Chapter Twenty-Five #3
“Mm. He’s doing it a lot tonight. Something’s bothering him.”
Bo’s stomach twisted, and it was part discomfort, part something else.
She hated that this woman, this ex, whoever she was, knew Max like this.
Hated that someone else could read the tiny flickers in his expression, the silent language of his moods.
Bo had spent the whole summer learning those same cues, from the stubborn set of his jaw when he was annoyed to the twinkle he got in his eye when he was amused.
A wave of jealousy washed over her, and she took a deep breath, trying to quell her nausea.
Underneath it all lay another emotion too: worry.
What’s bothering Max? she wondered. Is he okay?
Bo tried and failed to tell herself that she didn’t care, that Max was a grown man, and whatever this champagne-voiced woman thought she knew about him, it wasn’t her business. Still, the thought of Max being upset, of him quietly unravelling behind his guarded eyes, made Bo’s chest ache.
“Maybe he’s regretting your breakup last summer.”
Breakup? Last summer? Bo’s breath caught once more, and suddenly, it all became violently, horrifically clear. The silky voice, with its elegant, airy drawl, now fit with a name.
Raphaella.
A shiver worked its way up her crouched spine, and Bo felt a new spike of jealousy. Raphaella. Bo had imagined her a hundred different ways, but in every imagining she was elegant, educated and worthy. Worthy of Max. Worthy of his love in a way Bo never had been.
“Or are you already back together?” the second voice carried on mercilessly, and Bo’s stomach plummeted.
She gripped the edge of the shed for balance, her fingers scraping against the damp walls.
Back together. Of course they could be. Of course they would be.
Raphaella, with her soft voice and perfect vowels and whatever it was that had once made Max love her, could walk right back into his life as if the past year had been nothing more than an inconvenient pause.
Raphaella was quiet for a moment, and Bo listened intently for her response.
She knew eavesdropping was wrong. She knew eavesdropping was immoral.
But, oh God, this was Max they were speaking of and if he was getting back together with Raphaella — if he was already back together with Raphaella — she needed to know.
It would be a knife to her heart, but all the same.
She needed to know. “No, we’re not back together.
At least, not yet. Max told me in Berlin he’s been seeing somebody else.
” Raphaella lowered her voice. “Someone new.”
“Really?” the friend sounded interested. “Anyone we know?”
“Apparently not. She’s not one of the usual crowd anyway, and I asked everyone from the orchestra, and it’s not any of them, either.”
“Well, you know what Max is like. No doubt she’ll be the usual type.”
“Not this one,” Raphaella announced imperiously. “I asked, and Max says she’s no one. Just a fling.”
Bo winced. No one, she repeated in her head. Just a fling.
“He said she’s beautiful but not someone he can be serious about.”
Now, the breath caught in Bo’s chest, joining her frozen heart, and she felt a deep stab of pain.
“Why not?”
“He wouldn’t give me the details. You know how he is. But he did say she’s an out-of-work actress. You know what I mean.” Raphaella gave a high, mean-sounding laugh. “Pretty, but entirely empty. Talentless as well as brainless.”
“But Max doesn’t do brainless,” the friend replied, and Bo heard Raphaella laugh again.
“He does pretty though, and like he said, she’s just a fling. He’s not serious about her. Besides, he said it’s already over. He’s had his fun and moved on. Typical Max.”
Angry, hurt tears began to build in Bo’s eyes, and she squeezed them shut to stop them from spilling over.
“So, are you going to make a move on him then? You were so good together last year, and we were all so surprised when he ended things with you. He must be reconsidering . . .” the voice of Raphaella’s friend began to drift away, and Bo realized they were walking towards the house and away from her.
Soon, silence settled over her garden once more, the only sound that of Bo’s breath coming in tight, wounded pants.
She remained crouched on the floor for a few moments, hugging her knees to her chest, all thoughts of torches, nets and great crested newts forgotten.
Well, she thought bitterly, wiping at her cheeks. So, this is what heartbreak feels like.
She didn’t know why she was so hurt. Had no idea why she felt so wounded.
Max had been clear about his feelings towards her: he didn’t have any.
From him, that had been hard, but understandable.
He’d been kind to her, and if not kind, then at least civil.
But to hear how he really felt about her, and from Raphaella, of all people!
Bo felt a pain inside of her so hot and deep it was like being burned from the inside out.
She recalled likening their fast-dissolving arrangement to a house made of jelly on the crumbling edge of a volcano, and now she knew the house had fallen, deep into the chasm below, taking her and her heart with it.
Bo’s mind began to spiral, fast and merciless.
Of course this was how it would end. Of course this was how she would end.
She was only a pretty face, wasn’t she? Just a temporary distraction for Max, someone to help pass the time until someone more suitable — someone like Raphaella — came along.
It was the story of her life, wasn’t it?
Her mother had told her all her life that beauty was her only currency, her true worth.
And now Max, without meaning to, had proved those words right.
At least now you know, Bo tried to console herself.
Now you know, and because you know, you can move on.
Still, when she thought of what Max had said — just a fling, brainless, talentless and, worst of all, not someone he could be serious about — that hot pain inside her burned even hotter, until she felt shaky and ill with it.
Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, Bo remembered hearing.
She understood why people said that now.
The pain inside her was hotter than hell.
Hotter, angrier, bitter and a thousand times more hurtful.
Standing on shaky legs, Bo silently made her way back into the garden, gulping down a lungful of the cool summer evening air.
She looked up towards the house, seeing the bright lights inside and felt a wave of nausea wash over her.
Suddenly, those lights in the house she’d once loved represented everything she couldn’t have: Max, his music and the life that came with him.
She would never meet his friends. Never sit in his house again and hear him play piano.
She would never lie in his arms or cook him food or feel his skin against hers.
It really was over.
Bo gulped down another lungful of air, trying to quell some of that painful fire inside, still staring up at the house.
As she stared, the sliding door opened, and Bo saw Willa spill out of it, a glass of wine in one hand and an aperitif in the other, with a smile stretched wide across her gorgeous face.
Wills, she thought, exasperated even in her agony. She’s only gone and joined Max’s fucking party, hasn’t she?
Behind Willa emerged a man though, his hand on the small of Willa’s back, and Bo knew exactly who it was from only one glance.
It was Max.