“I know Jessica screwed with you badly, but, don’t start something you can’t finish with Grace,” MJ threatens, giving me a look that has my balls shrinking in fear. “She’s not your type.”
I throw my hands in the air, exasperated. “Why does everyone keep saying that? I don’t have a type! And for your information, she started it.”
MJ’s eyebrows shoot up. “How?”
“When she delivered that blow last summer, she triggered something in me—”
MJ snickers. “You mean pain?”
I ignore her comment, toss her a wink and decide to mess with her a bit. “I can tell she likes me, though. I mean, everyone likes me. I’m a likeable guy.”
“I don’t, mate,” Mesh mutters in a British accent as he chews.
He’s a poster boy for broody and mysterious; always frowning, hardly ever laughs or smiles, and the only thing we know about him is that his parents sent him to study here in the US. He plays center midfield on the team—probably channels all that brooding intensity toward a game.
“You don’t like anyone,” I retort.
My phone buzzes, alerting me of an incoming text. Setting the fork down, I pull my phone from my pocket and glance at the screen. It’s my ex-girlfriend, Jessica.
Jessica: Hey, you around?
Three dots appear, indicating she’s typing another text. They disappear seconds later.
Me: You need something?
When she doesn’t text back, I sigh, sliding my phone back into my pocket and making a mental note to call her later.
“Jessica again?” Ivan asks from the couch, brows raised.
I nod, grabbing my fork and continuing to devour the waffle on my plate.
“She’s using you, man. Every time she calls or texts, you go running to her. It’s not healthy,” Ivan says between bites.
“Yeah, she wants you to be her baby daddy,” Mesh drawls from his spot on the couch. He rarely speaks up unless the topic involves Jessica.
I wave him off, ignoring the truth in those words. “Fuck you, Meshach. She just needs a little help until she gets used to her situation.”
Ivan shakes his head. “You need to cut her loose, man. Even after she ditched you for that dude, you still run whenever she calls, like a damn puppy.”
Ivan’s right. I need to figure out a way to let her down easy. It’s been months since she dumped me for her rich suit boyfriend—now ex-boyfriend. She has been trying to crawl her way back to me, but I’m having none of that.
“I gotta hit the shower before we head out to the party,” I say, standing up and taking my plate to the sink. After rinsing it, I put it in the dishwasher, then head to my room with Grace’s smiling face firmly planted in my head.
Fucking hell.
At least going to this party will help get rid of my current obsession.
By the time I leave Josie’s, it’s almost nine o’clock. I head back to Beckett Hall. Setting my bag on top of my desk, I grab my shower caddy from the hook next to the door, then walk across the hallway to the bathrooms to freshen up.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m in my room, snuggled in bed in my unicorn- print pajamas. The room is too quiet and my thoughts wander into places they shouldn’t. I’m starting to feel antsy. Why am I here instead of at the party with MJ?
I take my phone and shoot her a text, asking her to send me the frat house address so I can order an Uber, then hop down from the bed and open the last drawer at my desk. I’m about to pull out the little purse where I put my credit card when my gaze lands on the little jewelry box beside it. My heart speeds up as I carefully pick it up, then open the lid and stare at the rosary bracelet, the onyx beads glinting against the light dangling from the ceiling.
Don’t do it, Grace. Put the box back and leave the past where it belongs.
It’s been a while since I allowed myself to even look at the bracelet—almost six months to be exact. I wonder if the time has loosened its hold on my heart, if I’ve become resistant to its powerful connection to the owner.
Only one way to find out.
I lift it and place it on my palm, then run my fingertips along the smooth surface. My body shudders as if I’ve been electrocuted. As if every touch rekindles a memory.
Curling my fingers around it, I press my fist to my chest, allowing myself one last moment of bliss before closing that chapter of my life. Then I unclench my fist and place the bracelet back inside the box, and then inside the drawer.
I hope you’re happy wherever you are, Solomon Callan.
And I mean every word. After grabbing a few bills from the emergency stash, I set them on the table, then walk over to the dresser and pull out the box with MJ’s booze stash. Bypassing the bottles of various labels of vodka, I grab two miniature bottles of Jägermeister. The fond memories of our time at a bar in Berlin cross my mind. It was our third stop after leaving Prague. The bartender had been more than happy to point out the health benefits of drinking a beverage that contained fifty-six herbs and spices. The hangover was a bitch, though.
I shuffle to my bed, grasping my phone from the desk on my way there.
“Time to get this party started. Prost!” I mutter after snapping off the cap and tipping the bottle to my lips. There’s a light burn in the back of my throat masked by all those flavors the bartender bragged about.
I take several sips before replacing the cap and setting the bottle down on the bed. I’m not much of a drinker, so it doesn’t take long for the alcohol to enter my bloodstream, making my head spin. Unlocking the screen on my cell, I scroll through my phone aimlessly while waiting for MJ’s text. My thoughts wander to Sol like he’s my default mode.
Where is he? What is he up to?
Curious, I access his profile. He hasn’t posted an update in a while. My finger hovers over the Messenger icon, debating if I should send him a message or not. I’m tipsy and my brain dares me to do it. Instead, I exit the screen and pull up the voice message—because I’m a sucker for torture. Maybe I’ll never learn, but I need the high his voice brings me. And in my alcohol-induced brain, I reason it’s better than drunk-messaging him.
“Just want to wish you a happy birthday. Hope you’re having a good one whe—”
The message cuts off. I replay it again and rest my head on the pillow as his voice fills the silence.
I’m not sure what exactly wakes me up. Maybe it’s the damn headache splitting my head in two. Or maybe it’s the hushed whispers above me.
My tongue feels heavy, and my throat is parched something awful.
What happened to me? Am I dead? I feel like I’m dead.
I try, unsuccessfully, to remember what happened last night, but something pokes me in my arm, distracting me.
“She smells like a brewery. Is she conscious?” a familiar male voice asks in a low whisper. Levi’s voice. Warm fingertips brush against my neck, checking for a pulse. I’d gladly lean into his comforting touch if I wasn’t hungover out of my mind. But right now, I just want to be left in peace. I groan and lift my hand to swat them away.
“Move aside,” MJ mutters. The bed dips, and she says in a hushed voice, “Grace. Honey, wake up.”
“I’m awake,” I grunt, trying to pick my head up. “Ugh. Maybe I should just lie down here for a few seconds or days . . .” Good God. The stench billowing from my mouth could light a house on fire.