Insta-brave: Just add Carina.
I’ve never had to beg someone for forgiveness. The very idea is daunting in itself.
The only thing more terrifying than knowing I’m about to rip my heart out of my chest and beg Ryan to take it back, is that he may not want it.
And I would have no one to blame but myself.
In an attempt to either humor me or calm my ever-growing anxiety during the drive, Archer had put on Elton John. For the most part, it did actually help. Singing along to “Bennie and the Jets” and “Crocodile Rock” with my best friend had been a welcoming distraction.
The universe gets the last laugh when “Sorry Seems to be the Hardest Word” starts playing as Archer pulls into the drop-off/pick-up loop at the front of the hotel.
“Well, that’s unnecessary,” Archer says, forcing a chuckle as he turns the volume all the way down. “So, listen, I’m going to go park in the garage. I’ll stay for an hour. If you don’t come back and I don’t hear from you, I’m going to assume you and Ryan are too busy having make-up sex for you to let me know that I can leave.”
Rolling my eyes, I turn to look at him. “In case I forget to tell you later, thank you.” I unbuckle my seatbelt. “For coming when Ryan called you, and for pushing me to come here. You’re the best friend a girl could ask for, Archer Halliday.”
“Yeah, I know,” he says. He points out the window behind me. “I can’t believe I’m about to say this but, for your sake, I really hope I don’t see you again tonight. I hope the next time we talk is when you tell me you’ve fixed things with Ryan’s ‘Pip! Pip! Cheerio’ ass.”
“Pip! Pip! Cheerio” said in Archer’s weak attempt at a British accent earns him the first genuine smile I’ve given all day. Admittedly, the accent was awful, but it was still better than Valentina’s.
“I love you,” I tell him as I reach for the door handle. When I get out, I exhale, hoping that it will expunge some of the overwhelming fear taking over my mind and body.
“Love you, too,” he says. “It’ll be okay. You’ll be okay. And, if you’re not, I’ll be waiting. You got this.”
Knowing no other words can prepare me for what’s about to happen, I close the car door. My feet feel like lead weights as I push through the revolving door, every step harder than the one before it. Somewhere between the front door and the elevator, my head begins to feel like it’s floating in thick, heavy fog.
While I wait for the elevator to open, the lyrics of “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road” begin to play back in my head. Of all the Elton John songs to come to mind, it’s the one that, to me, has always been about walking away from the easy path and forging a road of your very own.
As I watch the numbers above the elevator door rise, I have to remind myself to breathe.
One, two, three, four, five. Inhale. One, two, three, four, five. Exhale.
Uno, due, tre, quattro, cinque. Inspirare. Uno, due, tre, quattro, cinque. Espirare.
As soon as the elevator door opens, I break into a sprint down the hallway, the anxiety of what I’m about to do taking a backseat to the overwhelming sense of hope taking its place. Skidding to a stop outside of Ryan’s suite, I ball my hand into a fist and bang on the door.
“Ryan!” My voice cracks with desperation as I call out his name. “It’s me. Please let me in. I need to talk to you.”
Sucking in a breath, I let out a sob when I realize a few moments later that he’s not going to answer the door.
“Ryan, please,” I beg. Any composure I was still clinging to leaves my body then. “I was wrong. Open the door so I can tell you I’m sorry. Please. Just open the door so I can tell you I love you.”
The silence that answers me is piercing. Resting my forehead against the door, I continue to sob. With every passing second, every moment that ends with me facing a closed door, I feel my heart shatter more.
“Carina?”
The sound of an authentic British accent saying my name gives me an unexplainable sense of false hope.
“Alfie!” The desperation in my voice as I greet the youngest West brother would be pathetic if I wasn’t so hell-bent on getting through to the person on the other side of the closed door behind me. “Alfie, I need your help. I messed up. I messed everything up. I need Ryan to know that. I just need him to hear me tell him that I’m sorry. That he was ri—”
“Ryan’s gone, Carina.”
“What do you mean he’s gone?” I demand.
“You told him to leave,” Alfie answers. “So, he went back to New York.”
I shake my head, refusing to accept the sinking feeling of defeat that’s beginning to settle inside of me.
“Carina,” Alfie starts. “Ryan’s probably going to kill me for telling you this, but, if you want to fix this, you can. He waited for you to show up until the very last second. He wanted you to call.”
In response, I pull my phone out of the cross-body bag, opening my recent calls list. I tap the second name on the list.
Right away, I’m greeted with Ryan’s voicemail.
“His mobile was dying when he left,” Alfie explains. “Give him a few hours. I doubt he’ll have time to charge it before he gets back to his flat, but he’ll come back. I know he will.”
And with that, I know what I have to do.
37
Ryan
The drive into Boston was painful.
As the driver desperately tried to keep the conversation going with mindless small-talk, I physically felt the distance between Carina and I growing. The farther we drove from Colwood, the faster my heart broke.
I daftly held onto the hope she would call me. I wanted nothing more than to tell the driver to turn the car around and take me back home.
Home.
Not to the airport, or the empty flat in New York, awaiting my arrival. Not to London, but to Colwood. Where I belong—with Carina and Lina.
As the little red battery dwindled down to zero, I began to accept that the call wasn’t going to come.
Once I arrived at the airport, I found the airline counter I needed. I explained that I’d just bought my ticket an hour before, but my e-ticket was now locked in my very dead mobile. The woman behind the desk was more than understanding, probably because once she checked my suitcase, she asked if I would mind switching to the next available flight because they’d apparently overbooked the one that would begin boarding in thirty minutes.
Since the only thing waiting for me in New York was my impending breakdown, I agreed to take the later flight. The attendant handed me a physical ticket and a food voucher for my “inconvenience,” and offered me a sad, sympathetic smile.
Walking through the security line, I start to think I might have the words: “I just had my heart ripped out, feel sorry for me,” written across my forehead. Two additional lines open up within moments of me stepping in line and I make it through the entire security check in record time.
Once I’ve put my shoes back on and grabbed my belongings, I begin my mission to find coffee and a mobile charger. At the very least, I’ll need to let Alfie know not to worry if he doesn’t hear from me in a few hours, as I’d promised when we said goodbye.