Bree’s arms come around me, and that’s where they stay. She holds me through the funeral. Through the burial of his ashes on my wedding day. Through Mom and Dad’s visit from Florida. She doesn’t leave my side until summer ends and school begins, and she’s forced to return to work.
I heard once that hardship brings the true nature of a person to light. If that’s true, I’m a deeply angry woman, seething with hatred and resentment. The rage is powerful and incapacitating, like a beast roaring and pacing inside me and pointing blame.
He left me.
He broke his promise.
He lied.
He’s not coming back.
As the bitterness threatens to smother me, I welcome it. I climb into the darkness, lugging a bottle of hard alcohol with me. When the booze doesn’t numb, I break things. Like the mirror I just shattered with an empty fifth of whiskey.
Two months after Cole’s funeral, I lie on my back on the floor of the dance studio, stinking to high heaven and staring at the broken image of my reflection. I look like a monster with jagged teeth protruding out of my sunken, miserable face.
I’m drunk. I haven’t showered since…whenever. I closed my dance school indefinitely. I canceled life, my future, everything.
I’ve been okay with checking out. Until now—staring at my splintered self in the mirror. I don’t recognize the woman reflected back at me. She’s hideously sad and pathetic and weak. I hate her, because she’s not who I thought I was.
My inebriated brain sparks with life, and I sit up, swaying with disorientation.
Fighting hurts. Living without Cole hurts. But nothing’s as painful as hanging onto the broken pieces of a dream. Doesn’t matter what I choose—stay here or move forward—he’s gone. Giving up on life won’t bring him back.
After several failed attempts, I climb to my feet and stagger toward the shower. Every step is small and laborious, but I focus on putting one foot in front of the other. I focus straight ahead and allow myself a grain of hope.
Hope that one day I’ll look back and appreciate the distance I covered.
Chapter Eighteen
PRESENT
Acid hits the back of my throat, and my gag reflex kicks in. I cover my mouth and slam a hand against the elevator call button in Trace’s penthouse. He didn’t follow me out of the bedroom, but that doesn’t mean he won’t.
Please, open. Please, open.
I made it this far without surrendering to the impending meltdown. I just need to get through the casino, outside, and into a taxi cab. Then I can cry.
Voices drift from the hall, and my shoulders climb around my ears.
Her hair spread over the couch. His hips pressed against her ass.
I don’t want an apology or an excuse or worse…the sight of his ironclad indifference. I just need to get the fuck out of here.
The elevator opens, and I scramble in, punching the ground floor and holding my breath as it closes.
Her skirt around her waist. His hands—those masculine fingers I so desperately wanted on my body—gripping her hips.
I don’t release my breath on the ride down. If I do, the tears will come. They’re already trembling behind my eyes, simmering, burning, threatening to explode.
The elevator opens on the lobby level, and I forge into the crowded gaming area. Hunched over, shoulders curled forward, I feel like I’m holding in all the parts that hurt. Protecting them. As much as I want to stand straight, I can’t unlock my posture, can’t seem to draw enough air.
When I step outside, my phone buzzes in the wristlet hanging from my arm. I peek at the screen, see an incoming call from Trace, and power it off.
“Do you need a cab, ma’am?” The hotel’s bellhop tips his head toward me.
“Yes. Thank you.” I clutch my throat, hating the creak in my voice.
He leads me to the curb where a taxi waits, and I’m grateful for the cloak of warm night air. Tears are already streaming down my cheeks, and my entire body shivers persistently, uncontrollably.
On the ride home, I wrap my arms around myself and rest my forehead against the window, lost in my miserable thoughts. After everything Trace said at my house, why would he stick his dick in another woman? Was he so absorbed in her he didn’t know I entered his penthouse? He didn’t look surprised, guilty, or pissed. His face was utterly blank. It’s as if he knew I was coming and wanted me to find him with her.
Why? If he cared about me, why would he so viciously hurt me?
I wipe at the river of moisture on my cheeks and try to calm my sniveling. God, I’ve made a mess of my life. How did I go from loving one man to loving another? I didn’t even date in between them, didn’t shop around and weigh my options. I just…
Fell madly, sickeningly, desperately in love.
Again.
I love two men, and I lost them both.
A sob rips free, abrading my throat and vibrating my bones. It’s an angry, gutted sound that echoes through the cab. The driver’s probably staring at me, but I don’t care, because goddammit, this fucking hurts. I swore Trace couldn’t hurt me, that I couldn’t be devastated like this again. How could he do this?
I give myself five more minutes of wheezing, shoulder-shaking tears. Then I bottle that shit up and stuff it way down deep. I prefer to let the darkness devour me when no one’s watching, when I’m alone and armed with liquor.
The cab starts and stops with the heavy downtown traffic. Up ahead, the brightly lit bars on Washington Avenue illuminate the street for several blocks. It’s a scene I used to thrive in before Cole—the clubs, the dancing, the men. Maybe I should go back to that. Find myself again.
The thought of dancing and flirting makes my stomach cramp. I just want to go home and drown in a bottle of grain alcohol.
Don’t do it, Danni. You’ve come so far.
Before my brain catches up, I lean forward and find the driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “I changed my mind. Drop me off up there at 14th and Washington.”
While Trace is spending the night with another woman, he has the satisfaction of knowing I’m not with someone else. Well, fuck that, and fuck being alone. I’m angry enough, fucking revengeful enough to finally put an end to three years of celibacy.
Using the selfie camera on my phone as a mirror, I wipe away the runny smudges of makeup and smear on lip gloss. Then I pay the driver and step out onto the sidewalk crammed with barhoppers.
Everything inside me feels cold and hollow. I’m not in the right mindset for this. I don’t want to be anywhere near here. But the image of Trace and Marlo together collapses my chest and moves my feet toward the entrance of the closest bar.
Adjusting my strapless dress, I curve my mouth into a casual smile. As I enter the bar—one of many I used to frequent—the boom of deep bass rattles my chest. Huddles of men and women turn their eyes in my direction, grinning and staring and making my skin itch with discomfort.
There are four types of men who peruse the club scene for sex. The wingman—the married guy looking to hook up his shy single buddy. The wolf packs—the group of rowdy boys who gain confidence in numbers. The slurring drunk—the guy who imbibed enough liquor before he arrived to numb his sorrows and build his courage. The lone cowboy—the one who comes alone and doesn’t drink because he knows he won’t be leaving alone.