By His Play

37. Effie

37

EFFIE

Kieran: Just got home. Are you okay?

Kieran: Effie?

Kieran: Please just let me know that you’re okay.

Kieran: Please, Effie. I’m worried about you.

I blow out a ragged breath as I wipe my tears from my cheeks.

I haven’t stopped crying since he walked out of the house.

For a moment there, I thought he was going to refuse.

There was a part of me that wanted him to. That fickle romantic part wanted him to pull me into his arms, kiss the top of my head, and tell me that he was never going to leave me.

But the sensible side of me knew that it was wrong.

Reading that article, all the awful comments that people had left at the bottom...it broke the final part of me that I was clinging to for dear life.

I’m going to be the most hated woman in Chicago. As far as they’re concerned, I played their favorite player for nothing but my own gain.

It’s so far from the truth, it’s laughable. But there isn’t much I can do about it now.

If the notifications that have been piling up on my cell are anything to go by, the story is everywhere.

I’ve ignored every single message but the ones I’m staring at through watery eyes.

It’s been six hours since he left. I’d been waiting for the message to come through for over an hour, getting myself worked up with a million and one what-ifs.

Either he forgot, and the moment he got back to Chicago, he pushed me out of his mind, or he had a crash and he was stuck inside a wreck in the middle of nowhere and no one knows.

Of course, there was also the most sensible option, which was that he was just stuck in traffic somewhere.

When the message finally came through, my sobs returned with a vengeance.

He left.

He really listened to what I was saying and went home.

Pulling the covers up higher, I press my face into the pillow he slept on and breathe in his scent.

This isn’t going to help me get over everything that’s happened and let him go, but I figure that I’m allowed to wallow today at least.

Tomorrow, I’m going to get my shit together.

I’m going to get up early. I’m going to clean the house—clean house, clean mind—and then I’m going to reassess my life.

I hadn’t considered not returning to Chicago until Kieran questioned whether I would. Now I’m wondering if it’s really what I want.

Sure, my job, my apartment, and my life are there…but they don’t have to be.

I could have a life anywhere.

I have money and zero attachments.

Kieran is my only person, and honestly, I don’t know if we’re ever going to be the same after the past few weeks.

Plus, he might live in Chicago, but it’s not like he’s there all that often, especially during the football season.

B rightness sears into my eyes, and I roll over, attempting to hide from it.

But no matter how long I lie there praying for darkness again, it never comes.

Instead, I’m left with nothing but the harsh light of day.

Prying my sore eyes open, I blink against the sunlight, cursing myself out for being so tragic last night that I couldn’t even muster the energy to shut the curtains.

With a groan, I flip onto my back and stare up at the ceiling.

If I thought a bad night’s sleep was going to make everything better, then I’d be sorely mistaken.

Everything hurts just as much as it did before, and it only gets worse when I glance at the empty spot beside me.

It might be standard to wake up alone with Kieran here, but I also know that I’m not going to find him baking in the kitchen, or coming in sweaty from a run.

Just like Grams, he’s gone.

Refusing to plummet into a dark world of grief and sadness, I force myself to get out of bed.

After brushing my teeth and splashing my face with cold water in the hope it’ll fix my red, puffy eyes, I make my way to the kitchen for coffee.

However, I stop myself before I turn on the machine.

New day.

New you.

New start.

Instead of immediately going for caffeine, I reach for a pouch of powdered greens that Kieran left here.

I make it just like I’ve seen him do before and then lift the bottle to my lips.

“Oh my god,” I complain after swallowing the first mouthful.No wonder Tate complains about Kingston forcing this on her.

My nose wrinkles and my top lip peels back as I stare down at the potent liquid.

So gross.

But despite wanting to pour it straight down the drain, I pull on my big girl panties and swallow down the rest as fast as I can.

No pain, no gain, right?

“Ugh. Gross,” I mutter, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

Feeling a little bit better about my attempt to improve my life, I continue to make my coffee.

That goes down a lot better, although it isn’t enough to fix anything.

Ignoring my aching chest and my sore eyes, I grab a notebook and a pen and find a blank page.

A blank page.

A fresh start.

What do I want to do?

New chapter, I scrawl across the top of the page before grinding to a rapid halt.

I sit there for a long time trying to come up with some options, but I don’t have anything.

Well, other than begging Kieran to come back. But that can’t happen.

He’s where he’s supposed to be.

But what about me?

In the end, I give up with ideas for my new start and turn the page.

On side I write, St. Louis, and on the other, Chicago .

The pros and cons come a little easier, and thirty minutes later, I have lists in every column.

What I don’t have, though, is a clear answer.

With nothing else to do, I make another coffee, grab my cell, and head outside, hoping that inspiration will strike in Grams’ favorite place.

I’ve read articles before where people have sworn they’ve had messages from loved ones from the afterlife. Would it be wishful thinking for something from Grams? Some kind of clue as to what path my life should take from here on out?

My ass has barely hit the swing seat when my cell starts ringing.

I know who it is before I look down.

I didn’t reply to the endless stream of messages he sent me since arriving home last night.

How could I? What was there to say?

Tears pool in my eyes at the sight of him on my screen.

It’s a photograph I took of him after an epic win. His smile is so wide and his eyes are alight with excitement.

Usually, I love seeing it. But today, everything is different.

I sit there with my thumb hovering over the slider to answer, but I never swipe.

I can’t.

The thought of hearing his voice again so soon sends a shot of fear through me.

I’ll break down the second I hear it; I know I will.

In the end, the call drops, and I slump on the swing and let out a heavy sigh.

Everything is such a mess.

Unlocking my cell, I pull up a web browser and do a quick Google search, which I hope will help.

How to find yourself again.