It’s been sixteen days since I walked out of the hospital, after that talk with Zara. Three-hundred and eighty-four hours, give or take, since I last saw him. Twenty-three-thousand and forty minutes since I spoke to him. That’s one-point-three million… Stop it, stop counting how much time you’ve been away from him. You need to move on from him.
Penny and Mira arrived to pick me up at the hospital, and I accepted the invitation to stay with Penny. Her flat mate had been on the verge of moving out, so it worked out nicely. I gave up my old apartment—Zara offered to handle the paperwork related to that, and I accepted. She told she didn’t expect me to continue as Cade’s Communications Manager, unless I wanted to—which I said I didn’t. So, she confirmed that she’d find someone else to take over for me. For a second there, I was jealous of the fact that someone else would work in such close proximity to him, then common sense kicked in, and I simply nodded.
Zara also asked me to come work for her as part of the team she’s setting up at Downing Street, but I refused. I’d have loved to work with her, but it seemed like doing so would put me in danger of running into Cade, which I wanted to avoid. And seeing her everyday would remind me of Cade, and I don’t need that.
Before leaving with Penny and Mira, I told her I needed time to consider my options. Then I returned to Penny’s place, where my friends forced me to eat something, and put me to bed. Luckily, I wasn’t hurt, aside from a few scratches and bumps, which had already been treated. But my body felt the toll of everything I’d been through. Penny and Mira moved my stuff to the room in Penny’s walk-up apartment, and I haven’t ventured out for a week.
I used the time to get my strength back and consider my options. Then Ava, who I met through Zara, reached out to me. Her dancing school needed help with social media and promotions, and she asked if I was interested in taking on the assignment. Which I was. And that was a blessing in disguise.
Having something to do helps keep my mind occupied—more or less. Besides, I’m good at my job, and this gives me a chance to help build something from the ground up. Ava’s easy to work with, and despite her connection to Zara—and hence, Cade—she’s never once mentioned them, for which I am grateful. I also haven’t heard from Cade, which is good, right?
It probably means he’s already moved on, as well. He said he loved you. He probably never meant it. He probably even forgot that he said it. Of course, I didn’t stop to look in on him before I left the hospital. You were such a coward. No, it’s called self-preservation, something I need to prioritize so I can move on with my life. In fact, I need to stop hiding at home and start going out with other people.
There hasn’t been any more news about Cade and me in the press, not since that viral engagement video. Like most things, it faded away from the media consciousness, to be replaced by the next newsworthy item. We’re yesterday’s news. And surely, no-one would recognize me if I decided to go out on a date with someone else. My stomach churns, and bile bubbles up my throat at the thought of seeing someone else. I need to get over it, though.
The faster I move on, the easier it will be to put Cade behind me and find the right person for my life. Someone who isn’t Cade, someone who isn’t the man who’s occupied so much of my waking thoughts for most of my life. Damn, the amount of time I’ve spent thinking of him. If I’d used that time and energy focusing on my career, I wouldn’t be trying to start out, yet again.
I put the kettle to boil, then check my phone for messages from Knight. Nothing. No email, no phone calls, no text messages. I replied to his last email, asking him if he was okay. That was a week ago. At some point, I’m going to have to come clean to my brother about me and Cade—a prospect I’m not looking forward to.
I click out of my email, then go to the App Store—hesitate—then download a dating app, which is really more of a hook up app, but hey, I have to start somewhere, right? Before the kettle has finished boiling, I’ve created my profile, though I don’t have the courage to swipe right on any of the profiles that begin to populate my timeline on the app. One step at a time. I’m making a cup of tea when the intercom buzzes.
I walk over to the device hooked into the wall and answer it.
"Delivery for Abigail Warren?"
I pause, then ask, "Who is it from?"
There’s silence then, "They’re flowers, miss. I can’t tell who they’re from."
“Flowers, huh?" I place my cup of tea on the coffee table, then slide my feet into ballet pumps. I could buzz him in, but since that run in with the stalker, I prefer to go to the front door and accept my deliveries, no matter that I have to carry them up the stairs, and no matter that I know he’s dead so there’s no way he can trouble me again. I just feel safer this way. I head down the flight of steps to the front door. As I approach the glass security door, I’m greeted by the sight of a single white rose in a vase.
The delivery guy—who looks nothing like my stalker—holds it out, so I open the door and take it from him. I glance down at the perfect blossom, each petal exquisitely formed, the color so pristine, it deepens to blue at the edges. It’s so perfect, it might well be unreal. I touch the petal and the velvety smoothness sends a shudder of lust spiraling down my spine. Huh? I glance up to find the delivery guy already astride his bike. Before I can call out to him, he takes off. I close the door and walk up the steps and into the apartment. I place the vase with the single bloom on my bedside table, then stare at the envelope taped to it—my name in bold scrawl. Is it from him? Do I want it to be from him? Why is my mind immediately going to him? I rip open the envelope and pull out the card inside with trembling hands.
Sorry!
-Cade
I crumple up the card and throw it aside, then promptly pick it up, smooth it out and stare at the one word. Is that it? He’s supposed to say sorry, and I’m supposed to forgive him? He’s supposed to be apologetic, and I’m supposed to take him back? Just because he remembers that roses are my favorite, I’m supposed to go all gooey inside?
Anger flushes my skin. My pulse rate ratchets up. Adrenaline laces my blood, and I drop the card next to the rose. Then I pull my phone from the pocket of my jeans and pull up the dating app again. Then close it. Why can’t I bring myself to start dating again? It’s not like he meant anything to me, not after everything he did to me. Not after how he lied to me about Knight asking him to take care of me. Who would do something like that? A man who had no qualms… A man who would do anything to get what he wants… A man who was desperate…
I shake my head. Cade Kingston was never desperate. He had too much ego to be desperate enough to not be thinking straight. Nope. This was typical Cade, thinking only of himself and no one-else. I shake my head, then pick up the card again. This time, I tear it up and throw the tiny pieces in the waste-paper basket.
The roses don’t stop there. The next afternoon, the delivery guy arrives with two yellow roses, the day after with three pink ones, then four blue ones, then five orange, then six red, and after that, they stay red. The number goes up every day. And with each delivery, the card is a hand-scrawled one that says ‘sorry’ with Cade signing his name.