she was.
That’s not who I am. Closing my eyes, I repeat my mantra, “Break the cycle.”
When the heaviness of night rises, everything looks better in the daylight. I roll to my side, facing the empty space next to me, and give in to sleep.
Morning comes, flooding the room with light because I forgot to close the blinds.
Just as I stretch, my body kicks into overdrive, and I run to the bathroom to expel the lining of my stomach since there’s nothing else in there. This is miserable. I must have a virus. It’s probably from being so close to Camille. She probably slipped something into my drink. I wouldn’t put it past her.